A woman stood by herself upon the road before them, looking out, as it seemed, for the entrance of a little by-way, which ran through the Melmar woods, and near the house, an immemorial road which no proprietor could shut up. Desirée observed Joanna run up to this bystander; observed the quick, lively, middle-aged features, the pleasant complexion and bright eyes, which turned for a moment to observe the party; yet would have passed on without further notice but for hearing the name of Cosmo. Cosmo! could this be his mother? Desirée had her own reasons for desiring to see the Mistress; she went forward with her lively French self-possession to ask if it was Mrs. Livingstone, and if she might thank her for her son’s kindness in Edinburgh. The Mistress looked at her keenly, and she looked at the Mistress; both the glances were significant, and meant more than a common meeting; half a dozen words, graceful and proper on Desirée’s part, and rather abrupt and embarrassed on that of the Mistress, passed between them, and then they went upon their several ways. The result of the interview, for the little Frenchwoman, was a bright and vivid little mental photograph of the Mistress, very clear in external features, and as entirely wrong in its guess at character as was to be expected from the long and far difference between the little portrait-painter and her subject. Desirée broke through her own pleasant maze of fancy for the moment to make her rapid notes upon the Mistress. She was more interested in her than there seemed any reason for; certainly much more than simply as the mother of Cosmo, whom she had seen but twice in her life, and was by no means concerned about. “Who is that?” asked Oswald, when the Mistress had passed. “It is Mrs. Livingstone, of Norlaw,” said Joanna, “Cosmo’s mother; Desirée knows; but I wonder if she’s going up to Melmar? I think I’ll run and ask her. I don’t know why she should go to Melmar, for I’m sure she ought to hate papa.” “That will do; I am not particularly curious--you need not trouble yourself to ask on my account,” said Oswald, putting out his hand to stop Joanna, “and, pray, how does Mademoiselle Desirée know? I should not suppose that ruddy countrywoman was much like a friend of _yours_.” “I have never seen her before,” said Desirée. “Ah, I might have trusted that to your own good taste,” said Oswald, with a bow and a smile; “but you must pardon me for feeling that such a person was not an acquaintance meet for you.” Desirée made no answer. The look and the smile made her poor little heart beat--she did not ask herself why he was so interested in her friendships and acquaintances. She accepted it with downcast eyes and a sweet, rising color; he _did_ concern himself about all the matters belonging to her--that was enough.