“Oh, I shall never care for the Fifeshire society. They must be so stiff and so dry,” said Matilda; “and then they are all such friends of the old family, and set against us--” “My sister means,” said Verna, “that people have not been very nice since we came. We have had a great many cards, but nobody has really paid us a visit, except yourselves.” “They would think she was seeing nobody,” said Mrs. Murray, softly, “and very natural;” but once more the Doctor made himself the spokesman, drowning the gentle voice of his wife. “I have always heard,” he said, “that there was a natural stiffness about our Scotch manners; but Mrs. Charles may be assured, and I take it upon me to say so, though I’m not a rash man by nature, that all that will soon disappear before her face. I hope it was not impertinent to look at the plans on the table. They are, perhaps, for some house in England?” “Oh, no, indeed, for this house,” cried Verna, delighted. “This drawing-room, you see, is not much of a room, and that horrible old ruin close to us does so frighten my sister.” “Frighten her! why should it frighten her?” cried Mrs. Murray. “You’re not meaning the old house?” She turned to Hepburn with a look of dismayed inquiry, and he dared not say anything. How could he say a word that would cross that beautiful sensitive creature? but at the same time he had the fear of ridicule before him, and of the two people both looking at him, before whom he did not wish to show how foolish he was. He compromised, and fell between two stools, as was natural. “Mrs. Charles has taken a--repugnance to it. I have been telling her it was on a mistaken idea. Snakes and scorpions don’t exist in ruins here. That is why she is nervous,” faltered Hepburn. “Oh you naughty Mr. Hepburn,” cried Matilda; “you know you confessed you did not care a bit about the ruin, except for----. But I will not tell upon you--you confessed it was nothing but association; and as I never associated with anybody here----” Dr. Murray was too much absorbed to notice this last speech; he was solemn, and not to be trifled with. “Do you know, Madam,” he said, “that this is a very serious thing you are thinking of doing, a very serious thing indeed. Father and son have preserved the old house of Pitcomlie as long as I can remember. It was habitable in my young days--” “That’s true,” said Mrs. Murray. “When I came here a bride, the old Laird--not the late Mr. Heriot, but his father, who died soon after--led me on his own arm to the best room, that was over the great door. The old lady of Pitcomlie was dead, and he had no woman-person, except the servants, in his house. It was a very handsome room, and but for its old age it’s that still; and I would do a great deal myself before I would see it pulled down.”