When she died, the whole village and every neighbour far and near joined in the universal lamentation. Those who had called her an old cat in her life-time wept over her when she was laid in the grave, and remembered all her good deeds, from the old wives in the village, who had never wanted their pickle tea or their pinch of snuff so long as Miss Dempster was to the fore, to the laird’s wife herself, who thought regretfully of the silver candlesticks, and did not hesitate to say that nobody need be afraid of giving a party, whether it was a dinner or a ball supper that had to be provided, so long as Miss Dempster was mistress of the many superfluous knives and forks at Rosebank. “She was just a public benefactor,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, who had not always expressed that opinion. As for Miss Beenie, her eyes were rivers of tears, and her sister’s admirable qualities her only theme. She lived but to mourn and to praise the better half of her existence, her soul being as much widowed by this severance as if she had been a bereaved wife instead of a sister. “Nobody can tell what she was to me, just more than can be put into words. She was mother and sister and mistress and guide all put into one. I’m not a whole human creature. I am but part of one, left like a wreck upon the shore--and the worst part,” Miss Beenie said. The doctor, who had been suspected of a tear himself at the old lady’s funeral, and had certainly blown his nose violently on the way back, was just out of all patience with Miss Beenie’s yammering, he said, and he missed the inspection of himself and all his concerns that had gone on from Rosebank. He was used to it, and he did not know how to do without it. One spring morning, after the turn of the year, he went up with a very resolute air the tidy gravel path between the laurel hedges. “Eh, doctor, I cannot bide to hear your step--and yet I am fain, fain to hear it: for it’s like as if she was still in life, and ye were coming to see her.” “Miss Beenie,” said the doctor, “this cannot go on for ever. She was a good woman, and she has gone to a better place. But one thing is certain, that ye cannot bide here for ever, and that I cannot bide to leave you here. You must just come your ways across the road, and set up your tabernacle with me.” At this, Miss Beenie uttered a cry of consternation: “Doctor! you must be taking leave of your senses. Me!----” “And why not you?” said Dr. Jardine. “You would be far better over the way. It’s more cheerful, and we would be company for one another. I am not ill company when I am on my mettle. I desire that you will just think it over, and fix a day----” And after a while, Miss Beenie found that there was sense in the suggestion, and dried her eyes, and did as she was desired, having been accustomed to do so, as she said, all her life.