“Her that was laundry-maid at Pitcomlie?” said Mrs. Murray. “Ah, poor thing! and what she is to do to gain her bread with that bit infant of hers? But I do not advise you, doctor, to set any newfangled plan agoing for ringing the bells. Nobody would pay any attention. They would say: ‘What does the minister know about the weather? Let him bide at his books, and leave the winds to us.’ That’s what they would say. And if you take my opinion, I cannot but think they would have justice on their side.” “I will not risk it, my dear,” said the doctor; “they are a pig-headed race, like all the partially educated. I wish there was a higher standard of education in our schools. Reading and writing are very well, but a little attention to the common phenomena of the elements would be a great matter--as I said to Mr. Tom the last time he was here--” “Speaking of your brother Tom,” said Mrs. Murray briskly; “what is this I hear about Charlie? A second boy, and him not above two years and a-half married! My certy, but they’re losing no time; and I hope both doing well?” “Oh yes,” said Marjory, with a shade of indifference stealing over her face; “people always do well in those circumstances, don’t they? Fancy our Charlie with a family of children about him! I think it spoils a young man. It makes them grand-fatherly--not to say grandmotherly--and knowing about domestic matters. Charlie, of all people in the world! but it cannot be helped, or put a stop to, I suppose?” “Whisht, my dear, whisht; that’s a strange thing for a woman to say.” “Is it?” said Marjory, with a sudden blush. “What I meant was that the thought of Charlie turned into an old wife--Charlie knowing all about nurseries, and what to give a baby when it has a cold--is so very queer. I don’t like it; Charlie was always my pet brother. Poor fellow! and he so far away!” “I have no doubt he’s very happy--as he ought to be with a nice wife and two bonnie bairns,” said Mrs. Murray, a little annoyed at Marjory’s anti-matrimonial views; but this remark passed unnoticed in the doctor’s question about what she was reading, which changed the character of the conversation. Mrs. Murray was not booky, as she herself said; she was too old for anything but novels; and though she had great enjoyment of these on a wet afternoon, by the fireside, or when the doctor was busy with his sermon, she did not say much about them, and kept them in the background with a certain sense of weakness. Marjory, on the contrary, discussed her reading with some eagerness, while the old lady and little Milly cooed and whispered to each other in the background; the child’s fair hair pressed lovingly against the net border--white and softly plaited--of Mrs. Murray’s cap. And so long was the discussion carried on that Marjory at last sprang up suddenly and held out her hand in alarm to take leave, when the bell rang for the early dinner, which reminded her how time was passing.