gang to my bed wi' an easy hairt." And then she saw in a flash how
barren had been her triumph. Archie had promised to spare the girl, and
he would keep it; but who had promised to spare Archie? What was to be
the end of it? Over a maze of difficulties she glanced, and saw, at the
end of every passage, the flinty countenance of Hermiston. And a kind of
horror fell upon her at what she had done. She wore a tragic mask.
"Erchie, the Lord peety you dear, and peety me! I have buildit on this
foundation"--laying her hand heavily on his shoulder--"and buildit hie,
and pit my hairt in the buildin' of it. If the hale hypothec were to
fa', I think, laddie, I would dee! Excuse a daft wife that loves ye, and
that kenned your mither. And for His name's sake keep yersel' frae
inordinate desires; hand your heart in baith your hands, carry it canny
and laigh; dinna send it up like a bairn's kite into the collieshangie
o' the wunds! Mind, Maister Erchie dear, that this life's a'
disappointment, and a mouthfu' o' mools is the appointed end."

"Ay, but Kirstie, my woman, you're asking me ower much at last," said
Archie, profoundly moved, and lapsing into the broad Scots. "Ye're
asking what nae man can grant ye, what only the Lord of heaven can grant
ye if He see fit. Ay! And can even He? I can promise ye what I shall
do, and you can depend on that. But how I shall feel--my woman, that is
long past thinking of!"

They were both standing by now opposite each other. The face of Archie
wore the wretched semblance of a smile; hers was convulsed for a moment.

"Promise me ae thing," she cried, in a sharp voice. "Promise me ye'll
never do naething without telling me."

"No, Kirstie, I canna promise ye that," he replied. "I have promised
enough, God kens!"

"May the blessing of God lift and rest upon ye, dear!" she said.

"God bless ye, my old friend," said he.

CHAPTER IX

AT THE WEAVER'S STONE

It was late in the afternoon when Archie drew near by the hill path to
the Praying Weaver's Stone. The Hags were in shadow. But still, through
the gate of the Slap, the sun shot a last arrow, which sped far and
straight across the surface of the moss, here and there touching and
shining on a tussock, and lighted at length on the gravestone and the
small figure awaiting him there. The emptiness and solitude of the great
moors seemed to be concentred there, and Kirstie pointed out by that
finger of sunshine for the only inhabitant. His