“Come, don’t be sentimental,” said Johnstone. “You’ll come home, Mixy--not the least fear of you--and build a thing with pagodas, and a verandah, and call it by an outlandish name, and end your history like a fairy tale. Hew, poor fellow--I am afraid _his_ chance of seeing Fendie again is worse than yours.” “How is that?” I exclaimed. “Has anything happened, Walter? Have you heard of anything adverse to the Murrays?” “The poor old man has ruined himself,” said Walter. “I am afraid he must lose everything--but to be sure that is not a thing to be discussed so publicly.” I turned round and looked Charlie Graeme in the face. He lifted his coward eyes to me for a moment in quick self-consciousness, but they fell before mine. This then was the pitiful reason--I turned indignantly away. I could scarcely bear to look at him again. We all rose to leave Greenshaw together. Walter accompanied us to Fendie. I put my arm through his hurriedly, and kept him behind, while Charlie and Edward went on before us. I was eager to question him about Murrayshaugh, and eager to escape from the society of my cousin. “If it is no breach of confidence, Walter,” I said, “I would be glad if you could tell me, what this is that seems to threaten Murrayshaugh?” “It is no breach of confidence now,” said Johnstone, “for I fear it must very soon be public enough. Murrayshaugh undertook a heavy responsibility long ago for some old friend, Adam; and many years since this friend died, and the whole burden of the debt fell upon Mr Murray, so that only the unusual forbearance of the creditor kept him from being ruined. But now the original creditor, who knew the circumstances, is also dead, and his heir will have no mercy, so that the old man I fear must give up everything. I am afraid, Adam, they will think of me very unfavourably--but that my partner happened, before I joined him, to be their creditor’s agent, is of course no fault of mine. It annoys me though, often; I wish you would just mention that when you write to Hew--not that any sensible person would blame me of course--but only there’s an uncomfortable feeling.” “Hew will understand,” said I, “but of course I will do what you ask me, Walter; and Murrayshaugh will lose all--did you say all?--and can nothing be done to help him?” “Nothing but paying the money,” said the man of business by my side, “and it’s a very heavy sum, what with costs and interest, and other such devourers of impoverished means--and besides, Murrayshaugh is too proud to receive a favour, Adam, even from you. He would rather lose everything, you know. I confess, harsh and repulsive as he has always been, there will be something wanting in the countryside if that proud old man does not decay peacefully here, like any other ruined tower--but he would take assistance as an insult--you know he would.” I did know it, and went on sadly, thinking of the desolate household, and scarcely remembering my companion’s presence.