said.

Her lips moved, but no sound came.

"I ken weel," he went on, "ye can never luik upo' me as onything
mair nor a kin' o' a human bird, 'at ye wad hing in a cage, an' gie
seeds an' bits o' sugar till, an' hearken till whan he sang. I'll
never trouble ye nae mair, an' whether ye grant me my prayer or no,
ye'll never see me again. The only differ 'ill be 'at I'll aither
hing my heid or haud it up for the rest o' my days. I wad fain ken
'at I wasna despised, an' 'at maybe gien things had been
different,--but na, I dinna mean that; I mean naething 'at wad
fricht ye frae what I wad hae. It sudna mean a hair mair nor lies
in itsel'."

"What is it, Donal?" said Ginevra, half inaudibly, and with effort:
she could scarcely speak for a fluttering in her throat.

"I cud beseech ye upo' my k-nees," he went on, as if she had not
spoken, "to lat me kiss yer bonnie fut; but that ye micht grant for
bare peety, an' that wad dee me little guid; sae for ance an' for
a', till maybe efter we're a' ayont the muckle sea, I beseech at the
fauvour o' yer sweet sowl, to lay upo' me, as upo' the lips o' the
sowl 'at sang ye the sangs ye likit sae weel to hear whan ye was but
a leddy-lassie--ae solitary kiss. It shall be holy to me as the
licht; an' I sweir by the Trowth I'll think o' 't but as ye think,
an' man nor wuman nor bairn, no even Gibbie himsel', sall ken--"

The last word broke the spell upon Ginevra.

"But, Donal," she said, as quietly as when years ago they talked by
the Lorrie side, "would it be right?--a secret with you I could not
tell to any one?--not even if afterwards--"

Donal's face grew so ghastly with utter despair that absolute terror
seized her; she turned from him and fled, calling "Gibbie! Gibbie!"

He was not many yards off, approaching the mound as she came from
behind it. He ran to meet her. She darted to him like a dove
pursued by a hawk, threw herself into his arms, laid her head on his
shoulder, and wept. Gibbie held her fast, and with all the ways in
his poor power sought to comfort her. She raised her face at
length. It was all wet with tears which glistened in the moonlight.
Hurriedly Gibbie asked on his fingers:

"Was Donal not good to you?"

"He's beautiful," she sobbed; "but I couldn't, you know, Gibbie, I
couldn't. I don't care a straw about position and all that--who
would with a poet?--but I couldn't, you know, Gibbie. I couldn't
let him think I might have married him--in a