This Marjory said in her own drawing-room in St. Andrews, where she stood between Fanshawe and the homely stranger, who had attracted so much of her attention and curiosity before she knew why it was. The girl’s appearance was unchanged; she stood with a certain suppressed defiance still in her aspect, before the lady whom she had distrusted, and whom even now she felt disposed to approach with caution. She was Isabell’s sister, but she was not like Isabell. The refinement and grace of the other were altogether wanting to her; she was in perfect keeping with her homely dress, her rustic manners--even the air of half-irritated, half-distressed antagonism with which she looked at her novel companions. Agnes Jeffery was in no way superior to her condition, except in so far as she was superior to all conditions in the force of a vigorous and loyal nature; she looked from one to the other with doubtful eyes. “You may ken the gentleman, Miss Heriot, but I don’t; I dinna feel justified in disclosin’ the affairs of my folk to every new person that may come in. It’s no our way; maybe when folk are more frank, and tell everything, it’s easier for them; but it’s no our way.” “You trusted me,” said Marjory; “and this gentleman is as I am” (she did not think of the meaning that might be put upon her words--not at least till long afterwards, when they filled her with confusion; but Fanshawe did, being more interested in these words than in any revelation the stranger could make to him). “He saw my poor brother Tom die; he heard him--as I told you--make an effort to reveal all this to me; he has done everything for us, and he will help us now. You may tell him as you told me.” “Is he anything to you?” said Agnes gravely, searching Marjory’s face with her eyes. And that young woman, utterly disconcerted, caught another glance at the same moment--a look which was full of the most wistful entreaty, yet just touched with fun, and an involuntary sense of all that was laughable in the question. Fanshawe felt as if life and death were involved for him in the reply; and yet he could not quench that twinkle of mischievous consciousness, which poor Marjory felt, too, notwithstanding the gravity of all the surrounding circumstances, and the solemnity of the question. Her eyes fell before the double look fixed upon her; her face flushed deeply; she cleared her throat, and faltered in uttermost confusion. It required all his anxiety, supplemented by all his self-control, to keep down the laugh which almost mastered Fanshawe’s muscles and faculties. If he had laughed, woe betide him; for in moments of emotion, no one likes the idea of being laughed at; and Marjory’s temper was something less than angelic. She conquered herself with an effort, and answered at last steadily.