“That would just be all. I havena heard a word of ony complaints. He takes his meals aye in a way that’s maist satisfactory, and John he would be the first to see if onything was wrang. Na, na, my bonnie doo, you need not fash your head about Sir Ludovic. He’s hale and strong for his age, and runs nae risks: and the Leslies are long-living folk. We mustna count upon that for ourselves,” said Bell, seriously. “I would not say sae to him; for to think of our latter end is what we should a’ be doing, even the like of yoursel’, young and bonnie, far mair auld folk; but auld Sir Paitrick lived to be ninety. I mind him as weel as I mind my ain faither; and every Sabbath in the kirk, rain or shine, a grand-looking auld man with an ee like a hawk. Na, na, my bonnie dear, troubles aye sune enough when it comes; we needna gang out to look for it; but wait till it chaps at the ha’ door.” This gave Margaret great comfort; the tension of her mind relaxed, and even before Bell had done speaking her young mistress had done thinking. She went back with a bound to the more agreeable subject. “You are to be sitting here, Bell,” she said, “just here, when the picture is done.” “Bless my heart!” said Bell; the change was so sudden that she scarcely could follow it; “the picture? I thought you had forgotten all about the picture; but, Miss Margret, what would ye hae an auld wife for, sitting here on her auld chair? Something young and bonnie, like yoursel’ now--or even Jeanie--would be mair to the purpose in a picture than an auld wife like me.” “But it is you I want,” said Margaret, with pretty obstinacy. “What should I care about myself? And Jeanie is very good, but not like you. It must be you, Bell, or nobody. It would not be natural not to see you with your stocking outside the door.” “Weel, weel!” said Bell, with the air of yielding, half against her will, “you were aye a wilfu’ miss, and would have your way, and few, few have ever crossed you. If a’ your life be like the past, and ye win to heaven at the end, ye may say you were never out of it; for you’ve aye had your ain way.” “Do they get their own way in heaven?” said Margaret, half laughing; “but I wish you would not speak of the past like that, and my life. Nothing’s past. It has always been just as it is now. Papa is only seventy-five--that makes fifteen years before he can be as old as grandpapa; and by that time I will be old myself. Why should there be any change? I like things to be as they are: you at the door, and John taking a look at the potatoes, and papa reading in the long room. And the summer nights so long, so long, as if they would never end.” “But this ane is ending, and you must go to your bed,” said Bell. “The dew’s no so heavy to-night after the rain; but it’s time to go inbye and go to all our beds; it’s near upon ten o’clock.”