And, turning, I discover Lana perched on a step of the stairs above me, her mocking eyes brilliant with unkind delight.

“Poor swain a-sighing!” said she. “Love is sure a thorny way, Euan.”

“Have a care for your own skirts then,” said I ungraciously.

“My skirts!”

“Yours, Lanette. Your petticoat needs mending now.”

“If love no more than rend my petticoat I ought to be content,” she said coolly.

Silenced by her effrontery, which truly passed all bounds, I merely glared at her, and presently she laughed outright.

“Broad-brim,” said she, “I was not born yesterday. Have no worries concerning me, but look to yourself, for I think you have been sorely hit at last. And God knows such wounds go hard with a truly worthy and good young man.”