"I tink he go again to the ministère, I do not know," responded Baptiste, sighing. "Tae the meenister!" retorted Elspeth. "What wad be the sense in that noo? Gif prayin' could bring the wean back, A reckon he'd been here these mony days!" (Had not she herself, descendant of the Covenanters, taken the incredible step of removing Our Lady of Pontmain from the back of the drawer where, immediately upon the Marquis's departure, she had been stowed away, and putting her in the very centre of the mantelpiece in the lost child's room--a deed for which she nightly besought forgiveness?) "That is ver' true," agreed the Frenchman, "but it is not that which I mean, Madame Saundair. I mean he go to the--how do you call it?--there where are the State Secretaries." "Why for canna ye say what ye mean, then?" snapped the lady. "That mebbe will dae gude. At least they arena French there. A've had eno' o' yer Frenchies tae last ma life!" Baptiste withered. "Those . . . those weemen at Canterbury!" proceeded Elspeth. "And then--what d'ye call him, the Chevaleer . . . what gar'd Glenauchtie send _him_ after the bairn instead o' an Englishman? Him that jockeyed the wean oot o' his bed at nicht! Belike 'tis he's spirited him awa the noo!" Baptiste made no effort to defend his compatriot. He had long ago realised that to live in peace with Mrs. Saunders required a policy of thoroughgoing self-effacement, and had decided that on the whole it was worth it. Otherwise he might have retorted that she, pure of any Gallic strain though she was, had not proved singularly successful in her guardianship. Instead, he feebly used his wash-leather on a ladle. "There's ane gude thing," resumed Elspeth, "that the Marquis doesna ken yet awhile." "But when he return!" exclaimed the old man, lifting eyes and hands to heaven. He was still in this attitude when there came a rousing rat-tat at the hall-door. "Mebbe that's the Marquis the noo!" ejaculated Mrs. Saunders. And, though it was not her place to do so, she flung off her apron and rushed to answer it. (2) Lieutenant Francis Tollemache, therefore, standing on the steps, received one of the most painful shocks of his life when a gaunt Scottish female, darting forth, caught his small companion from the ground and almost stifled him with kisses, and then showed a decided disposition to cast herself on his breast also. He prepared to defend himself, backing hurriedly to the limits of the portico, and saying disjointedly, "My good woman, my good woman . . ." And then in a moment there was some old man actually trying to kiss his hand, and from the back of the hall there was even advancing a salaaming native in a turban, while more and more female servants came flocking towards the doorstep. It was intolerable! In a minute or two there would be a crowd outside, and already Mr. Tollemache was conscious of the enraptured gaze of the hackney coachman who had brought them there.