e one day, being in a state of excitement--whereto she
was over prone, when reft of my slowness to steady her,--

'I will tell him, John; I must tell him, John. It is mean of me to
conceal it.'

I thought that she meant all about our love, which we had endeavoured
thrice to drill into his fine old ears; but could not make him
comprehend, without risk of bringing the house down: and so I said, 'By
all means; darling; have another try at it.'

Lorna, however, looked at me--for her eyes told more than tongue--as
much as to say, 'Well, you are a stupid. We agreed to let that subject
rest.' And then she saw that I was vexed at my own want of quickness;
and so she spoke very kindly,--

'I meant about his poor son, dearest; the son of his old age almost;
whose loss threw him into that dreadful cold--for he went, without hat,
to look for him--which ended in his losing the use of his dear old ears.
I believe if we could only get him to Plover's Barrows for a month, he
would be able to hear again. And look at his age! he is not much over
seventy, John, you know; and I hope that you will be able to hear me,
long after you are seventy, John.'

'Well,' said I, 'God settles that. Or at any rate, He leaves us time
to think about those questions, when we are over fifty. Now let me know
what you want, Lorna. The idea of my being seventy! But you would still
be beautiful.'

'To the one who loves me,' she answered, trying to make wrinkles in her
pure bright forehead: 'but if you will have common sense, as you always
will, John, whether I wish it or otherwise--I want to know whether I am
bound, in honour, and in conscience, to tell my dear and good old uncle
what I know about his son?'

'First let me understand quite clearly,' said I, never being in a hurry,
except when passion moves me, 'what his lordship thinks at present; and
how far his mind is urged with sorrow and anxiety.' This was not the
first time we had spoken of the matter.

'Why, you know, John, well enough,' she answered, wondering at my
coolness, 'that my poor uncle still believes that his one beloved
son will come to light and live again. He has made all arrangements
accordingly: all his property is settled on that supposition. He knows
that young Alan always was what he calls a "feckless ne'er-do-weel;" but
he loves him all the more for that. He cannot believe that he will die,
without his son coming back to him; and he always has a bedroom ready,
and a bottle of