Thence we had a view of some foreshortened suburbs at our feet, and
beyond of a green, open, and irregular country rising towards the
Pentland Hills. The face of one of these summits (say two leagues
from where we stood) is marked with a procession of white scars.
And to this she directed my attention.
'You see these marks?' she said. 'We call them the Seven Sisters.
Follow a little lower with your eye, and you will see a fold of the
hill, the tops of some trees, and a tail of smoke out of the midst
of them. That is Swanston Cottage, where my brother and I are
living with my aunt. If it gives you pleasure to see it, I am
glad. We, too, can see the castle from a corner in the garden, and
we go there in the morning often--do we not, Ronald?--and we think
of you, M. de Saint-Yves; but I am afraid it does not altogether
make us glad.'
'Mademoiselle!' said I, and indeed my voice was scarce under
command, 'if you knew how your generous words--how even the sight
of you--relieved the horrors of this place, I believe, I hope, I
know, you would be glad. I will come here daily and look at that
dear chimney and these green hills, and bless you from the heart,
and dedicate to you the prayers of this poor sinner. Ah! I do not
say they can avail!'
'Who can say that, M. de Saint-Yves?' she said softly.
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