For was he not a minister? and was not he who caused all her trouble, a minister also? She was not, indeed, going to lay open her heart and let him see into its sorrow; for to confess her son a cause of the least anxiety to her, would be faithless and treacherous; but the unexpected appearance of Mr. Robertson brought her, nevertheless, as it were the dawn of a winter morning after a long night of pain. She led him into the low-ceiled parlour, the green gloom of the big hydrangea that filled the front window, and the ancient scent of the withered rose-leaves in the gorgeous china basin on the gold-bordered table-cover. There the minister, after a few kind commonplaces, sat for a moment, silently pondering how to enter upon his communication. But he did not ponder long, however; for his usual way was to rush headlong at whatever seemed to harbour a lion, and come at once to the death-grapple. Marion Blatherwick was a good-looking woman, with a quiet strong expression, and sweet gray eyes. The daughter of a country surgeon, she had been left an orphan without means; but was so generally respected, that all said Mr. Blatherwick had never done better than when he married her. Their living son seemed almost to have died in his infancy; their dead daughter, gone beyond range of eye and ear, seemed never to have left them: there was no separation, only distance between them. “I have taken the liberty, Mrs. Blatherwick, of coming to ask your help in a great perplexity,” began Mr. Robertson, with an embarrassment she had never seen in him before, and which bewildered her not a little. “Weel, sir, it’s an honour done me—a great honour, for which I hae to thank ye, I’m sure!” she answered. “Bide ye, mem, till ye hear what it is,” rejoined the minister. “We, that is, my wife and mysel, hae a puir lass at hame i’ the hoose. We hae ta’en a great interest in her for some weeks past; but noo we’re ’maist at oor wits’ en’ what to do wi’ her neist. She’s sair oot o’ hert, and oot o’ health, and out o’ houp; and in fac’ she stan’s in sair, ay, desperate need o’ a cheenge.” “Weel, that ouchtna to mak muckle o’ a diffeeclety atween auld friens like oorsels, Maister Robertson!—Ye wad hae us tak her in for a whilie, till she luiks up a bit, puir thing?—Hoo auld may she be?” “She can hardly be mair nor twenty, or aboot that—sic like as your ain bonnie lassie would hae been by this time, gien she had ripent here i’stead o’ gaein awa to the gran’ finishin schuil o’ the just made perfec. Weel min’ I her bonny face! And, ’deed, this ane’s no’ that unlike yer ain Isy! She something favours her.” “Eh, sir, fess her to me! My hert’s waitin for her! Her mither maunna lowse her! She couldna stan’ that!” “She has nae mither, puir thing!—But ye maun dee naething in a hurry; I maun tell ye aboot her first!”