“It's little matter if our theory does not lead us to injustice,” said Mary, boldly. “Let me only ride back to the quarries, aunt, and tell these poor people that they 've nothing to fear,--that there is no thought of withdrawing from them their labor nor its hire. Their lives are, God knows, not overlaid with worldly blessings; let us not add one drop that we can spare to their cup of sorrow.” “The young leddy says na mair than the fact; they're vara poor, and they 're vara dangerous!” “How do you mean dangerous, sir?” asked Lady Dorothea, hastily. “There's more out o' that barony at the assizes, my Leddy, than from any other on the property.” “Starvation and crime are near relatives all the world over,” said Mary; “nor do I see that the way to cure the one is to increase the other.” “Then let us get rid of both,” said Lady Dorothea. “I don't see why we are to nurse pauperism either into fever or rebellion. To feed people that they may live to infect you, or, perhaps, shoot you, is sorry policy. You showed me a plan for getting rid of them, Henderson,--something about throwing down their filthy hovels, or unroofing them, or something of that kind, and then they were to emigrate--I forget where--to America, I believe--and become excellent people, hard-working and quiet. I know it all sounded plausible and nice; tell Miss Martin your scheme, and if it does not fulfil all you calculated, it will at least serve for an example on the estate.” “An example!” cried Mary. “Take care, my Lady. It's a dangerous precept you are about to inculcate, and admits of a terrible imitation!” “Now you have decided me, Miss Martin,” said Lady Dorothea, haughtily. “And, good Heavens! is it for a rash word of mine--for a burst of temper that I could not control--you will turn out upon the wide world a whole village,--the old that have grown gray there,--the infant that clings to its mother in her misery, and makes a home for her by its very dependence--” “Every one of them, sir,” said Lady Dorothea, addressing herself to Henderson, who had asked some question in a low whisper. “They 're cottiers all; they require no delays of law, and I insist upon it peremptorily.” “Not till my uncle hears of it!” exclaimed Mary, passionately. “A cruel wrong like this shall not be done in mad haste.” And with these words, uttered in all the vehemence of great excitement, she rushed from the room in search of Martin. CHAPTER XXIII. A CHARACTERISTIC LETTER