“Poor Isabell, poor Isabell!” she said with a cry unawares. “He tried to tell me on his death-bed. It was not his wish to leave you so. He thought he had told me;” and with an effusion of pity and tenderness which overcame all doubt, she took the girl’s wasted hands into her own. Wonder overcast poor Isabell’s face. She began to cry softly, overpowered by the sweetness of this accost, but not knowing what it meant. “Oh, did you know him?” she murmured. “Oh, weel I ken he meant no harm. Lady, lady, did you know my Mr. Heriot--my man, my dear, dear man?” “Bell,” cried Agnes, whispering in her ear. “Bell! it’s Miss Heriot her very sel’!” That evening Marjory sent a hurried anxious note to Fanshawe, calling upon him to come and help her. She did it by a sudden impulse, carried away by feelings which she felt incapable of expressing to any one else. Him only she could confide in, he only could help her in the struggle that was to come. CHAPTER IX. In the meantime, the young women at Pitcomlie, as they were entitled by Mr. Charles, had been spending their time very agreeably. Verna had got the house well in hand. She had re-arranged everything. The very furniture had been changed from one room to another. “We must at once give the house a character,” she said, “so that it may be seen to be your house, Matty, and not the old Heriots’. There are a great many old-fashioned things which must be cleared away. We must give it a character;” and she went about the rooms, pulling the furniture hither and thither. Verna, unfortunately, though she had zeal, had no knowledge; she thought the results of a modern upholsterer’s work, spick and span new tables, chairs, and carpets, all ordered without consideration of expense, would produce something infinitely better than the present aspect of the room, which had been lived in, loved in, suffered in, for so many years, and had acquired a human character of sympathy which makes even wood and velvet poetical. She did not understand the old inlaid cabinets, which had been Marjory’s pride, any more than she could understand that insane desire for “a view,” which apparently had tempted “the old family” to open its windows so to the stormy sea. “One cannot escape the sea at such a place as this,” Verna said; “we must put up with it, though I don’t care for it; but to turn all the windows that way, _on purpose_, when there is quite a pretty garden behind, and a sheltered corner, with flower-beds, and all that. I have written to Mr. Freestone, and he is coming down on Saturday to see about a new wing.” This talk was carried on for the advantage of young Hepburn, who had come, as he now did daily, to ask how the ladies were; and if he could do anything for them. “A new wing!” he said; “but you will find that highly expensive; and the house has always been thought a large house.”