‘Then there is blame to be borne?’ said Miss Catherine. ‘John Diarmid, I know nothing about your history since you’ve been away; but if you’ve been unkind to that poor lass, after making her marry you----’ ‘My kinswoman,’ he said, with a faint touch of scorn not distinct enough to be called a sneer, ‘what I have done to her is of little consequence. It is God Who has been unkind to her. Don’t start as if I spoke blasphemy. _She_ can see but one way of working----’ ‘Then I suppose,’ said Miss Catherine, vehemently, ‘you’ve given up the trade of prophet for yourself? I thought as much--and left her, poor weak thing! to bear the burden. And what is your way of working now?’ ‘You have no right to speak to me so,’ said Mr. John. ‘I have given up no trade; but I see it is by nations and peoples, and not by single men, that the reformation of the world is to be accomplished. Why should I explain my views to you? You would not understand me. What I wish is that you would protect her as a woman and my kinswoman might, when I am not here to do it.’ ‘And why should you not be here to do your duty yourself, John Diarmid?’ said Miss Catherine. ‘You have done her all the honour a man can do a woman, and it’s your place to stand by her now.’ ‘Honour!’ he said, and uttered an impatient, weary sigh. ‘It might have been better for her had she never come to such honour.’ Isabel, who had been listening eagerly, though she had not spoken, heard the exclamation which was muttered between his teeth, and in her hasty heart rebelling against Miss Catherine’s coldness, felt it was time for her to interfere. ‘Mr. John,’ she said, ‘I am not just Isabel, as when you knew me--but Mrs. Lothian. I will go to Ailie, and--take care of her, as much as I can, while you are away.’ Miss Catherine turned and looked upon her with almost as much consternation as if it had been Baby Margaret who spoke. And as for Mr. John, the strangest change came over his face. His large fiery eyes, in which excitement still lurked, though it was unlike the excitement of old, softened over with a glimmer as of tears. He went up to her, close to her, as if it would have given him pleasure to lay his hand on her head, or her shoulder--‘Is the child yours?’ he said. ‘Tell me its name.’ ‘Margaret,’ said Isabel, under her breath.