‘Gude day to you, mem.’ Jenny flounced past Primrose who had gone out to stroll in the avenue. ‘I wuss you joy o’ the charge you’ve underta’en. I suld ken something o’t, and I tell you for your comfort you may as weel be a daft woman’s keeper. Peggy Ramsay is bund to gang daft as sure as ever lass gaed. I may tell you a bit o’ my mind since you’ve not stucken at treating me like a common thief.’ Primrose turned round upon Jenny with a flame of outraged righteousness in the girl’s aspect like the flaming sword which the angel held to bar the way to Paradise. ‘These words are very ready on your lips, Jenny Hedderwick. I believe they are too ready. If young Mrs. Ramsay were to lose her wits, it would be you who had scared them away. Woman, you are worse than a common thief! You have seethed a kid in its mother’s milk.’ At that terribly mysterious accusation even Jenny looked cowed for the moment and slunk away, muttering a denial. The first news she heard when she entered Craigie was that the firm to which Baldie Fuggie was attached had broken--become bankrupt. ‘Sae that door is steekit for the present,’ Jenny said to herself without equivocation. But she had her pickings--a profitable four months’ work, in addition to her wages to console her, and for such as Jenny open doors are plentiful. Cunnings was also stumbling and fumbling about, in trembling preparations to be gone without delay from what had been her home for forty years; but Primrose anticipated her. She came softly into the housekeeper’s room and looked shyly and sadly at the sinner. Primrose said no more than ‘Oh, Cunnings, Cunnings, I’m sorry, sorry,’ and the grey-haired delinquent groaned out her abasement: ‘Ye may weel be sorry, Miss Ramsay, for I’m a lost woman, and yet I’m no worth the sorrow o’ the like o’ you. I’m just a miserable, auld drucken drab.’ ‘Oh! whisht! whisht! Cunnings,’ cried the girl, hiding her face, and thinking how the trusted servant had been proud to teach her many a secret of housekeeping, and had made much of her and petted her in the old happy days, when Primrose came between a child and a girl to Drumsheugh. ‘Let me gang!’ cried Cunnings desperately, ‘afore the auld mistress claps her een on me again. She’ll walk in neist and speer what I’ve dune wi’ the hoose and the keys when they fell into my keeping. I’ve betrayed them baith, Miss Ramsay, and what’s waur I’ve sided wi’ that limb o’ Sawtan Jenny in betrayin’ the puir simple bairn up the stair. Mind ye she was betrayed. She would never o’ hersel’ had ony troke wi’ sic doings as we were fain to carry on to cloak our ill deeds. I’ve selled my sowl for drink, and I’ve betrayed the young mistress (Maister Jamie’s wife). Let me gang, Miss Ramsay, if you’ve a thocht o’ sorrow for a wicket wretch like me.’