“Fhat for?--because they’ll have to give up all the lands, and all the siller, and all their living into her hand--that’s fhat for,” said Aunt Jean; “nae person in this country-side can tell if she’s living, or fhaur she is; she’s been away langer than you’ve been in this life, Deseery; and Melmar, the present laird--I canna blame him, he was the next of the blood after hersel’, nae doubt he thought she was dead and gane, as a’body else did when he took possession--and his heart rose doubtless against the other person that was left heir, failing her, being neither a Huntley nor nigh in blood; but if aught should befall to bring her hame--ay, Deseery, it would be a sore day for this family, and every person in this house.” “Why?” asked Desirée again with a tremble--this time her voice did not reach the ear of Aunt Jean, but her troubled, downcast eyes, her disturbed look, touched the old woman’s heart. “If it was a story I was telling out of a book,” said the old woman, “I would say they were a’ in misery at keeping her out of her rights--or that the man was a villain that held her place--but you’re no’ to think that. I dinna doubt he heeds his ain business mair than he heeds her--it’s but natural, fha would do otherwise? and then he takes comfort to his mind that she must be dead, or she would have turned up before now, and then he thinks upon his ain family, and considers his first duty is for them; and then--’deed ay, my dear, memory fails--I wouldna say but he often forgets that there was another person in the world but himsel’ that had a right--that’s nature, Deseery, just nature--folk learn to think the way it’s their profit to think, and believe what suits them best, and they’re sincere, too, except maybe just at the first; you may not think it, being a bairn, yet it’s true.” “If it were me,” cried Desirée, with a vehemence which penetrated Aunt Jean’s infirmity, “the money would burn me, would scorch me, till I could give it back to the true heir!” “Ay,” said Aunt Jean, shaking her head, “I wouldna say I could be easy in my mind mysel’--but it’s wonderful how weel the like of you and me, my dear, can settle ither folks’ concerns. Melmar, you see, he’s no’ an ill man, he thinks otherwise, and I daur to say he’s begun to forget a’ about her, or just thinks she’s dead and gane, as most folk think. I canna help aye an expectation to see her back before I die mysel’--but that’s no’ to say Me’mar has ony thought of the kind. Folk that are away for twenty years, and never seen, nor heard tell o’, canna expect to be minded upon and waited upon. It’s very like, upon the whole, that she _is_ dead many a year syne--and fhat for should Melmar, that kens nothing about her--aye except that she could take his living away frae him--fhat for, I’m asking, should Melmar gang away upon his travels looking for her, like yon other haverel of a man?” “What other man?” cried Desirée, eagerly.