“I’ll do her no harm, my dear,” said Uncle Charles; and he resumed the subject in the morning, to Marjory’s dread. He had been brought up to the law, and he had some faith, as was natural, in his own knowledge. “If I once hear her story, I will see at once what is to be made of it,” he said; and as he had been further stimulated by another letter about the proceedings, or intended proceedings of Miss Bassett, the old man was much in earnest. It was the agent of the Bank in Pitcomlie who had sent him this information, and Mr. Charles had come down to breakfast with his hair standing on end, at all the audacities that were contemplated. “I know no precedent--no precedent,” he said, with his forehead puckered into a hundred lines. “They say women are conservatives; but I never heard of rebels like them, when they take that lawless turn. A man would think twice before he would meddle with an old-established house; he would think that the past might have its rights, no to speak of the future.” “I don’t think folly is of either sex,” said Marjory, who was not fond of hearing her own side assailed; “though Verna is not a fool----” “Verna!” cried Mr. Charles, in his indignation, “she is out of the question, May. I might stand something from your brother’s wife. She’s a foolish creature, but she’s not without good points--at all events she’s pretty, which is aye something; and she is poor Charlie’s widow; but the other young woman! Do you know, my dear, it’s my duty to see this girl, and hear her story myself?” All that Marjory could do was to effect a compromise--to go herself and prepare poor Isabell, putting off Mr. Charles’s visit for another day. Mr. Charles accordingly went out, though late, and hung about the Club all the morning, talking with every lounger who came in his way (and their name was legion). He told nothing, he was quite convinced; and yet, oddly enough, a vague impression that some story about the House of Pitcomlie--some romance in real life, such as now and then fills every county with lively interest and delight--was about to be made known to the world--came into existence. There were various versions of it instantly created by the conversationalists of the Golf Club. “I don’t know what’s afloat among the Heriots,” said Mr. Morrison, of St. Rule’s; “auld Charlie is going about like a clucking hen; he has some mystery under his wing, that’s sure. Either it’s some new claimant turned up from Australia, like the one they’re making so great a fuss about in London, or----” “I don’t see how that can be,” said Major Vee or Captain Eff. “All the Heriots and all their comings and goings are too well known in Fife, and besides, there never was one that disappeared, or did anything he oughtn’t to have done.”