“I’ve come to speak to you, papa,” cried Joanna. “I’ve just been hearing the whole story, every word--and oh, I think shame of you!--it’s a disgrace, it’s a sin--I wonder you dare look any of us in the face again!” “Eh? what’s all this?” said Melmar; “Joan in one of her tantrums already? Three times in a day! that’s scarcely canny--I’ll have to speak to your aunt Jean.” “Oh, papa!” cried Joanna, indignantly, “it’s no fun--who do you think would carry _you_ to Dryburgh if somebody stopped your funeral? not one! You would have to stay here in your coffin and never be buried--and I wouldna be sorry! You would deserve it, and nothing better--oh, I think shame on you!” “What? in my coffin? that’s a long look beforehand,” said Melmar. “You may have time to think shame of me often enough before that time, Joan; but let’s hear what’s all this about Dryburgh and a funeral--who’s been here?” “Sinclair was here,” cried Joanna, “and he heard it all at Kirkbride--every word--and he says you had better not be seen there, after all you’ve done at Norlaw.” “I am sure, papa, it’s very hard,” said Patricia. “You set everybody talking, and then people look strange at us. Mamma knows they do; and I could cry when I think that we’re going out to-morrow, and it would have been such a nice party. But now everybody knows about this, and nobody will speak to us--it’s too bad of you, papa.” “What is it, my darling?” cried Mrs. Huntley, from her easy chair. “Eh, fat’s this?” said Aunt Jean, wheeling round upon hers. A popular commotion was rising; Melmar saw the premonitory tokens, and made his escape accordingly. “Joan,” he said, pulling her ear as he passed her, “you’re an impudent monkey; but you may spare your wrath about Norlaw--I knew as little as you did that the man was dead--however, he is dead, and I don’t break my heart; but you can tell Sinclair I’ll tell him a word of my mind the next time I’m near Kirkbride.” “Sinclair doesna care!” said Joanna; but Melmar pulled a thick curl of her red hair, and betook himself to his study, leaving the rising gust of questions to wear itself out as it might. CHAPTER XIV.