The neighbours grumbled and sometimes called them names--old maids, old cats, and many other pretty titles: which did not prevent them from borrowing the spoons or the candlesticks, or sending for Miss Robina when anything happened. Had these excellent ladies died the parish would have mourned sincerely, and they would have been universally missed: but as they were alive and well they were called the old cats. Human nature is subject to such perversities. The rural world in general had thus an affectionate hostility to the all-seeing, all-knowing, all-aiding ladies of Rosebank; but between them and Dr. Jardine the feeling was a great deal stronger. Hatred, it was understood, was not too strong a word. Rosebank stood a little higher than Gowanbrae: it was raised, indeed, upon a knoll, so that the house, though in front only one storey, was two storeys behind, and in reality a much larger house than it looked. The doctor’s house was on the level of the village, and the Miss Dempsters from their point of vantage commanded him completely. He was of opinion that they watched all his proceedings from the windows of their drawing-room, which in summer were always open, with white curtains fluttering, and baskets of flowers so arranged that it was hopeless to attempt to return the inspection. There was a garden bench on the path that ran in front of the windows, and on fine days Miss Robina, who was not at all rheumatic, would sit there in order to see the doctor’s doings more distinctly. So at least the doctor thought. “You may say it’s as good as a lady at the head of my table,” said the doctor. “That old cat counts every bite I put into my mouth. She knows what Merran has got for my dinner, and watches me eat. I cannot take a glass of wine, when I’m tired, but they make a note of it.” “Then, doctor, you should draw down your blind,” said the minister, who was always a peacemaker. “Me!” cried Dr. Jardine, with a fine Scotch contempt for the other pronoun. “Me give the old hag that satisfaction. Not for the half of Scotland! I am doing nothing that I am ashamed of, I hope.” Miss Robina on her side expressed other views. She had a soft, slightly-indistinct voice, as if that proverbial butter that “would not melt in her mouth” was held there when she spoke. “It’s a great vexation,” she said, in her placid way, “that we cannot look out at our own windows without being affronted with the sight of that hideous house. It’s just an offence: and a man’s house that is shameless--that will come to the window and take off his dram, and nod his head as if he were saying, Here’s to ye. It is just an offence,” Miss Robina said.