“One likes to have a glance at the world again,” said Harry, raising himself on his pillows. “Yonder comes the postman, Agnes--see, he is holding up a letter--run, and get it, Rose; and yonder is Rab McGarvie, carrying a peck of brose-meal to somebody, and little Maggie McGillivray clipping at the door. It is pleasant to see them all, and this wind, how fresh and wholesome it is. Lift the window a little more, Martha--just for a moment.” “It is very cold, Harry,” pleaded the little wife. “Nonsense,” repeated Harry, “don’t you think it is quite warm for the season, Mr. Charteris. Martha!” Martha rose with sudden impatience, threw down her work, and rapidly closed the window. She did not speak, but Cuthbert saw a strange combination of the strongly-marked lines on her forehead, and a close compression of her lips, which did not look very peaceable. The act itself was not very peaceable certainly, but there was a suppressed passion in her look and manner, which had a singular effect upon the stranger. Harry Muir said nothing, but he threw himself back upon the pillow, sullen and offended. There was a scared timid expression on the face of the young wife, and little Violet glided up behind Martha, and laid her hand upon her sister’s shoulder in childish deprecation. Just then Rose entered with the letter. “It is from Ayr, from my uncle,” she said. “Shall I open it, Harry?” “As you please,” said Harry, sulkily. She cast a hurried glance round the room, pausing for a moment with a searching, inquisitive, painful look, as her eye fell on Martha. Then she came to her brother’s side, and laid her hand softly with a half caress upon his arm. “Shall I read what my uncle says, Harry, for everybody’s benefit? Uncle Sandy always writes to the whole of us, you know.” There was no answer. Cuthbert took up his hat, and rose with embarrassment. The scene was becoming painful. “You are not going away, Mr. Charteris,” said Agnes, anxiously; “pray don’t go away so soon, when this is your last visit too; and I am sure Harry has never had an opportunity before to thank you for your kindness, nor indeed any of us, except Martha. Martha had to make all our thanks.” “Did you, Martha?” asked Rose. Cuthbert turned away his head. He did not wish them to think that he saw through those little palpable affectionate artifices of theirs to heal the new-made breach. “Martha!” repeated Rose, under her breath. And Cuthbert looked stealthily at this passionate face. The rigid lines were relaxing slowly; the muscles of the mouth moving and trembling; fierce and strong anger melting into inexpressible tenderness and sorrow. Vain anger, bootless yearnings, which might spend their strength for ages, like the great sea upon the sand, and never change its form. “Mr. Charteris, I fear, got but few thanks from me,” said Martha, slowly; “but Mr. Charteris has seen us since, and knows that to do kindness to Harry is to have the greatest gratitude we can feel.”