“Who?” cried Cosmo, starting to his feet, with eager interest. The Mistress eyed him severely for a moment. “When you’re done making antics, Cosmo Livingstone, I’ll say my say,” said his offended mother--“you may be fond enough of French folk, without copying their very fashion. I would have mair pride if it was me.” With an exclamation of impatience, which was not merely impatience, but covered deeply wounded feelings, Cosmo once more resumed the seat which he thrust hastily from the table. His mother glanced at him once more. If she had a favorite among her children, it was this her youngest son, yet she had a perverse momentary satisfaction in perceiving how much annoyed he was. “You’s the man!” said the Mistress, with a certain triumphant contempt in her voice; “just the very same dirty Frenchman that Huntley brought to the house this day. I’m no mista’en. He’s wanting his wife, and he’ll find her, and I wish her muckle joy of her bonnie bargain. That’s just the ill-doing vagabond of a husband that’s run away from Marie!” “Mother,” said Cosmo, eagerly, “you know quite well how little friendship I have for Marie--” When he had got so far he stopped suddenly. His suggestion to the contrary was almost enough to make his mother inform the stranger at once of the near neighborhood of his wife, and Cosmo paused only in time. “The mair shame to you,” said the Mistress, indignantly, “she’s a suffering woman, ill and neglected; and I warn you baith I’m no’ gaun to send this blackguard to Melmar to fright the little life there is out of a puir dying creature. He shall find out his wife for his ain hand; he shanna be indebted to me.” “It is like yourself, mother, to determine so,” said Cosmo, gratefully. “Though, if she had the choice, I daresay she would decide otherwise, and perhaps Madame Roche too. You say I am always thinking of them, but certainly I would not trust to their wisdom--neither Madame Roche nor Marie.” “But really--have some pity upon my curiosity--who is Marie, mother?” cried Huntley, “and who is her husband, and what is it about altogether? I know nothing of Pierrot, and I don’t believe much good of him; but how do _you_ know?”