d’ye do? Give the lady a chair, Fleming,” without further disturbing herself; and it was these words that Aunt Jean was slowly repeating when Marjory went in. “Give the leddy a chair, Fleming!” she said; “that’s a kind and a pleasant welcome for one that was born in the house, and knows everything and every person in it. Perhaps, Fleming, as, no doubt, you’re informed on the subject, you will let me know who this young lady may be?” “It’s Mrs. Chairles, mem,” said Fleming, solemn as a judge. “Ah! poor thing; I understand,” said Miss Jean; “brought up in India! that explains much. But, Mistress Chairles, if you’ll allow your husband’s grand-aunt to say it, young women in this country get up off their seats when they’re visited by any person worthy of respect. I am twice your age, and I’m Thomas Heriot, your father-in-law’s, aunt.” “Tell her how delicate I am; I am not allowed to talk much,” said Mrs. Charles, addressing her sister. “And I am in great trouble,” she continued in her own person; “and very much tried, and too unwell to do anything. Pray take a seat. Marjory will be here directly. I suppose she is the person you want?” “I came to see an afflicted family,” said Miss Jean, solemnly. “Most people think it necessary to say they’re sorry when there’s been death in a family. Oh! you are here, Marjory! Mistress Chairles tells me it’s you I want. I wanted the whole family--that was my intention; but if you’re all as easy in your mind, and stand as little in need of comfort as she does, I’ll have my coming for my going, and I might have stayed at home.” “I am very glad to see you, Aunt Jean,” said Marjory; and struck with the unchangeable look of the old face, which altered not, whatever altered, a sudden _accès_ of tears came to her. “It seems to be years ago,” she said, faltering; “but you never change.” “No, I never change,” said the old woman, with a tremble in her voice. The words very nearly overset her composure, steady as she was in the calm of her old age; for Aunt Jean, too, had human feelings--and a still older generation, further off than the father of this house, who had been so lately carried out of it, sprang out of all the shadows as Marjory spoke, and came and stood about the old, old human creature who had once been young. “I’ll sit down,” she added, hastily. “I’m old and no strong, though I never change. That was a hard word to say. I mind changes enough in myself, more than you have ever known; from young to old, Marjory Hay-Heriot; from a bonnie young thing, as bonnie as you are at your best, to an old witch like what you see me. I hope that’s change enough; but you think I should change away out of the world, and let younger folk take my place and bide? Well, maybe so do I; but one way or another, it’s not in our hands.” “I did not mean anything unkind, Aunt Jean.”