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 and the truth told. I had crept
like an untrusty man into the poor maid's affections; she was in my hand
like any frail, innocent thing to make or mar; and what weapon of
defence was left me? It seemed like a symbol that Heinoccius, my old
protection, was now burned. I repented, yet could not find it in my
heart to blame myself for that great failure. It seemed not possible to
have resisted the boldness of her innocence or that last temptation of
her weeping. And all that I had to excuse me did but make my sin appear
the greater--it was upon a nature so defenceless, and with such
advantages of the position, that I seemed to have practised.

What was to become of us now? It seemed we could no longer dwell in the
one place. But where was I to go? or where she? Without either choice or
fault of ours, life had conspired to wall us together in that narrow
place. I had a wild thought of marrying out of hand; and the next moment
put it from me with revolt. She was a child, she could not tell her own
heart; I had surprised her weakness, I must never go on to build on that
surprisal; I must keep her not only clear of reproach, but