But suddenly, in a place where there are sands and pebbly beaches by
the lakeside, she turned and drew me nearer to her, holding me meantime
by the hand.

"You will not go and forget?" she said. "I have many things to forget. I
want to remember this--this good year and this fair place and you. But
you, with your youth and your innocent Scotland--you will go and forget.
Perhaps you already long to go back thither."

I desired to tell her that I had never been so happy in my life. I might
have told her that and more, but in her fierce directness she would not
permit me.

"There is a maid who sits in one of the tall grey houses of which you
speak, or among the moorland farms--sits and waits for you, and you
write to her. You are always writing--writing. It is to that girl. You
will pass away and think no more of Lucia!"

And I--what could or did I reply? I think that I did the best, for I
made no answer at all, but only drew her so close to me that the
adorable chin, being thrown out farther than ever, rested for an instant
on my shoulder.

"Lucia," I said to her--"not Countess any more--little Saint Lucy of the
Eyes, hear me. I am but a poor moorland lad, with little skill to speak
of love; but with my heart I love you even thus--and thus--and thus."

And I think that she believed, for it comes natural to Galloway to make
love well.