There was no answer. Then there followed a faint rustling, and then a third door opened, and a little head in a white nightcap, looked out with a pair of bewildered dark eyes, and suddenly shrank in again, when it found the room in possession of a stranger. The stranger smiled at his own somewhat strange position, and began to move towards the door--but suddenly the cradle gave sound of life, and a lusty baby voice began to cry. They were carrying the baby’s father then, into the house. The good-humoured Cuthbert rocked the cradle. Poor Harry was still very pale, though the surgeon who accompanied him was as tender of him as the most delicate nurse, and the strong young arms of the Buchanans carried the patient like a child. _They_ made their escape immediately, however,--but divided between sympathy for the family, and a consciousness of his own somewhat ridiculous position, Cuthbert stood at his post, rocking the refractory cradle. They all passed into the inner apartment. He was alone again. It was a very plain parlour, and various articles of feminine work were scattered about the room; some small garment for the sleeping baby lay on the ground, where it had fallen from the young mother’s hand; on the table, where Martha had been sitting, was a piece of fine embroidery, stretched on two small hoops which fitted closely into each other. She had been engaged in filling up the buds and blossoms of those embroidered flowers with a species of fine needlework, peculiar to Glasgow and its dependent provinces. Another hoop, and another piece of delicate work, remained where Rose had left it. The sisters of the poor clerk maintained themselves so. The baby voice had ceased. Groans of low pain were coming from the inner room. Cuthbert felt that he did wrong to wait, and turned again towards the door--but just then Miss Muir entered the parlour. “The doctor thinks he will do well,” said Martha. “To-night I can hardly thank you. But he is everything to us all--poor Harry!--and to-night you will excuse us. We can think of nothing but himself. Come again, and let us thank you?” “I will come in the morning,” said Cuthbert, “not to be thanked, but to hear how he is. Good night.”