“I think they came from London,” said Martha; “I have heard my uncle say so--there were two sisters of them; and their father died in Ayr. Mrs. Calder, in the old town, was very kind to the orphans, and took them in: and there the younger sister--her name was Violet--died; and my grandmother married Mrs. Calder’s son. I have heard she died young too, and called her only child, who was our mother, after her little sister. It is a sad story altogether; but we heard my uncle speak of it often; and I remember how many of the old people in Ayr recollected Rose Allenders.” “My mother’s name was Violet Calder,” said Lettie, “but I am only plain Violet. She did not call me after all her name; but Rose has got two names because she’s after my grandmother.” “I am going further west,” said Cuthbert. “I shall be in Ayr for a day or two, I believe. I think I must ask you to introduce me to your uncle, Miss Muir.” “He will be glad to see you,” said Martha, quietly. “But if you go now, you will find Harry established there. Give Mr. Charteris my uncle’s address, Rose--but indeed you hardly need that, for every one knows my uncle.” But Cuthbert had not the least desire to meet Harry in Ayr. So he was careful to excuse himself, and suddenly discovered that he could not be able to make acquaintance with Alexander Muir, the uncle, for a full fortnight, by which time it was certain that Harry must have returned. CHAPTER VIII. “There is all hope in thee, sweet Spring, sweet Spring! Dull voices, speaking of thee, unawares, Bewray themselves to sing. For every name thou hast such music bears; Whether ’tis March, when all the winds are gay-- Or April, girlish in her wayward way-- Or sweetest May.” DAY by day passed, of Harry Muir’s last bright week at Ayr--passed no less happily to the three sisters, than to himself and his little wife--and at last, fresh, healthful, and in high spirits, the youthful couple and their baby returned home. To walk to the coach-office to meet them, was of itself a jubilee for the home-dwellers, and Mrs. Rodger herself held the door open for them, in stately welcome. Mrs. Rodger was a tall old woman, gaunt and poverty-stricken, in her dingy widow’s cap, and black cotton gown; but Mrs. Rodger had been “genteel” once, and never forgot it. She extended one of her long arms, and gave Harry’s hand a swing, as he stopped to greet her. “I was just telling our weans,” said Mrs. Rodger, “that the house wasna like itself, wanting you--and I hope you find your leg strong, Mr. Muir; bless me, how the wee boy’s grown! I would scarce have kent him; bring him ben, Violet, and let the weans get a look o’ him. What a size he’s turned!”