She rose as usual at a fixed hour--eight o'clock--and when she was ready knelt down at her _prie-Dieu_. This was quite an elaborate structure, far more elaborate than the devotions offered there. It was a very beautiful inlaid Florentine affair, and had a little shelf above it filled with a number of the little leather-bound books in which her soul delighted. She did not use these books very much; but she liked to see them there. It would not be decent to enter the sanctuary of Mrs. Baxter's prayers; it is enough to say that they were not very long. Then she rose from her knees, left her large comfortable bedroom, redolent with soap and hot water, and came downstairs, a beautiful slender little figure in black lace veil and rich dress, through the sunlight of the staircase, into the dining-room. There she took up her letters and packets. They were not exciting. There was an unimportant note from a friend, a couple of bills, and a _Bon Marché_ catalogue; and she scrutinized these through her spectacles, sitting by the fire. When she had done she noticed a letter lying by Maggie's place, directed in a masculine hand. An instant later Maggie came in herself, in her hat and furs, a charming picture, fresh from the winter sunlight and air, and kissed her. While Mrs. Baxter poured out tea she addressed a remark or two to the girl, but only got back those vague inattentive murmurs that are the sign of a distracted mind; and, looking up presently with a sense of injury, noticed that Maggie was reading her letter with extraordinary diligence. "My dear, I am speaking to you," said Mrs. Baxter, with an air of slightly humorous dignity. "Er--I am sorry," murmured Maggie, and continued reading. Mrs. Baxter put out her hand for the _Bon Marché_ catalogue in order to drive home her sense of injury, and met Maggie's eyes, suddenly raised to meet her own, with a curious strained look in them. "Darling, what is the matter?" Maggie still stared at her a moment, as if questioning both herself and the other, and finally handed the letter across with an abrupt movement. "Read it," she said. It was rather a business to read it. It involved spectacles, a pushing aside of a plate, and a slight turning to catch the light. Mrs. Baxter read it, and handed it back, making three or four times the sound written as "Tut." "The tiresome boy!" she said querulously, but without alarm. "What are we to do? You see, Mr. Morton thinks we ought to do something. He mentions a Mr. Cathcart." Mrs. Baxter reached out for the toast-rack. "My dear, there's nothing to be done. You know what Laurie is. It'll only make him worse." Maggie looked at her uneasily. "I wish we could do something," she said. "My dear, he'd have written to me--Mr. Morton, I mean--if Laurie had been really unwell. You see he only says he doesn't attend to his work as he ought."