pellent keeping them apart.

They sat down, carefully avoiding the place where they had sat on that
other fateful occasion, nearly a month before, and a long silence
elapsed before words were again spoken.

"Now, Mysie," said Peter at last breaking the silence, and bracing
himself to hear unpleasant news, "I want to know what is wrong. What is
the matter?" and he feared to hear her tell her trouble.

But again only tears--tears and sobs, terrible in their intensity as if
the frail little body would break completely under the strain of her
grief.

"Mysie," he said, and his voice had a note of tender anxiety in it,
"what is it, dear? Tell me."

"You shouldn't need to ask," she replied between her sobs. "You
shouldn't need to ask when you should ken."

Again a long silence, and Peter felt he had got a heavy blow. A
sickening feeling of shame smote his heart at the knowledge hinted at--a
knowledge he had feared to learn.

"Is it--is it--am I the cause of it, Mysie? Is--is it--?" and his voice
was hoarse and dry and pained.

She nodded, and Peter knew beyond all doubt that he was the cause of the
misery.

Again a long silence fell between them, in which both seemed to live an
eternity of silence and pain. Then clearing his throat, Peter spoke.

"Mysie," he said, "there is only one thing to be done then," and there
was decision in his voice and a desire which meant that he was going to
rise to a height to which neither he nor Mysie ever expected he would
rise. "We must get married."

She looked at him, with eyes still wet, but searching his face keenly.

"Ay. It's a' richt sayin' that now, efter the thing's done," she said
bitterly.

"But it is the only thing, Mysie, that can be done," he replied quickly.
"I can't think of anything else."

"You should hae thought aboot that afore. It's nae use now," she said
bluntly.

"Why, Mysie," he asked in surprise. "Why is it no use? Wouldn't you like
to marry me?"

"No," she replied firmly. "I would not! Do you think I have no thought
o' mysel'? If nothing had happened, you would never hae thought aboot me
for your wife. But now that you've done something you canna get oot o'
you'd like to mak' me believe you want to help me bear the disgrace,
while a' the time you don't want to. But it's no' my disgrace," and
there was heat creeping into her voice. "It is yours, an' you should hae
thocht aboot a' that afore," and her voice was very angry as she
finished.

"You a