"Well, this is like you, aunt." "Oh, your letter was too much for me, Vin," she said, with frank good nature. "I did not wait for the telegram—I trust there will be no need to telegraph for anybody. But I don’t want you to give me any credit. I want to appear as I am; and I’ve always told you I’m a selfish woman—the generous creature is Hubert here, who insisted on coming all this distance with me. And now I want you to understand the full extent of my selfishness. You are doing no good here—of course. You are probably in the way. But all your affairs in London will be compromised if you remain here: ——’s private secretary cannot be absent at such a time——" "There’s St. John!" Vincent exclaimed, referring to his colleague in the office that had been put in commission. "He’s not in the House," rejoined this practical and very charming person; "and the short and the long of it is that you must get back to London at once. That is part of my scheme; the other is, that I shall take your place. I shall be of more use. You say there is no immediate danger. So much the better. Go away back to your post. If anything should happen—I could be of more service than you. What could you do? Miss Bethune could not return to London with you—and go into lodgings of your choosing. I will look after her—if she will allow me—if she will let bygones be bygones. I will ask her pardon, or do anything; but I don’t suppose she is thinking of that at present. You go back with Hubert and leave me here. I can shift for myself." "I think it is a sensible arrangement," her husband said, idly looking around at the rather shabby furniture. "It is very kind of you, aunt," Vincent said—"and very far from being selfish. But it is impossible. I must remain here. I have duties here as well as elsewhere—perhaps more important in my own sight. But—but—now that you are here—" "Oh, yes, I’ll stay," said she good-naturedly. "Well, Hubert, it is you who are packed off: I suppose you can return to Edinburgh to-night. I brought a few things with me, Vincent, in case I should be wanted: will you fetch them in from the waggonette? Still, I wish I could persuade you to go back to London!" And in this manner it was that Lady Musselburgh became installed in the inn, making some little excuses to Maisrie. She and her husband had been in the neighbourhood. They had heard of Mr. Bethune’s serious illness, and of Vincent’s having come down from town. Could she be of any help? And so forth. Maisrie thanked her, of course; but did not take much notice of her; the girl just then having many things in her mind. For her grandfather’s delirium was at times more pronounced now; and in these paroxysms she alone could soothe him.