There was a pause again, but that was not an unusual circumstance. Marjory was a frequent visitor in the tower, and sometimes the two, who were fond of each other, would sit together for hours pursuing their own occupations, with a pleasant sense of companionship but without any talk. His niece’s presence did not disturb the old man; he went on quite peacefully, taking it for granted that she, too, was occupied in her way. Nor did he lay down his pen, or look up at her face until she broke the silence by the sudden question, “Now you have had time to consider it, what do you think about Charlie, Uncle Charles?” “Toots, my dear!” said Uncle Charles. He put down his pen, as we have said, and stretched his hand to her across the table. “You are getting silly--like other women, my bonnie May.” “But what do you _think_, Uncle Charles?” “I can think no more than I did before, for I have no more information,” said Mr. Charles, pushing back his chair, and crossing his long legs; “and thinking will do no good--no good, my dear, if we were to think till we died of it. You just make yourself unhappy indulging anxiety. We must wait till we hear.” “But what do you think of the letter, Uncle Charles?” “The letter--oh, that’s something tangible. It’s a very heartless letter, a very silly letter; but you heard beforehand that she was a silly thing. So far as I can see, there is very little in it about Charlie; and as for her weakness and her baby’s, that’s not so very important. No fear of them; and as for you and me, May, whatever happened to Mrs. Charles, we could get over _that_.” “I wish her no harm,” said Marjory hastily. “Certainly, no harm,” said Mr. Charles; “but oh, my dear, what a woman to be mistress of Pitcomlie! what a creature to come after my mother! and your mother, May--though she, poor thing, reigned but a short time in the old house. This one will be a new kind of lady among the Heriots. We’ve been fortunate in our wives, as I’ve often told you. I am just giving a description of how Leddy Pitcomlie, under the Regent Mary of Guise, held the old house against the French. She was one of the first converts of the Reformation. We were terrible Whigs in those days; she was a daughter of--” “Yes,” said Marjory vaguely. “That is something new to think of--Matilda in Pitcomlie. Uncle, we never knew--you never heard--that Pitcomlie might have had another kind of mistress?” Mr. Charles raised himself with eager interest. This was entirely in his way, and moved his curiosity to the utmost. “Another kind of mistress? There was your stepmother, of course--a nice kind of creature; but she did not live. A wife that does not live is a misfortunate thing in a family; it deranges the records, and takes away the unity; but is it of her you are thinking? What other mistress, May, if it were not yourself?”