"Yes, but, Vincent," she said—for these heroic excuses did not touch the immediate point—"grandfather is quite convinced about the Grants of Craig-Royston; and he will be going away in search of them, so that I may find relatives and shelter. And the disappointment will be terrible. For he has got into a habit of fretting that never was usual with him. He has fits of distrusting himself, too, and begins to worry about having done this or done that; and you know how unlike that is to his old courage, when he never doubted for a moment but that everything he had done was done for the best. And to think that he should vex himself by imagining he had not acted well by me—when he has given his whole life to me, as long as I can remember——" "Maisrie," said he, "when your grandfather gets well, and able to leave this place, where are you going?" "How can I say?" she made answer, wistfully enough. "For I do not mean to let you disappear again. No, no. I shall not let you out of my sight again. Do you know that I have a house waiting for you, Maisrie?" "For me?" she said, looking up surprised. "For whom else, do you imagine? And rather pretty the rooms are, I think. I have got a stand for your music, Maisrie: that will be handier for you than putting it on the table before you." She shook her head, sadly. "My place is with my grandfather, Vincent," she said. "And now I will go and see how he is. He wished to know as soon as possible of your arrival." She left the room and was absent only for a couple of minutes. "Yes; will you come upstairs, Vincent?" she said on her return. "I’m afraid you will find him much changed. And sometimes he wanders a little in his talking; you must try to keep him as quiet as may be." As they entered the room, an elderly Scotchwoman—most probably the landlady—who had been sitting there, rose and came out. Vincent went forward. Despite Maisrie’s warning he was startled to notice the ravages the fever had wrought; but if the proud and fine features were pinched and worn, the eyes were singularly bright—bright and furtive at the same time. And at sight of his visitor, old George Bethune made a desperate effort to assume his usual gallant air. "Ha?" said he—though his laboured breathing made this affectation of gaiety a somewhat pitiable thing—"the young legislator—fresh from the senate—the listening senate, the applause of multitudes——" He turned his restless eyes on Maisrie; and said in quite an altered tone—— "Go away, girl, go away!" Well, Maisrie’s nerves were all unstrung by anxiety and watching; and here was her lover just arrived, to listen to her being so cruelly and sharply rebuked; and so, after a moment of indecision, she lost her self-control, she flung herself on her knees by the side of the bed, and burst out crying. "Don’t speak to me like that, grandfather," she sobbed, "don’t speak to me like that!"