“You must go away, both of you, and sleep,” said Martha. “Hush, speak low! I cannot trust any of you, bairns--I must watch him myself. No, little matron, not you. I must take care of my boy myself--my poor Harry!” These words so often said--expressing so much love, so much grief--they were echoed in the hearts of all. Poor Harry! but his conscience did not smite him to-night: only his heart melted into tenderness for those who were so very tender of him, and involuntarily there came into his mind, gentle thoughts of all he would do for them, when he was well again; for Harry never feared for himself. They left his wife with him for a short time, and returned to the fireside of the little parlour--it was Saturday night, and some of their delicate work had to be finished, if possible, before the twelve o’clock bell should begin the Sabbath-day. They were but lodgers in this house. The mistress of it, a decayed widow--strong, in her ancient gentility--had three daughters, who maintained themselves and an idle brother by the same work which occupied the Muirs. The collars and cuffs and handkerchiefs of richer women, embroidered by other workers, principally in Ayr and Ayrshire, were given out at warehouses in Glasgow, to the Muirs and Rodgers, and multitudes of other such, to be “opened,” as they called it--which “opening” meant filling up the centre of the embroidered flowers with delicate open-work in a variety of “stitches” innumerable. Very expert, and very industrious workers at this, could, in busy times, earn as much as ten weekly shillings--and thus it was that Martha and Rose Muir supported themselves and their little sister, and were no burden on the scanty means of Harry. “Well, Martha?” said Rose, breathlessly, as the door of the inner room closed upon the little wife. Martha could not lift up her eyes to meet her sister’s. “Well, my dear?” “I am sure,” said Rose, “I am sure, you are quite satisfied to-night.” “Surely, surely,” said the less hopeful sister--a sigh bursting, in spite of her, out of her heavy heart. “Surely, surely--what do you mean, Martha?” said the dissatisfied Rose. “Poor Harry! you are surely pleased with him to-night.” “I said so, Rose,” said Martha. “Poor Harry!” The younger sister did not speak for a moment--then she put her work away and covered her face with her hands. “You will never trust him--you will never trust Harry, Martha!” Martha sighed. “I will trust God, Rose.” Rose Muir dried her eyes, and took up her work again--there was nothing to be said after that. Martha was rocking the cradle softly with her foot; and Martha, mother-like, was fain to divert the younger heart, and make it lighter than her own. “Our poor wee Harry,” she said with a smile. “Did you see what a strange nurse he had to-night?” “Was it the gentleman?” said Rose; “did you say anything to him, Martha--he would think us very ungrateful.”