When Ralph at last found his voice, he said somewhat falteringly, yet with a ring of honesty in his voice which for the time being was lost upon Winsome: 

“You are not angry with me for coming to-day.  You knew I would come, did you not?”

Winsome only said:  “My grandmother is waiting for me.  You had better go in at once.”

“Winsome,” said Ralph, trying to prolong the period of his converse with her, “you are not angry with me for writing what I did?”

Winsome thought that he was referring to the poem which had come to her by way of Manse Bell and Saunders Mowdiewort.  She was indignant that he should try to turn the tables upon her and so make her feel guilty.

“I received nothing that I had any right to keep,” she said.

Ralph was silent.  The blow was a complete one.  She did not wish him to write to her any more or to speak to her on the old terms of friendship.  He thought wholly of the letter that he had sent by Saunders the day before, and her coldness and changed attitude were set down by him to that cause, and not to the embarrassing position in which Winsome had surprised him when she came into the flower-strewn parlour.  He did not know that the one thing a woman never really forgives is a false position, and that even the best of women in such cases think the most unjust things.  Winsome moved towards the inner door of her grandmother’s room.

Ralph put out his hand as if to touch hers, but Winsome withdrew herself with a swift, fierce movement, and held the door open for him to pass in.  He had no alternative but to obey.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Concerning John Bairdieson.

“Guid e’en to ye, Maister Ralph,” said the gay old lady within, as soon as she caught sight of Ralph.  “Keep up yer heid, man, an’ walk like a Gilchrist.  Ye look as dowie as a yow [ewe] that has lost her lammie.”

Walter Skirving from his arm-chair gave this time no look of recognition.  He yielded his hand to Ralph, who raised it clay-chill and heavy even in the act to shake.  When he let it drop, the old man held up his palm and looked at it.

“Hae ye gotten aneuch guid Gallawa’ lear to learn ye no to rin awa frae a bonny lass yet, Maister Ralph?” said the old lady briskly.  She had not many jokes save with Winsome and Meg, and she rode one hard when she came by it.

But no reply was needed.

“Aye, aye, weelna,” meditated the old lady, leaning back and folding her hands like a mediaeval saint of worldly tendencies, “tell me aboot your faither.”  “He is very robust and strong in health of body,” said Kalph.

“Ye leeve in Edinbra’?” said the old lady, with a rising inflection of inquiry.

“Yes,” said Ralph, “we live in James’s Court.  My father likes to be among his people.”