Matilda was reclining on the sofa when he went into that drawing-room at Pitcomlie, which no longer bore the remotest resemblance to Marjory’s drawing-room. The room was strewed with traces of the destructive tendencies of the little heir. He had been brought down by Verna, who felt it necessary, from time to time, to demonstrate how much the young mother was devoted to her children; and it was Verna who had caused Tommy’s gorgeous new rocking-horse to be placed in a corner of the drawing-room. But on this particular afternoon the young Laird had given decided indications of a will of his own; he had torn the mane of his rocking-horse out in handfuls of horse-hair, which was scattered all over the room. He had thrown about the sofa-cushions, and made ropes of the anti-macassars; he had cast down several glass vases, and one of old china, breaking them into millions of pieces. Finally, he had been sent away in disgrace, howling so as to be audible half way down the Comlie road, where Hepburn heard his shrieks; he hurried on in consequence, fearing hysterics, and was consoled to find it was only Tommy. The pretty mother lay on the sofa, fatigued with the passion which Tommy had driven her into. There were two patches of rose-red on her cheeks--traces of her excitement; and she held out her hand half-irritably, half-languidly to her visitor. “Oh, you have come at last;” she said, for he had not been at Pitcomlie the day before. Verna was sitting by with her account-books; she was making up the bills, and putting her affairs in order, and she was happy. The squabble with Tommy had not affected her. “I was obliged to go to Edinburgh yesterday,” said Hepburn humbly; “as I told you--to see my sister’s trustees.” “Oh yes, I know!” said Matilda. “Business is always so much more important than anything else. You men will make any sacrifice to business--and leave your friends in loneliness, without ever thinking once--” “Were you lonely?” whispered the gratified Johnnie; “how good, how sweet of you to miss me! you never were out of my mind all day.” “Oh, that is what all you gentlemen say,” said Matilda, with a little toss of her head. “As for your Fifeshire people,” she went on, “I don’t think much of them. But for a few cards that have been left, one would imagine there was nobody in the county. I don’t know if it is their way here, or if it is that odious Miss Jean.” “I told you, Matty, when you were so rude to the Heriots--” said Verna. “Oh, don’t talk to me any more about that!” cried Mrs. Charles; “besides, I never was rude to the Heriots. They chose to take offence and go away; but was that any blame of mine? Was I to put myself at their feet, do you suppose, in my own house?” “Have you heard anything of them lately?” asked Hepburn, with a certain solemnity in his tone and manner, which he tried vainly to banish. Verna looked up at him quickly, being more open to impression than her sister, and was the first to reply.