“Nae doubt ye ken better than me, Miss Marjory; the bairns we’ve brought up on our knees are aye wiser than us old folk; but he means _that_, I suppose?” said old Fleming, holding up his tray triumphantly. “And what kind of a meaning is that for the father of a family? No to take his good food that’s been prepared wi’ a’ the care and pains of a clean and Christian woman, that sud have been accepted wi’ a grace and eaten with thanksgiving. When I mind the luncheons the Laird used to eat, the good dinners he made, the fine nat’rel appetite!” cried Fleming, almost with tears in his eyes, holding up his tray as an eloquent witness of his case, “and now to be sent away with a flea in my lug for a bletherin’ scoondrel,--because I was fain to see him eat a morsel of wholesome meat!” “Go away to your pantry, Sir, and say no more about it,” said Mr. Charles, authoritatively. “Miss Marjory has plenty to put up with, without your nonsense. Your father, my dear, has been in the house for days together. He has not so much as taken a walk, he that was always afoot. That’s the reason why he cannot eat; for my part, I am not surprised. He’ll be better, I hope, when Charlie comes back.” “I would get the doctor,” said Fleming, with stout self-assertion. “Mr. Charlie may be kept back by ill winds, or many a thing beside. I would have the doctor if it was me.” Fanshawe looked at this scene with mingled amusement and surprise; but though Mr. Charles stood up in defence of his niece, neither of them thought it strange that the old butler should have his word to say. The old man even emitted extraordinary murmurs, which were almost like groans, as he continued his attendance at table. “I’ve seen death in the house afore. I’ve seen plenty of sore trouble; but I never saw the Laird as he is now. Waes me! waes me!” said Fleming; and the conversation, such as it was, was interrupted by this monologue. They all went into the drawing-room together, glad to escape from it. Mr. Charles took his three-cornered seat by the fire, and his newspaper, which he had left lying upon it. Marjory seated herself at the writing-table in the bow-window. They had their natural occupations, the things they did habitually every day; but as for Fanshawe, he had no occupation to turn to. He turned over all the books on the tables, and then he went and stood at the window. The weather had changed since yesterday, which was much too bright to last. It was a true Spring day on the East coast, with a white mist closing in over land and sea, and a chill wind blowing. Was he to spend that whole long afternoon gazing at the tumbling, leaden waves, and the choking white vapour that lay heavy like a coverlet over them, and clung to the edges of the cliff like a fringe of woolly whiteness, and shut out both earth and sky? Just then Mr. Heriot put in his head, and asked sharply, “Have you written to Charlie?”