“Eh, what a pious good young lady,” said Mrs. Simpson to herself; “we maun aye hope so,” she said aloud, but with much less certainty. She was a Seceder, and not quite certain of her master’s salvation. “He didna take his troubles may be so well as he might have done. They say it’s a sure sign of the children of light when they’re resigned, whatever God sends; but oh, it’s no for us to judge,” said Mrs. Simpson, putting her apron to her eyes. “I hope you’re better, mem. It was a sore trial for a young lady, going in like that to the presence of death. I’ll show you upstairs where the other lady is, and if you’ll just ring there’s a maid will see to everything. Meals and hours will be all wrong the day in this mourning house; but you’re a considerate young lady and ye’ll look over it--for to-day.” “Oh, don’t trouble about us,” said the newcomer, giving Mrs. Simpson one of her sweetest smiles, “I like you so much for being grieved for your master. Never think of us--” Miss Bassett was very popular among the servants wherever she went. She gave a little nod and smile to a housemaid she met on the stairs. She was very conciliatory. The youngest son’s wife’s sister has little reason to think herself an important personage in any house; and as she went up the great staircase through the long noiseless carpeted corridor which led to the west wing, her respect for the house rose higher. She noted that the carpet was Turkey carpet, that every corner was covered, no matting, no boards visible, nothing that showed the least desire for economy. She was not used to any English house except the very thrifty one in which Matilda and she had received their education, and these details of luxury were very pleasant to her. She sighed as she went into the pretty room where her sister and the children were already established. It was the largest room in the wing, the end room with two large windows looking over the peaceful sunshiny country, and one in the side which had a peep of the sea. There were large wardrobes, a great marble dressing-table, a succession of mirrors, a magnificent canopied bed, and more Turkey carpets, feeling like moss beneath the feet. The handsome room, however, was already made into a disorderly nursery. Matilda had thrown her hat down on the writing-table, where it lay among the pens and ink, covered over in its turn by the children’s hats and pelisses. She had thrown herself on the sofa, where she lay, tired and dishevelled, making ineffectual remonstrances with Tommy, who was belabouring the floor with an ivory-backed brush which he had found on the dressing-table. Baby was sprawling on the lap of the dark Ayah, who sat squatted on the floor near her mistress’s feet, and the English maid was unpacking all the boxes at once, finding all sorts of heterogeneous things in the different packages.