glow and darken through a wonder of fine
hues. Now she would be gazing in the fire, and then again at me: and at
that I would be plunged in a terror of myself, and turn the pages of
Heineccius like a man looking for the text in church.

Suddenly she called out aloud. "O, why does not my father come?" she
cried, and fell at once into a storm of tears.

I leapt up, flung Heineccius fairly in the fire, ran to her side, and
cast an arm round her sobbing body.

She put me from her sharply. "You do not love your friend," says she. "I
could be so happy too, if you would let me!" And then, "O, what will I
have done that you should hate me so?"

"Hate you!" cries I, and held her firm. "You blind lass, can you not see
a little in my wretched heart? Do you think when I sit there, reading
in that fool-book that I have just burned, and be damned to it, I take
ever the least thought of any stricken thing but just yourself? Night
after night I could have grat to see you sitting there your lone. And
what was I to do? You are here under my honour; would you punish me for
that? Is it for that that you would spurn a loving servant?"

At the word, with a small, sudden motion, she clung near to me. I raised
her face to mine, I kissed it, and she bowed her brow upon my bosom,
clasping me tight. I sat in a mere whirl, like a man drunken. Then I
heard her voice sound very small and muffled in my clothes.

"Did you kiss her truly?" she asked.

There went through me so great a heave of surprise that I was all shook
with it.

"Miss Grant!" I cried, all in a disorder. "Yes, I asked her to kiss me
good-bye, the which she did."

"Ah, well!" said she, "you have kissed me too, at all events."

At the strangeness and sweetness of that word I saw where we had fallen;
rose, and set her on her feet.

"This will never do," said I. "This will never, never do. O, Catrine,
Catrine!" Then there came a pause in which I was debarred from any
speaking. And then, "Go away to your bed," said I. "Go away to your bed
and leave me."

She turned to obey me like a little child, and the next I knew of it had
stopped in the very doorway.

"Good-night, Davie!" said she.

"And O, good-night, my love!" I cried, with a great outbreak of my soul,
and caught her to me again, so that it seemed I must have broken her.
The next moment I had thrust her from the room, shut-to the door even
with violence, and stood alone.

The milk was spilt now, the word was out