The eldest Miss Maxwell of Firthside was eighteen; she sat apart and dignified beside Mrs Oswald and Lilias on a sofa, thinking William Oswald a great lout, and herself much too important a person to countenance the follies of “the children.” Lilias did not think so; but their gay laughter and active sport made her shrink now and then, and by its very contrast recalled her grief. The banker was very gracious to Lilias. He had some indefinite hope that she might possibly withdraw William from his foolish fancy. He hoped her walk from Mossgray had not wearied her. “Oh no,” said Lilias, “I have had a long rest. Hope has done me the favour to make a very important addition to my list of Fendie friends to-day.” Hope paused in the midst of the tumult of burning nuts to listen. Her father glanced at her quickly with an eye which presaged a storm. Hope drew herself up and defied it. “I have been in Mrs Buchanan’s since the morning--do you know her, Mrs Oswald?” “Yes, I know her,” said Mrs Oswald, quietly, with secret satisfaction, only less warm than Hope’s. “Mrs Buchanan is an old friend of mine. You liked her, no doubt?” “Perhaps one must be alone as I have been,” said Lilias, faltering slightly, “before one can know what a pleasure it is--I mean, to be in the atmosphere of a mother; but Hope’s Helen, Mrs Oswald--I wonder I have been here so long, and have not heard of her before.” “That will be the Miss Buchanan that keeps the school,” interrupted Miss Maxwell of Firthside. Lilias smiled. “If you knew her you would not need that distinction, though it is a very good one; but one runs no risk of losing her, Miss Maxwell, though all the other Miss Buchanans in Scotland were congregated in Fendie.” “Oh, is she so pretty?” asked the young lady, with some curiosity. William Oswald stood at some distance, leaning upon the mantelpiece. At his feet little Agnes Elliot looked up, vainly pleading that he would put those two nuts, representing herself and Harry Stewart of Fairholm, into some safe corner of the ruddy fire; but William had no ear for little Agnes. The banker sat in a great chair near his wife’s sofa, looking, as he wished it to appear, towards the young merrymakers round the fire-place, and pretending to be extremely indifferent to the conversation, but listening with all his might. “It is not that she is pretty,” said Lilias; “I cannot tell what the charm is--but the charm is great, I know. Hope, you know Miss Buchanan best--tell Miss Maxwell what it is.” “But, Miss Maxwell, I am sure you know better than me,” said Hope, dubiously, her triumph checked by fear, lest her own powers of description should fail. “I don’t know what it is except it is just because Helen is a gentlewoman.” Miss Maxwell of Firthside elevated her good-looking small head, with its _nez retroussé_, and looked contemptuous. Mr Oswald pushed back his chair hastily.