‘That is the very reason I want to speak to you about her,’ he said, looking her straight in the face. ‘What for are you not acquainted with Drumsheugh’s wife?’ he asked bluntly. ‘You should be. Not only has she become your relation by marriage, you could be of the first service to her; you could do her all the gude in the world. And I have conceived such an opinion of you, madam, that I believe you would be pleased to confer a favour even on a stranger, and do gude to one you might never see again.’ She stood still, perplexed and a little softened. He was forced to go on; he must speak out now or be silent for ever. ‘Young Mrs. Ramsay is lonesome in the laird’s absence. For mair reasons than one she has great need of a friend. If I mistake not, you could be the best friend she has ever had in this world.’ ‘How could I?’ stammered Primrose. ‘She is your acquaintance, not mine. Why cannot you help her if she requires help?’ He waived aside the proposal with an impatient swing of his arm. ‘A man body is worse than nothing to a woman in some straits. A woman friend--a gude woman to give gude advice from her own experience, is everything. If I were even to mint the trouble in a letter to Drumsheugh, I might only breed more mischief. I tell you what, Miss Ramsay, you may rue it to the day of your death, if you do not give a thocht to what I’m asking from you.’ ‘Be reasonable, Mr. Home,’ remonstrated Primrose, whom his earnestness infected and stirred with agitation. ‘How can I interfere? I have no commission from my cousin Jamie or my aunt, even supposing I could move in this matter. From what I have heard--forgive me, if she is a friend of yours--I could do no good. Young Mrs. Ramsay is taking her own course--a foolish, downward course, I fear--with which it would not be fitting that I should intermeddle.’ ‘Then what is the gude of your being a young leddy, so muckle cleverer and wiser and better-bred, with no chance of your making a mistake or the world’s finding faut with you?’ Balcairnie put the question sharply, almost sternly, and the next moment grew abashed and shocked at his own rudeness. ‘I beg your pardon, humbly, Miss Ramsay, I’ve no manners, as I need not tell you, but it makes me mad’--with a quick groan--‘to think of another woman, a leddy gude and kind, as I can see, leaving a poor sister lass to be sorned on, trodden down and driven desperate--never by her own wickedness and hardness of heart, but just because she’s as tender and gentle as any leddy in the land.’ Primrose was struck by his passionate advocacy. How he must have loved this girl, who had forsaken him for a grander suitor, to be so deceived in his view of her character--if he were deceived. She had already had a conception of him as a larger-minded man than Jamie Ramsay, and his present appeal proved his largeness of heart.