Presently she tapped at Mr. Wycherly’s door. When she came in her gentle face was wreathed with smiles. "I’ve just come to confess to you," she said, "that I feel you were right and I was wrong last night. There is no doubt whatever that Montagu is a real Bethune. In 1657 Archibald Bethune did with his own hands choke to death an Irish wrestler who had set upon him in a lonely inn in Forfarshire. The man was seven feet high, so the old chronicle says. I’ve just been looking." "Won’t you sit down, Miss Esperance?" "No, I thank you, not now. I have several things to see to; but, dear friend, I felt that I must tell you that I recognise that your insight is deeper than mine. Montagu is a true Bethune: he will be a man of his hands even as the rest of our house." "For my part," Mr. Wycherly said dryly, "I would rather fall into the hands of Edmund than those of Montagu when he is roused. Especially as it would appear to be an agreeable characteristic of the Bethunes to throttle their adversaries." "We have always been a fighting race," Miss Esperance remarked complacently, and departed with pride in her port and satisfaction writ large upon her face. Mr. Wycherly looked thoughtful. "And she the gentlest and tenderest of women!" he murmured. "How strange they are!" That afternoon the Misses Moffat called to ask after Montagu. They found him resting, with a bandaged eye, upon the sofa in his aunt’s parlour, with Flaxman’s "Theogony" open on his knees for his amusement. His head ached badly, but he was quite happy. He knew that in some way this exploit, although it entailed much destruction to garments and was altogether of an unlawful and unusual order, had not really grieved his aunt. She had lectured him gently, it is true, but she had been very kind as well, and had given him a whole bunch of raisins to console him when he was left at home—his appearance being unsuited just then to polite society—and she and Edmund drove over to see Lady Alicia. Miss Maggie came and sat down beside his sofa, and after sundry searching inquiries after his various wounds, she divulged the real reason of her visit. "I felt, my dear," said kind Miss Maggie, "that I must come and tell you a story, a wee story, I read just the other day in ’Wise Words.’" "Thank you very much," Montagu said politely. "It was told by a Quaker gentleman——" "What’s a Quaker, please?" Montagu interrupted. "A very good man——" "Are there many of them or only one?" "I think there must be a good many, but that doesn’t matter," Miss Maggie said hastily, rather flurried by these interruptions. "I like to understand things as I go along. Guardie says you must never pass a word you don’t understand. Yes, a Quaker gentleman, a very good man—what next?" "Well, this Quaker gentleman had a class for boys, a Sunday class——" "Was he a minister as well as a Quaker?" asked the incorrigible Montagu.