“I don’t care a straw for the wife,” said Richard angrily. “It’s yon grim sister Martha, and that white-faced monkey of a girl. I say, Cuthbert--you needn’t go in, and they don’t know you--do go before and tell them he’s coming. I’ll come up with him myself in the noddy--just to oblige me, Cuthbert, will you go?” “He lives in Port Dundas-road, it’s not very far. John will show you where it is,” urged Alick. Cuthbert consented to go; and the obstreperous John was very much subdued, and very ready to accompany his cousin to poor Muir’s house. It was now nearly ten o’clock. The young men were all greatly concerned, and in an inner room poor Harry was getting his leg examined, and looking so deadly sick and pale as to alarm both surgeon and friends. It was his temperament, so finely organized, as to feel either pain or pleasure far more exquisitely than is the common lot. “What will you say to them? Man, Cuthbert, are you not feared?” asked John. “Why should I be feared? I am very sorry for her, poor woman--but is she such a fury, this wife?” “It’s not the wife, it’s his eldest sister. Dick went home with Muir one night when he was’nt quite able to take care of himself, and I can tell you Dick was feared.” “Dick was to blame--I do not feel that I am,” said Charteris; “but why was he afraid?--did she say so much to him?” “She did’nt say anything to him; but you know they say she’s awful passionate, and she’s a great deal older than Harry; and she’s just been like his mother. They’re always so strict, these old maids--and Miss Muir’s an old maid.” “Wait, then, till I see, John,” said Cuthbert; “don’t try to intimidate me.” “Yonder’s the house,” said John. They had just passed a great quarry, across which the dome of some large building loomed dark against the sky. Then there was a field raised high above the road, with green grass waving over the copestone of a high wall, and at the end of the field stood a solitary house. A house of some pretension, for it boasted its street-door, and was “self-contained;” and albeit the ground-floor on either side was occupied by two not very ambitious shops, the upper flat looked substantial and respectable, although decayed. They were on the opposite side--the street was very quiet, and their steps and voices echoed through it, so clearly that the loud John sank into whispering and felt himself guilty. The light of a very pale moon was shining into one of the windows. Looking up, Cuthbert saw some one watching them--eagerly pressing against the dark dull panes; as they crossed the street, the face suddenly disappeared. “That’s one of them,” whispered John. “Isn’t it awful that a poor fellow can’t be out a little late, but these women are watching for him that way?” Cuthbert did not answer. He was thinking of “these women,” and of their watching, rather than of the poor fellow who was the object of it.