“What do you know of any of it?” she asked. “Weel, I ken somewhat,” was the composed answer. “And I’m sorry for ye—but I dinna think that ye will improve your lord’s temper with a gloomy face and a moping manner.” “What do you mean?” asked Lady Dalrymple faintly. The Countess turned to her sharply. “Woman, woman,” she cried. “Dinna ye ken that a man likes a cheerfu’ face aboot him, and a house that is warm and well-lighted, not a great auld barn like this, which would disconcert ony but ghosts?” A faint flush crept into Lady Dalrymple’s face. “And am I to give all the service? I am to supply all the gaiety, the life, the care against his mere tolerance?” “Yes,” was the calm answer. “It comes to about that if ye want a life that is worth living—ye must give somewhat your side; remember he has more on his mind than ye will ever ken.” As she spoke the Countess lifted her eyes to a portrait over the bureau, it was of Sir John and taken in his May of life; he wore a cuirass and plumed hat and smiled out of the canvas, as handsome a face as a man may have. His wife followed the Countess’s glance. “He is not like that now,” she said bitterly. She rose. “Did you ever hate any one, madam?” she asked. Then, without waiting, she answered herself. “It is terrible to hate,” she said hoarsely. “And terrible to be hated.” She turned wildly about and caught up the cage of bullfinches. She held them close to her bosom. “They eat from my hand,” she said wistfully. “I think they like me.” Then she burst into hysterical laughter and hurried from the room, swiftly, through the folding-doors. The Countess Peggy looked again at the portrait over the bureau, and slowly rose and crossed over to it. She studied it for some time in silence, holding the candle that stood underneath up above her head that she might see the better. She heard the door open and turned to see the original of the portrait within a few feet of her. He paused, arrested by seeing her. “I did not know that you were here,” he said quickly. The Countess Peggy set the candle down, a little discomposed by his sudden appearance. “I came to see your lady, Sir John.” It seemed that his pallor deepened. “She was here—you saw her?” “Yes, Sir John.” His blue eyes swept over her; she winced under it, a rare thing for her; she could not look at his proud, gloomy face; her own flushed a little; she shifted onto common ground. “Ye hae heard, Sir John, that the Jacobite, Jerome Caryl, is to be examined privately at Kensington to-morrow?” He put his hand to his black velvet cravat as if to loosen it. “Yes, I have heard.” She rose, still not looking at him, and crossed to the door. “Good-even, Sir John.” Under the influence of his splendid presence her voice was almost timid. “Good-even, madam.”