At this juncture, Hamish turned round to speak to his sister. “Constance, I don’t want any supper to-night, tell my mother. You can call me when it is time for the reading.” “And he is going to set on at ‘em, now, and he’ll be at ‘em till morning light!” continued Judith’s whisper. “And he’ll drop off into his grave with decline!--‘taint in the nature of a young man to do without sleep--and that’ll be the ending! And he’ll burn himself up first, and all the house with him.” “I think I will go and speak to him,” debated Constance. “_I_ should,” advised Judith. “The worst is, if the books must be done, why, they must; and I don’t see that there is any help for it.” But Constance hesitated, considerably. She did not at all like to interfere; it appeared so very much to resemble the work of a spy. Several minutes she deliberated, and then went slowly up the stairs. Knocking at Hamish’s door, she turned the handle, and would have entered. It was locked. “Who’s there?” called out Hamish. “Can I come in for a minute, Hamish? I want to say a word to you.” He did not undo the door immediately. There appeared to be an opening and closing of his desk, first--a scuffle, as of things being put away. When Constance entered, she saw one of the insurance books open on the table, the pen and ink near it; the others were not to be seen. The keys were in the table lock. A conviction flashed over the mind of Constance that Judith was right, in supposing the office accounts to be the object that kept him up. “What can he do with his time in the day?” she thought. “What is it, Constance?” “Can you let me speak to you, Hamish?” “If you won’t be long. I was just beginning to be busy,” he replied, taking out the keys and putting them into his pocket. “I see you were,” she said, glancing at the ledger. “Hamish, you must not be offended with me, or think I interfere unwarrantably. I would not do it, but that I am anxious for you. Why is it that you sit up so late at night?” There was a sudden accession of colour to his face--Constance saw it; but there was a smile as well. “How do you know I do sit up? Has Judy been telling tales?” “Judy is uneasy about it, and she spoke to me this evening. She has visions of the house being burnt up with every one in it, and of your fatally injuring your health. I believe she would consider the latter calamity almost more grievous than the former, for you know you were always her favourite. Hamish; is there no danger of either?” “There is not. I am too cautious for the one to happen, and, I believe, too hardy for the other. Judy is a simpleton,” he laughed; “she has her water-butt, and what more can she desire?” “Hamish, why do you sit up? Have you not time for your work in the day?” “No. Or else I should do it in the day. I do not sit up enough to hurt me. I have, on an average, three hours’ night-work, five days in the week; and if that can damage a strong fellow like me, call me a puny changeling.”