But Kate Glendinning’s uneasy forecast was not without some justification—as Mary was soon to discover. The two visitors from the South arrived on the Monday afternoon, and there were many curious eyes covertly following the waggonette as it drove through the village. Of the two strangers, the taller, who was Mary Stanley’s brother, was a young fellow of about four or five-and-twenty, good looking rather, of the fair English type, with an aquiline nose, a pretty little yellow-white moustache, and calm grey eyes. His companion, some eight or ten years older, was of middle height, or perhaps a trifle under, active and wiry-looking, with a sun-tanned face, a firm mouth, and shrewd eyes, that on the whole were also good-natured. Both of the travellers were in high spirits—and no wonder: they had heard good accounts of the grouse; they had just caught a glimpse of the Garra, which had plenty of water after the recent rains; over there was the little steam launch that could amuse them now and again for an idle hour; and beyond the bay the big, odd-looking house, against its background of fir and larch, seemed to offer them a hospitable welcome. Mary was at the top of the semicircular flight of stairs to greet them; but even as she accompanied them into the great oak hall she instinctively felt that there was something unusual in her brother’s manner towards her. And when, presently, Mr. Meredyth had been taken away to be shown his own room, Fred Stanley remained behind: Käthchen had not yet put in an appearance, for some reason or another. "Well, what’s the matter, Fred?" Mary said at once. He had been kicking about the drawing-room in a discontented fashion, staring out of the windows or glancing at the engravings while his friend was there; but now these two were alone. "The matter?" said he. "Plenty the matter! I don’t like to find that you have been making a fool of yourself, and that you are still bent on making a fool of yourself." "But we can’t help it if we are born that way," she said, sweetly. "Oh, you know quite well what I mean," said this tall young gentleman with the boyish moustache. "I had heard something of it before; but I thought we might as well stop the night at Inverness on the way north; and I saw Mr. Purdie. Now, mind you, Mamie, don’t you take it into your head that Purdie said anything against you—he did not. He’s a shrewd-headed fellow, and knows which side his bread is buttered. But he answered my questions. And I find you have just been ruining this place—turning the whole neighbourhood into a pauper asylum—and—and flinging the thing away, as you might call it." "But it wasn’t left to you, Fred," she reminded him, gently. "And I have been doing my best—after inquiry."