She put her hands in a troubled manner to her heart and her restless fingers pulled the mauve ribbon; a closed gold miniature case fell lightly onto the table. Lady Dalrymple took it up in silence and looked at it with the air of some one who holds something very precious, and who, wishful to display it, yet dreads a scornful reception. She fingered the case a moment in silence and took a timid glance at Delia, who gazed blankly with a troubled face. Lady Dalrymple encouraged by her look, snapped open the case and held it out hesitating, pleading, making a great effort to be calm. “My children,” she said. Delia gave one glance, then motioned it away with a gesture of horror. “How like,” she said fearfully. “How like whom?” asked Lady Dalrymple startled. “They are beautiful faces—are they not? Why do you turn away? I crave people to gaze on them—” “They are like—Sir John,” faltered Delia with quivering lips. “It startled me—” “Why—you have seen him?” “Yes.” Lady Dalrymple frowned. “I do not think they are so like,” she said, and shutting the case, put it back into her bosom. Delia uttered a hard laugh. “’Tis the same face,” she said cruelly. The other laughed at her. “We are well hated,” she said in a changed tone. “I think he has a name well loathed—but remember, whatever he had planned against the Macdonalds, statecraft well requires it—and I have given you the power to save them.” Delia made no answer; Lady Dalrymple stood by the table, making no further attempt to speak; the silence was broken by the quiet entry of a servant. “Sir John will see you now, madam,” he said, and to Lady Dalrymple he gave a letter. “Sent by Mr. Wharton’s lackey, my lady.” She took it absently; her eyes turned wistfully to Delia, but she, with the slightest cold inclination of her head, left the room without a word. Lady Dalrymple, chilled and repulsed, even more lonely than before this stranger’s coming, sat down again by the fire and the tears welled up into her large eyes. Yet she was glad that she had spoken about the Macdonalds; something she knew and something she guessed of the plans being laid for their destruction, and it had troubled her; now this girl could see to it that they were saved. But she might have to pay the price; she remembered the Viscount’s last words, “John is reckless and violent,” still she was glad of what she had done. Her glance fell to Mr. Wharton’s letter; she broke the seal and opened it; spread it out in the fading light of the winter afternoon and read: January 10, 1692. MY LADY,