In a few minutes she returned and requested him to follow her. This was more than he had calculated upon, but he obeyed at once. The girl led him along a dark passage, and up a winding stone-stair, much worn, to a room richly furnished, and older-fashioned, he thought, than any room he had yet seen in Lossie House. On a settee, with her back to a window, sat Mrs Stewart, a lady tall and slender, with well-poised, easy carriage, and a motion that might have suggested the lithe grace of a leopard. She greeted him with a bend of the head and a smile, which, even in the twilight and her own shadow, showed a gleam of ivory, and spoke to him in a hard sweet voice, wherein an ear more experienced than Malcolm’s might have detected an accustomed intent to please. Although he knew nothing of the so-called world, and hence could recognize neither the Parisian air of her dress nor the indications of familiarity with fashionable life prominent enough in her bearing, he yet could not fail to be at least aware of the contrast between her appearance and her surroundings. Yet less could the far stronger contrast escape him, between the picture in his own mind of the mother of the mad laird, and the woman before him; he could not by any effort cause the two to coalesce. “You have had a long ride, Mr MacPhail,” she said; “you must be tired.” “What wad tire me, mem?” returned Malcolm. “It’s a fine caller evenin’, an’ I hed ane o’ the marquis’s best mears to carry me.” “You’ll take a glass of wine, anyhow,” said Mrs Stewart. “Will you oblige me by ringing the bell?” “No, I thank ye, mem. The mear wad be better o’ a mou’fu’ o’ meal an’ watter, but I want naething mysel’.” A shadow passed over the lady’s face. She rose and rang the bell, then sat in silence until it was answered. “Bring the wine and cake,” she said, then turned to Malcolm. “Your master speaks very kindly of you. He seems to trust you thoroughly.” “I’m verra glaid to hear ’t, mem; but he has never had muckle cause to trust or distrust me yet.” “He seems even to think that _I_ might place equal confidence in you.” “I dinna ken. I wadna hae ye lippen to me owre muckle,” said Malcolm. “You do not mean to contradict the good character your master gives you?” said the lady, with a smile and a look right into his eyes. “I wadna hae ye lippen till me afore ye had my word,” said Malcolm. “I may use my own judgment about that,” she replied, with another winning smile. “But oblige me by taking a glass of wine.” She rose and approached the decanters. “’Deed no, mem, I’m no used till ’t, an’ it micht jummle _my_ jeedgement,” said Malcolm, who had placed himself on the defensive from the first, jealous of his own conduct as being the friend of the laird. At his second refusal the cloud again crossed the lady’s brow, but her smile did not vanish. Pressing her hospitality no more, she resumed her seat.