My lady, seated between Sir Hector, very conscious of his shirt-sleeves, and Mr. Potter, fresh and assured of himself by reason of his late ablutions, held up the garment she had been mending, and viewed the result of her labours with coldly disparaging eye. “I fear ’tis very clumsily done, sir,” said she. “Nay, ’pon my soul,” answered Sir Hector ponderously gallant. “I protest ’tis of needlework the most excellent! My old coat will be endeared to me for the ... the sake o’ your bonny, white fingers! An’ noo, gin ye’re finished wi’t, I’ll get in till’t, for ’tis no juist proper tae sit here afore ye in my sark, ye ken.... Aha, Johnnie, is she no’ a graund lassie, as apt wi’ needle as wi’ boilin’ watter? A fine, sonsy lass——” “Indeed,” answered Sir John gravely, “she is as up-standing and down-sitting a wench as——” “Tush!” cried my Lady Herminia, flushing. “There is your ill-cobbled coat, Sir Hector. And now, I’ll be going.” “Whaur to, lassie?” “Home to my aunt, sir.” “Aunt?” repeated Sir Hector at a loss, “but ’twas your grandmother last time, I mind.” “And to-day ’tis my aunt, sir. And she a lone widow.” “Aunt? Widow?” quoth Sir Hector. “Why then, ’tis no’ for the sake o’ a puir, auld, solitary, worn an’ woefu’ soldier-body wi’ ane leg i’ the grave as ye’re here, Rose? ’Tis no’ for the sake o’ lonesome Hector MacLean, whateffer?” “Indeed but it is, sir!” she smiled. “To cook and care, and tend and mend for him. I shall come and keep house for you every day.” “Aye, but your aunt, the widow-body—she’ll be the fly in the ointment, lassie——” “Indeed and she’s no such thing, sir, as you shall see, for I mean to bring her with me sometimes.” “Hoot-toot—and she a widow? Na’, na’, lassie, I’ll be safer wi’ Wully Tamson.” “Sir Hector MacLean,” quoth my lady with her most determined air, “since you are such a very old, poor, solitary soldier-body, I intend to do my best for your future happiness ... with my aunt’s aid.” “Save’s a’!” gasped Sir Hector, “an’ she a widow!” “My aunt will, I hope, assist in my labour for your comfort and welfare.” “Aweel!” sighed Sir Hector, “I can run as fast as ony man. I’ve braw, lang legs, y’ ken.” “Though one of ’em is in the grave, sir!” she reminded him. Here, at a sign from Penelope, my lady curtsied demurely and followed the old woman out of the room. “Losh!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “yon Rose hath an air aboot her that gi’es a cautious man tae think.” “Very much so!” answered Sir John. “As you once said, she is not exactly an ordinary lass.” “An’ noo, Geordie man,” said Sir Hector, lowering his voice, “’twas a mighty ill business yon, last nicht!” “Why, I dunno, sir,” answered Mr. Potter, stirring his grog thoughtfully, “we brought away every tub an’ bale—arl safe stowed, they be.” “Aye, but the shooting, man, the bluidshed!” “Naun so bad, sir—though poor Will Burgess took a musket-ball through ’is leg.”