“Oh, you blind auld beetle!” said Miss Jean; “putting it into the lass’s head every word you said, to mix up May’s name with this lad’s! Who is the lad?--is he worthy of her? or does he want her? or have you paid any attention, ye doited auld body, to what I took the trouble to say?” “I have taken your advice,” said Mr. Charles shortly; “much to my own discomfort; but nothing has ever come of it, that I can see.” “That’s no answer to my question,” cried the old lady peremptorily. “Is he worthy of her? and who is the lad?” “So far as I can make out,” said Mr. Charles; “he is very little to brag of; a good-natured ne’er-do-weel--nobody’s enemy but his own.” “And that’s just the bitterest foe of everybody that belongs to him,” said Miss Jean; “and it’s a man like that that you leave to bring May home; to wait for her, and feel for her, and bring her along a lonely road, and take advantage of all his opportunities--” “The young man is a gentleman,” said Mr. Charles eagerly, with an indignant flush on his face. “And you’re a fool, Charlie Heriot!” cried the old lady, growing red--as a woman of seventy-five could scarcely be expected to do. She was angry and ashamed at his interpretation of her words; she got up hastily to retire to her room, every fold of her shawl quivering with indignation. “Judging by what you say, it is little use sitting up for her, I suppose,” she said. “To think of a young woman like Marjory left to come home with a strange man in the middle of the night! You’re a bonnie guardian, Chairlie Heriot; you give us all great encouragement to trust the young women of the family to you.”