M

A Prisoner of Love

—if you feel like that, Master—I don’t know—there are some things it isn’t right to cross. Perhaps we oughtn’t—Janet, woman, what shall we say to him”? ”

Janet Gordon had hitherto spoken no word. She had sat rigidly upright on one of the old chairs under Margaret Gordon’s insistent picture, with her knotted, toil- worn hands grasping the carved arms tightly, and her eyes fastened on Eric’s face. At first their expression had been guarded and hostile, but as the conversa- tion proceeded they lost this gradually and became almost kindly. Now, when her brother appealed to her, she leaned forward and said eagerly,

“ Do you know that there is a stain on Kilmeny’s birth, Master? ”

“ I know that her mother was the in- nocent victim of a very sad mistake, Miss Gordon. I admit no real stain where there was no conscious wrong doing. Though, for that matter, even if there were, it would be no fault of Kilmeny’s

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