"A wheen, silly, fuils o' women, as they are a', the haill sect o' them," he soliloquized, fretfully; "wearing the very life and pith out o'the lad, wi' their angers, and their makings o'. First the one and then the other. Ane would need lang tack o' patience that ventured to yoke wi' them, frae Job himsel, honest man, doun to Peter Hislop, the stock farmer at Wentrup Head. 'Deed, and the twa are in no manner unlike, when ane has a talent for similarities. They were baith rich in cattle, and had a jaud of a wife to the piece o' them. Clavering, ill-tongued randies, wearing out the lives of peaceable men." When Anne entered the room, she found Lewis pacing back and forward in it, in haste and anger, while Mrs. Ross sat leaning back in her chair with the air of a besieger, who has thrown his last bomb, and waits to see its effect. "I cannot believe it,--I will not believe it!" exclaimed Lewis, as Anne entered. "If it had been so, I should have heard it before. Oh! I know you could not have kept this pleasure from me so long, mother! and I declare to you that this stratagem--I say this unworthy stratagem--only strengthens my determination. Anne," continued Lewis, perceiving her as he turned, in his hasty progress from one end of the room to the other, "you have heard this story--this phantom of Norman--the murderer, as he is called--which my kind mother has conjured up to frighten me. Join with me in telling her it is not true--that we are not to be deceived--that we do not believe this!" Mrs. Ross endeavored to toss her head as contemptuously as was her wont--it would not do; the motion was spasmodic. She was reaping the fruit of her own training, and the ingratitude and rude anger of her only son, from whom, indeed, she did not deserve this, stung her to the heart. "Lewis," said Anne, "you are behaving very unjustly to your mother. Be calm, and do not give way to anger so unseemly." "Oh! do not interrupt him," said Mrs. Ross, "let him go on; it is pleasant to insult his mother." Lewis turned from her angrily. "This is not a time for any absurd punctilio, Anne. Let me hear you say this is not true--this story--this scheme. I will not submit to it. Am I a boy, I wonder, that I am to be frightened by such a--" Mrs. Ross rose. The darling son--the only child--to turn on his mother thus! "Lewis!" she said, her features twitching, her voice husky. "Beware!" "Lewis!" said Anne; "I cannot bear this either; it is mere madness; sit down quietly and listen. Mother, I beg of you to sit down; forgive him this; he does not know--he cannot comprehend. Lewis, when your mother told you this very terrible story, she believed it true." Mrs. Ross had been regarding Anne, whose support she deserved as little as she did the insults of her son, with a face in which wonder and shame were strangely blended. Now she darted up a sharp, keen glance. "_Believed_ it true! This from you, Anne Ross--this from you!"