But Martha took her seat in silence, and a conversation was very languidly carried on. Insensibly Cuthbert felt the same anxiety steal over himself--he felt that he _ought_ to go away, but yet he remained. By degrees the conversation dwindled into broken remarks from himself, and faltering responses from Rose and Agnes; sometimes indeed Martha spoke, but her words were harsh and bitter, or else full of a conscious mockery of lightheartedness, which was more painful still. The tea-tray with its homely accompaniments stood on the table--the little kettle sang by the side of the old-fashioned grate,--but the night was now far advanced, and reluctant to shut out the lingering remains of daylight, the sisters had laid aside their work; it was almost dark, and still Harry had not come. “Where is Violet, Agnes,” said Martha, after a long silence. “She went out to play,” said the little wife. “Some of her friends were down here, and they wanted her. I could not keep Lettie in, Martha, on so fine a night.” “I was angry at the poor bairn,” said Martha, with a singular humility, “I did wrong. I will go myself and look for her--our troubles are not so few that we should make additions to them of our own will.” There was a strange pathos in the low tone in which Martha spoke, and in the sudden melting of the strained vehement heart. Cuthbert saw the trembling hand of Agnes steal up to her eyes, and heard the appealing deprecatory whisper of Rose, “Oh Martha!” He could see its meaning--he could hear in it an echo of that other exclamation--poor Harry! so common in this house. Little Violet had been at play in the street below, carrying the vague blank grief of childhood into her very sport. As Martha rose, the little girl suddenly burst into the room. “Agnes, Harry’s coming.” They were all very quiet--a sort of hush of deep apprehension came upon the sisters, and Rose went out hastily to the door. In another moment, Harry had entered the room--looking very pale, and with an unmeaning smile upon his face. He came forward with great demonstration to greet Charteris, and hurried over an elaborate account of things which had detained him--the strangest complication of causes, such as came in no one’s way but his. “Why don’t you light the candles?” said poor Harry, with an ostentatious endeavour at high spirits. “Have you been sitting in the dark like so many crows? Rosie, quick, light this, and get another candle. You don’t think we can see with one, and Mr. Charteris here. Have you not got tea yet, Agnes? Nonsense, what made you wait for me? I can’t always be home at your hours, you know--when a man hasn’t his time at his own disposal, you know, Mr. Charteris--what is it now?--what do you want, Lettie?”