This opinion was probably mutual, for Mona's sprightliness of manner had entirely deserted her for the moment. It was all she could do to be tolerably amiable, and to speak when she was spoken to. Some of the people they called upon remembered vaguely that her father had been a great man, and treated her with exaggerated respect in consequence; but to the majority she was simply Rachel Simpson's cousin, a person of very small account in the Borrowness world. "We have still to go and see Auntie Bell," said Rachel at last; "but we'll wait till Mr Hogg can drive us out in his machine. He is always ready to oblige me." "Who is Auntie Bell?" "She's the same relation to me that I am to you; in fact, she's a far-away connection of your own. She's a plain body, taken up with her hens and her dairy,--indeed, for the matter of that, she manages the whole farm." "A sort of Mrs Poyser?" "I don't know _her_." "Not know Mrs Poyser? Oh, you must let me read you about her. We shall finish that story in the _Sunday at Home_ this evening, and to-morrow we will begin Mrs Poyser. It's a capital story, and I should dearly like your opinion of it." Rachel had not much faith in the attractions of any story recommended by Mona; but, if it was about a farmer's wife, it must surely be at least comprehensible, and probably more or less interesting. The next morning Mona was alone in the shop. Her fairy fingers had wrought a wonderful change in her surroundings, but it seemed to her now in her depression that she might better have let things alone. "Oh, reform it altogether!" she said bitterly. "What's the use of patching--_what's the use?_" The shop-bell rang sharply, and Dr Dudley came in. It was a relief to see some one quite different from the people with whom her social intercourse had lain of late. "Good morning," he said. "How are you?" "Good morning," said Mona. She ignored his offered hand, but she was surprised to hear herself answering unconventionally. "I am bored," she said, "to the last limit of endurance." He drew down his brows with a frown of sympathy. "Are you?" he said. "What do you do for it?" "I do believe he is going to recommend Easton's Syrup!" thought Mona. "Ah, that's the trouble," she said. "I am not young enough to write a tragedy, so there is nothing for it but to grin and bear it." "You ought to go out for a regular spin," he said kindly. "There's nothing like that for blowing away the cobwebs." "I can't to-day, but to-morrow I am going for a twenty-mile walk along the coast"--"botanising," she was about to add, but she thought better of it.