A Daughter of Fife

At twelve o' clock, when every one was at their dinner, and the beach was

empty, Maggie easily got away without observation. She did not regret her

journey. She had Allan's letter and she had also a few withered flowers

which he had gathered on the top of the cliffs during his visit, and left

in his room. Poor, little brown bits of gorse and heather, but they had

been in his hands, and were a precious and tangible link between them.

The carriage which had brought her to Kinkell was waiting for her, and

the horses being refreshed and rested, she left immediately for Drumloch.

She had many a thought to keep her company; but in the main, they were

thoughts of hopeful love toward Allan, and of grateful affection toward

Mary. This visit to Pittenloch had enabled her to measure Mary's singular

beneficence and patience; and she was almost glad that she had been able

to prove her gratitude by a cheerful renunciation of hopes so dear and so

purely personal. She knew then, if she had never before known, the value

of what had been done for her, and she understood why David had so

resolutely put aside everything that would interfere with his mental

culture. In such a mood, it was even easy to excuse his harshness. "He

feared I would be a hindrance to him," she thought; "and maybe, when a man

is climbing out of ignorance into knowledge, he ought to be feared for

hindrances, even though he likes them well."

Mary Campbell, like most people of a nervous temperament, had a quick,

sensitive ear. She heard Maggie's arrival and her step upon the stair

long before Mrs. Leslie did. She was still confined to her bed, but she

turned her questioning eyes eagerly to the door by which Maggie would

enter. She came in so brightly, and with such a happy light on her face,

that Mary felt sure the journey had been a successful one.

"In time, Maggie, after all?" she whispered, as Maggie kissed her.

"No, he did not wait for me:--but it is all right."

"Oh Maggie! what a shame!"

"Don't say that, Miss Campbell. He kept his word. He left me a letter. He

is not to blame. No one is to blame. It will be all for the best. I am sure

of that."

"Never call me Miss Campbell again, Maggie. I am Mary, your friend, your

sister Mary. Do you think I can forget those dreadful days and nights when

you walked with me, as I went through the Valley of the Shadow? Though I

could not speak to you I knew you were there. Your hand, so cool, so

strong, and gentle was what I clung to. On that last awful point of land,

beyond which all was a black abyss, I clung to it. I heard your voice when

I had passed beyond all other earthly sounds. It was the one link left me

between that world and this. Maggie! Maggie! You cannot tell how sorry I

am about this broken tryst."