“I thought I might come to ask,” said Hepburn, hurriedly. “I did not hope to see you. I came in only because Fleming insisted, without any wish to thrust myself--Miss Heriot, you will be good and kind, as you always are. You got my note?” She did not sit down, but received her visitor standing, which was a kind of satisfaction to the looker-on. “Yes. I got your note. It is very kind, very friendly of you--” “Oh, hush! don’t say so. Kind of me! But if you will make use of me--anyhow, Miss Heriot! only that I may feel I am doing something. Let me run errands, write letters--anything. What is the use of my life but for your service?” said the young man, in his emotion and excitement. Fanshawe, fortunately, did not hear these last words. “Thanks,” said Marjory, with a cold yet gentle graciousness. The word sounded to the one as if it had come out of the snows of the Arctic region; but to the other, the distant spectator, it sounded warm and sweet. “We do not require any help, Mr. Hepburn. All that we wished has been done. Everybody has been very kind. How can I thank you? We have felt the kindness of our friends to the bottom of our hearts.” “How can you speak of kindness? There are some who would give anything in the world to take a single burden from you. You will think of me, then--as the greatest favour, Miss Heriot--if there is anything--anything you think me worthy to do? That is all. I will not say another word except that my whole heart is with you in your grief. I can think of nothing else.” “Nay,” said Marjory, drawing back a step like a queen, as she gave him her hand again. “You are too kind to say so.” “Confound these old friends!” Fanshawe said to himself, thinking this double hand-shaking a quite undue and unnecessary familiarity, while poor young Hepburn withdrew, feeling as if she had spoken to him from the top of a mountain--from some chill and impassable distance. “My own fault for intruding so soon,” he said to himself, sadly, as he went away. Thus the brief interview made a totally different impression upon two persons present. Hepburn had not noticed Fanshawe, had scarcely seen, indeed, that there was any one in the room but Marjory herself. “Is that Johnnie Hepburn?” said Uncle Charles, as he went away. “What a nice-looking young fellow the boy has grown.” “He looks like a Johnnie,” said Fanshawe, with a laugh. It was unpardonably impertinent, he felt, the next moment; but his feelings demanded some relief. “He is very good and very kind,” said Marjory, majestically, casting a look upon him which avenged poor Johnnie. Fanshawe grew meek as a child in a moment, and begged pardon as humbly as Milly herself could have done. “And now we can go to the old house,” he said, going after her with intense satisfaction, as she went to the door. “Not now; I am too tired. I cannot do more to-day,” said Marjory; and he heard the sound of a low sob as she escaped, little Milly rushing after her.