“Now who _was_ to bring it but me? The commodore is too old, and the doctor too tired to turn out after dinner. And as to trusting one of the men servants—why, see here! I’d trust any of them with any amount of money or of jewels, and they would carry either safe as a bank. But when it comes to old cognac brandy, why all the saints and angels in heaven couldn’t prevent one of them from drinking half the contents of the bottles and filling them up with spring water! And then you know the brandy would never get here at all. The messenger would have been dead drunk before night, and dead, _dead_ before morning, and _honest_ from that time forth, having made a meal for many crows! Now do you see? The affair is in a nutshell. I had to bring the brandy myself.” “And I am sure it was very kind of you, sir, and we are all very grateful,” said Susan Palmer politely as she handed the unbidden guest a cup of tea. John sighed. “I tried to put a damper on this here; but it’s no use. ‘Sich is life,’” he muttered in confidence to his own grizzled black beard. “And you’ll not turn me out to-night, I feel sure, my kind hostess?” said the young man as he bowed in accepting the cup and the compliment. “Indeed, no! Your room is ready just as you left it this morning! Turn you out, indeed! What! to ride up that breakneck mountain-pass in the dead of night? Not likely. Even if you wanted to go ever so much I wouldn’t let you do it, no, not if I had to keep you by force and violence!” said Susan. “Quite right. I shall give you no trouble, my gentle jailer,” laughed Ronald Bruce. As soon as supper was over Em. slipped away and went upstairs to inquire how her poor old friend, Mrs. Whitlock, was. Ann Whitlock’s chamber was over the dining-room. As Em. entered it she saw that it was at once warmed and lighted by a blazing wood fire in the fireplace, near which sat old Monica in a big arm-chair. The sick woman lay on her comfortable bed, apparently asleep. Em. closed the door noiselessly and crossed the room on tiptoe. When she had reached the side of old Monica she whispered: “Will my whispering disturb her?” “Oh, no, honey; nothing ’sturbs her. She don’t take no notice ob nothing,” answered the old nurse, not in a whisper exactly, but in that low tone that well-trained people use in a sick-room. “Is she very ill, Aunt Monica? _You_ know as well as anybody.” “Oh, no, honey. Not near so bad as what old marster was. Why, _she_ can swallow and look at you; dough she can’t move or speak.” “Do you think she will get over it?” “Yes, honey, dough I doubt she will ebber be as well as she was before. And whenebber she hab another ’tack like dis it will be sure to finish her, honey! But she’s gettin’ de best of ’tention now, you may be sure, honey.” “I know she is. Now, Aunt Monica, I will take your place and watch here until you go down and get your supper.”