“Oh, hold your tongue, hold your tongue!” cried the mother; “God never sent wickedness. I’ll no be contradictit in my own house--though, to be sure, it’s no my house, for that matter. We were a’ proud of your bonnie face, and your genty ways; and our pride’s had a fa’; yes, you may see, even your bonnie leddy that you were so sure of--your man’s sister, as ye say--has come back no more. She’s given ye up like a’ the rest; and everybody will give ye up--till you humble yourself, Bell, and put away all your pretences, and do what Magdalen did. But naebody in heaven or earth will show mercy to a lie.” “Mother, you’re that hard that ye make me sick,” cried Agnes. “It’s no a lie.” “Let her prove it, then!” said the mother solemnly. She was in accord with Mr. Charles, with Fanshawe, with all others except Marjory, who had heard the tale. As for Agnes, she started up from her seat as if unable to bear any more. “I maun be away again,” she cried; “I canna stand it longer. If your grand leddies and your fine gentlemen will do nothing for her, I’ll take up my work again, myself--and I’ll clear ye yet, Bell. I’ll away to Edinburgh this very day, and see John; maybe him and me can think of something else. I’m ’maist glad they’ve failed ye!” cried the girl, with tears in her eyes; “for now I’ll never rest day or night till I’ve done it myself.” “You’ll think first what you’re doing,” said the mother; “going to visit a man that has no heart to marry ye; mind what’s happened to your sister, and take heed for yourself.” “Oh, woman!” cried Agnes, turning upon her wildly--while poor Isabell, struck by this unexpected assault, lay back upon her pillows feebly sobbing; and it was at this moment that Marjory knocked at the cottage door. CHAPTER XV. There could not have been a more striking welcome than the celestial glimmer of light which came over Isabell’s countenance at this sight. She stayed her weeping with an effort, she held out her thin hands; she looked at the new-comer with pathetic delight. “Oh, you’ve come, you’ve come at last!” she cried with an unconscious reproach. She was so weak that the fit of weeping which she had restrained, interrupted her by an involuntary long-drawn sob now and then, like the sobbing of a child and Marjory thought that this sobbing too was her fault. “I thought you would never come,” said Isabell, “it makes me nigh well to see you. Oh no, Miss Heriot, I’m no worse; I’m wearing away, wearing away, but no faster than everybody expected. Oh, it does me good to see you--to say your name.” “Did you ever hear of me--from--Tom?” said Marjory with hesitation, yet with a generous desire to make up for her late failure in interest. She had not melted into any familiarity as a more gushing nature might have done. Poor Isabell! this gave her an excuse to weep quietly, to expend her half-shed tears.