“Oh, I never called him by that name,” she said, “I daredna’. It was aye his desire I should, but I never could say anything but Mr. Heriot. I liked to say it; it seemed like himself, grander than me, far above me--I was never anything but Isabell. Yes, Miss Heriot, he said once how good ye were, and that, whoever was hard, you would be kind. He called you May--is that your name?” “Yes, that is my name.” Marjory could not unbend altogether, could not tell this girl, though her heart yearned towards her, to call her by that name, to call her sister, as so many effusive girls would have done. She answered quite simply and shortly without further expansion. Was it true that she would have been kind whoever had been cruel? Marjory had not much faith in herself so far as this was concerned. She remembered the horror which had taken possession of her when she had thought of this young woman becoming the mistress of Pitcomlie. All such feelings had fled away now; but yet she could not feel that Tom had any reason for his confidence in her. “I came to warn you, my poor Isabell,” she said, “my uncle is anxious to come, to speak to you about all this; you must know that it is a very important matter for us. He is the only one remaining who has any right to interfere, and he wishes to come, to question you. He is an old man, and very kind; but he will not be satisfied unless he sees you himself; if it is not too much for you--” “Oh,” cried Isabell, with a long-drawn breath, “naething’s too much for me! I’ll be glad, glad to tell him all I can, to do anything I can to satisfy him or you. It’s hard to tell the truth and find nobody to believe you; but all I can do is to tell him, and leave the rest to God, Miss Heriot. Eh, what cause I have to trust in Him! A while ago I thought I never would hear the name again; and now there will be Heriots a’ about me--you that are my kindest friend--and this gentleman. If it was not too much trouble, oh, might I see the bonnie little lady with the gold hair that Agnes says is like my baby? He’s a Heriot too,” said poor Isabell, with a wistful upward glance at Marjory’s face. She was trustful, but yet afraid. She made a little fluttering movement towards something beside her in the bed, something that Marjory had not seen till this moment, and only divined now. “He’s a Heriot too,” the young mother pleaded, “oh, may I let you see him? If I once saw him in your arms I would be happy--” “Bell!” said Agnes, in a voice of angry warning, “you said the bairn was to be mine, John’s and mine--no an hour ago before this leddy came, you said it. It’s her mainner and her voice and her flattering ways that have taken your heart.”