He closed his eyes, and turned away a little, as if to debate this question with himself—or perhaps to seek some rest: seeing which Lady Musselburgh and Vincent quietly withdrew, and went downstairs. "Poor old man!" said she, when they were in the small parlour. "There is a great change in him, entirely apart from his illness. Even in manner he is not nearly so—so grandiose as he used to be: sometimes he was quite humble. And as for her—my heart bleeds for her. I will do anything you like, Vin—if she will accept. What is more, I will confess to you now that, as far as she is concerned, I am convinced I was quite wrong. You were right: your eyes were wide open, after all. How can one judge of any one by an afternoon and an evening at Henley? That was my only chance. Then perhaps there was a little excuse for prejudice—there was the association—. But we’ll say no more about that. I confess I was wrong; you were right. That girl is as true as steel. If she gives her husband half the devotion she bestows on that old man, he’ll do very well." She looked at her nephew. Then she said suddenly: "Vin, you don’t say a word. I believe you have never forgiven me one bit!" "Oh, yes, I have, aunt," he made answer, uneasily. "But there are some things that need never have happened." She regarded him again. "Vin, you are too unforgiving! But can I not make up? See, now! If Miss Bethune is left alone—I should like to call her Maisrie, if she will let me: indeed I should: but it is so difficult to get any nearer her—she is all wrapped up in her anxiety about her grandfather: well, if she is left alone, I will take her with me. I will take her to London. She will stay with me; there will be a home for her there, at any rate; and we may become better friends. Oh, I know we shall; it is only that at present she cares for nothing, and thinks of nothing, but her duty towards her grandfather. I intend to be very kind to her—I intend to win her affection if I can—" "And I shall be very grateful to you, aunt," said he. "But it is hardly time yet to speak of such a thing: Mr. Bethune has always had a wonderful constitution." "Did you notice how reticent the doctor was this morning?" she asked,—and he did not answer. But at least one thing that Lady Musselburgh had observed and mentioned was true: much, if not all, of the old grandiose manner had gone away from George Bethune. If on rare occasions some flash of defiance flamed up—as if he were still face to face with adversity and disappointment, and determined not to abate one jot of his pride and independence—he was ordinarily quite gentle and even humble, especially towards Maisrie. On this same evening he said— "Margaret" (as he sometimes called her now, forgetting) "will ye read to me the XLVI. Psalm?" She went and got the book and began—