It was all horribly clear to her, and she would not wait for words of comfort that could only obscure the truth.  Accompanied by Tommy, who said nothing, but often glanced at her fascinated yet alarmed, as if expecting to see the ghastly change come over her at any moment—­for he was as convinced as she, and had the livelier imagination—­she returned to Monypenny to beg of Blinder to tell her one thing more.  And he told her, not speaking lightly, but because his words contained a solemn warning to a girl who, he thought, might need it.

“What sort of thing would be likeliest to waken the wickedness?” she asked, holding her breath for the answer.

“Keeping company wi’ ill men,” said Blinder, gravely.

“Like the man who made mamma wicked, like my father?”

“Ay,” Blinder replied, “fly from the like of him, my lass, though it should be to the other end of the world.”

She stood quite still, with a most sorrowful face, and then ran away, ran so swiftly that when Tommy, who had lingered for a moment, came to the door she was already out of sight.  Scarcely less excited than she, he set off for Double Dykes, his imagination in such a blaze that he looked fearfully in the pools of the burn for a black frock.  But Grizel had not drowned herself; she was standing erect in her home, like one at bay, her arms rigid, her hands clenched, and when he pushed open the door she screamed.

“Grizel,” said the distressed boy, “did you think I was him come for you?”

“Yes!”

“Maybe he’ll no come.  The folk think he winna come.”

“But if he does, if he does!”

“Maybe you needna go wi’ him unless you’re willing?”

“I must, he can compel me, because he is my father.  Oh! oh! oh!” She lay down on the bed, and on her eyes there slowly formed the little wells of water Tommy was to know so well in time.  He stood by her side in anguish; for though his own tears came at the first call, he could never face them in others.

“Grizel,” he said impulsively, “there’s just one thing for you to do.  You have money, and you maun run away afore he comes!”

She jumped up at that.  “I have thought of it,” she answered “I am always thinking about it, but how can I, oh, now can I?  It would not be respectable.”

“To run away?”

“To go by myself,” said the poor girl, “and I do want to be respectable, it would be sweet.”

In some ways Tommy was as innocent as she, and her reasoning seemed to him to be sound.  She was looking at him woefully, and entreaty was on her face; all at once he felt what a lonely little crittur she was, and, in a burst of manhood,—­

“But, dinna prig wi’ me to go with you,” he said, struggling.

“I have not!” she answered, panting, and she had not in words, but the mute appeal was still on her face.

“Grizel,” he cried, “I’ll come!”

Then she seized his hand and pressed it to her breast, saying, “Oh, Tommy, I am so fond of you!”