“Oh, my dear! she has gone mad with grief,” said Mr. Charles. “May, my bonnie May, cry, break your heart, anything would be better than this.” “I am not mad, I am glad. Thank God!” repeated Marjory. She suffered them to take her in, with a calm which frightened them all. Thus the chief actors, in all the excitement of a terrible crisis, went their way off the scene like a tragic procession, carrying with them their atmosphere of pain and trouble; and like the change in a theatre, another set of sentiments, another group of persons, came uppermost. Miss Bassett was left in possession of the lawn. She had received a shock, but she felt better already, and she was a curious little personage. She watched them go in, making her own observations, especially in respect to Fanshawe, whose presence struck her feminine eye at once. Who was he? engaged to Miss Heriot, she concluded; it was the most natural explanation. Then she went across the lawn to the edge of the cliff and looked over; then made a turn or two up and down, putting up an eye-glass to her eye, inspecting the house. The house was very satisfactory; it had an air of old establishment, wealth, and comfort that pleased her. “Only I would clear away all these old ruins,” she said, turning her glass upon the tall old Manor-house of Pitcomlie, and Mr. Charles’s tower, “and throw out a new wing,” she added, putting her head a little on one side, “with a nice sheltered flower-garden and conservatories.” This notion pleased her still more. “What a different place it would look,” she continued musing, “if I had it in my hands; I would clear away all the old rubbish, I would make a handsome entrance with a portico and steps. I would soon make an end of all those little old-fashioned windows, and have plate-glass everywhere. Dear me, dear me, what a pity poor Charlie was not the eldest son!”