Ever since that marvellous revelation about Inchbrae, Mrs. Dorriman's manner to her brother had been both tender and affectionate. She tried to prove that her forgiveness was complete, and she could not understand why, now this burden was off his mind, he still made allusion to a weight there. Often when he came in and she rose to greet him she caught him watching her as though something was still between them, and that helpless feeling of not being able fully to understand pressed upon her again. He came in one day, looking tired, and she saw that he sank wearily into his chair. Tea was there, and she gave him some, and made one of those trivial remarks people are apt to make when wandering thoughts are the order of the day. "Anne, I do not think Margaret will care to come here," he said suddenly, "and you think so too." Mrs. Dorriman's delicate face flushed a little. "Margaret offers to come," she said after a little pause. "I find business tires me more and more," he said, as it seemed to her, irrelevantly. "I am sorry," she answered, looking a little anxiously in his direction. "Why should we not all go to your house," he asked, as though putting the plainest and simplest question in the world. "To Inchbrae! Oh, brother!" This sudden suggestion filled her with such intense happiness that she could get no further. "I want Margaret to get well and I mean to resign my chairmanship and other things. I shall give up business. I want--rest." His manner alarmed her, but she tried to compose herself, and to accept this new turn in her affairs quietly, and not to let him see how intensely this affected her. She subdued her emotion and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, "It will be a long journey for Margaret and for poor Jean." "I have thought of that. When Margaret refused to accept the arrangement Drayton had made for her, I heard from Stevens, and have been in correspondence with him ever since. I think he might bring her here; there are a great many things to arrange." "But if we go to Inchbrae, brother, might she not come there, direct?" "Yes, you may go there and receive her. I must see Stevens here;" and then he continued in a strange tone, "if you wish me to follow you I will go there." "If I wish it?" "You do not know, Anne. You know nothing," he exclaimed, with something of his old very peremptory manner. She was startled and vexed. Why did he go on like this? why constantly talk as if she had yet much to learn? "One thing more," he said, in a less excited tone, "I do not want every idiot in the place to gossip, and talk, and wonder; go and see the few neighbours with whom you have made acquaintance and speak of going home, and of receiving Margaret naturally. If you leave suddenly no one knows what may be said." "And about you, brother?" "About me? who cares?" he said; "my act in the play is nearly over. What does it all matter to me? But you can say I am ill--that is the truth, I am ill."