Margaret, surprised, went through the long room in which, by this hour, her father’s chair was always occupied, but felt no superstitious presentiment at seeing it desolate. Sir Ludovic’s rooms--there were two of them, a larger and a smaller--opened off from the long room. He had taken, quite lately, as his bedchamber, the smaller room of the two, an octagon-shaped and panelled room, as being the warmest and most bright; and there he was lying, smiling as when Bell saw him first, with the morning light upon his face. “You sent for me, papa,” said Margaret. “Are you ill that you are in bed? I have never seen you in bed before.” “Remember that, then, my Peggy, as a proof of the comfortable life I have had, though I am so old. No, not ill, but very comfortable. Why should I get up and give myself a great deal of trouble, when I am so comfortable here?” “Indeed, if you are so very comfortable--” said Margaret, a little bewildered: “it must be only laziness, papa;” and she laughed, but stopped in the middle of her laugh, and grew serious, she could not tell why. “But it is very lazy of you,” she said. “I never heard of any one who was quite well staying in bed because it was comfortable.” “No? But then there are things in heaven and earth, my Peggy, and I want you to do something for me. I want you to write a letter for me. Bring your writing things here, and I will tell you what to say.” She met John in the long room, coming in with various articles, as if to provision a place which was about to be besieged. He had some wood under his arm to light a fire, and a tray with cups and glasses, and a hot-water bottle (called in Scotland a “pig”); and there was an air of excitement about him, suppressed and sombre, which struck Margaret with vague alarm. “Why are you taking in all these things?” she said; “he did not say he was cold.” “If he doesn’t want them the day, he may want them the morn,” said John. “The morn! he is not going to lie in bed always because it is comfortable; that would be too absurd,” said Margaret. “What is it? There is not going to be--anything done to papa?--any--operation? What is it? You look as if there was--something coming--” “I have my work to do,” said John, hastily turning away. “I’ve nae time to say ay and no to little misses that canna understand.”