"Ey, ey," Jean smiled grimly as the girl told her what young Harold had said about the cooking; "so he's no farin' quite as he wad at the meal-table, and would like a bit brush with me, would he? Well, I canna be aye getting' up special dishes for his lordship, so I may as weel prepare to receive him. Did he tell ye of the wee bit tiff we had ance before, him an' me? No; he didn't. Well, I'll tell ye, in a few words. He talked wi' his tongue, and I talked with the besom; and the interview juist lasted four minutes by the kitchen clock. He's no a bad lad althegither, but he needs a canny bit breakin' in." "Well, I'm not going to bother breaking him in," said Daisy, lifting her chin, "he's not worth it." Jean laughed. "Well, onyway," she said, turning again to her own work, "don't let him start ye broodin', so the rooms'll no be done when our good leddy goes over the huse. Ye ken weel she'd turn to and mak' up the beds hersel', sooner than raise a fuss. Lassie, lassie, speakin' about the Mistress, I'm sore worried. She's failed terrible this last month. I keep tellin' her to drink milk, but she canna keep it doon. She eats nae mair than yon dickie-bird--a great big strappin' wumman like she is--or was--too! If onything happens to the leddy o' the hoose here--guid-bye Harrisons! It's only for her sake I'm bidin' here, at the wage I get. I've got a standin' offer o' half as much agen from Lady Frances Ware--Sir William Ware's mother." At the mention of Ware's name, Daisy gave a little involuntary start. But she did not tell Jean that she too had an offer of a position in the household of Sir William Ware. "I suppose ye've no heard," said Jean, turning a protruding skillet-handle out of her way as she reached up for the flour-shaker, "that the young lad here--Harold--is engaged to a girl o' what they call the smart set. He's a takin' lad in some ways; but he's got Sir Thomas's way o' looking at marriage. It's nae good, Harrisons thinks, unless it brings social advantage. Ey, the conquest o' society is uphill work for puir Sir Tom.... By the bye, Sir Thomas himsel' is one person that, if onything happened our leddy, would not miss her much nor mourn for her long. Ey, he blames her, like, for 'keepin' him back'--her, that made him!" CHAPTER XIII. A PLOT THAT MISCARRIED. "Hae ye no mercy on yon phone, bairnie," observed Jean, rolling cut-cakes at a side-table, an afternoon or so later, "skirlin' itsel' sick in the corner there. If it's yon grocery-man, tell him from me he's gone daft, an' I'll be changin' oor custom if he's no more canny with thae orders, like." Daisy came out of one of the moods of pensiveness into which she had been in the habit of falling, lately, since the junior master of the house had inaugurated his policy of "putting her where she belonged." Skipping over, she took the phone from the hook. "Hello!" she said; "Waghorn's grocery?"