“I pray you do not let me trouble you,” she said in a manner, unnaturally quiet and composed. “My business, madam, is with Sir John Dalrymple—I have been asked to await him here.” “Will you not sit down,” said Lady Dalrymple gently. “I do not know your name, but you are very welcome.” She moved her seat from the fire and in a winning way indicated a chair opposite; but the coldness of the other’s face and voice did not relax. “My name is Delia Featherstonehaugh,” she said. “And I am neither cold nor tired—only impatient, madam, to get my errand done.” Lady Dalrymple shrank under the rebuff; her soft eyes took in the stranger; she noted the set face, the proud, contained mouth, the defiantly upheld head, the girl’s whole carriage as if disdaining everything about her. “Are you in trouble?” she asked timidly. Delia’s brown eyes swept over her. “No,” she answered coldly, then with sudden force. “Yes—in terrible trouble—but in want, madam, of neither pity nor comfort.” “Alas!” said Lady Dalrymple. “I would not so repulse either were they offered me—and do not you be hard to me—for I would help you an’ I could.” “Madam, you cannot—in myself alone lies help—and you—do you lack pity or sympathy?” The tone was coldly contemptuous, but Lady Dalrymple answered gently. “I did not say so, madam—I say I would not refuse them.” “Madam—” said Delia. “Who are you?” “I am Lady Dalrymple,” was the quiet answer, “and at your service.” Delia drew herself together and held her head still higher. “I want not your help,” she said coldly. “Why was I brought here—I did not come to see you.” “My husband,” said Lady Dalrymple gently, “is full of affairs—you must pardon him if he keeps you waiting.” Delia caught at the chair by which she stood. “Your husband,” she repeated under her breath; and at sight of her wild white face the other advanced a step. “Madam—did you speak?” Delia clenched her hands and turned her head with a quick look of loathing. “I said naught,” she answered. Lady Dalrymple considered her; she was interested, sure that beneath her proud containment this girl was in deep distress, and she pitied her. “Come you on matters of politics?” she asked. Standing very erect and cold, Delia answered: “Yes.” “For Scottish affairs?” said Lady Dalrymple. “Yes,” said Delia with wild eyes. “Yes.” Lady Dalrymple again studied her a moment. “Alas! A matter of life—or death?” she said. “Yes,” answered Delia hoarsely. “Poor soul!” cried Lady Dalrymple. “Indeed, you must tell it me—” At the sympathy in her voice and face Delia turned in an agony that almost broke beyond control. “You must not ask me,” she panted. “I pray you that you do not question me.” “But I might serve you,” said Lady Dalrymple. The fair face framed in the lace scarce was grieved, tender, a little wondering. “Doubtless,” answered Delia, forcing back her unnatural calm, “Sir John’s wife would have great influence with her lord—yet will I even do without her favor.”