"Miss Isla is in her own room, my lady. Will you come up? A very dark mornin’, isn’t it? I hope you are not very tired wi’ your journey." Lady Betty suitably replied, and, with the aid of the ebony stick, she climbed to "The Pictur Gallery," where Isla was sitting over the fire, very white and spent, but with a more restful look on her face than it had worn for many a day. She sprang up at the opening of the door. "Lady Betty, Lady Betty! You came all this way to see me!" she cried breathlessly, holding out both her hands. "Wheesht, my dear--that’s nothing. I loved your father well. I just missed being your mother: and if I had been there would have been none of this gallivanting. Where can I sit?" Isla drew in the most comfortable chair she could find, and the old lady sat down and assumed her most characteristic attitude, in which the ebony stick played a prominent part. "We’re not going to talk about what’s past, Isla, nor even about what’s to come. Our concern is with the present moment. Now I have plumed my feathers and flown from Balquhidder, I’ve no mind to go back until the sun begins to shine again. Will you go with me to-morrow to the south of France? I’ve not been there for eleven years. We’ll go to Monty, my dear, and have a fling with the bravest of them. It stands to reason that I can’t go alone. Will ye go?" Isla sat very still, and from the expression of her face her thoughts could not have been gathered. Perhaps the old lady partly guessed them. The gift of second-sight brings in its train a sort of sixth sense that enables its possessor to be sure about things that other people only wonder about. "But I have no money, Lady Betty, and it is Kitty that you ought to take." "Kitty can come by and by. Besides, she has been so many times there that she is not caring about going any more. As for the money, I have plenty, and soon I shall not need it. We don’t take it with us when we lie down in Balquhidder, my dear. And to spend a little here and there while we have it--why, that’s a big pleasure, and it is one that you ought not to deny an auld wife." It was delicately done. Isla raised her swimming eyes and capitulated in a moment. The prospect allured her beyond any power of hers to tell, and no feeling of obligation to Lady Betty troubled her. One fine nature responds to another. It was what Isla herself would have done in similar circumstances--what, indeed, she had often done on a small scale in the glens when she had the chance. The kinship of good deeds was between them, and there is none closer. An immense satisfaction shone in the old lady’s eyes at this unexpectedly easy capture of the fort. They positively glowed with her inward triumph, and, without so much as alluding to the odd circumstances that had brought them together, she proceeded to expatiate on what they would do when they got away to the sunshine. This was the crowning touch of the wisdom that comes from the second-sight.