“Fiddle-faddling eternally in a drawing-room,” said Mrs. Bellingham; “always in a woman’s way wherever she turns. No, my dear, whoever you marry, Margaret, don’t marry a clergyman; a man like that always purring about the fireside would drive me mad in a month.” “Is it St. John who is in question?” said Aubrey, coming back. “Was he provided for my amusement? or is he daily bread at the Grange already? I don’t see how so pretty-behaved a person could drive any one mad; he is a great deal safer than your last _protégé_, the man at Killin.” “I don’t mean to discuss such questions with you, Aubrey,” said Mrs. Bellingham; “it is late, and I think if you will light our candles for us, we will say good-night. And I will go with you, Margaret, and look at that picture again; it was a very pretty picture. I must have it framed for you; there is a place in the wainscot parlor where it would hang very well. Who did you say sent it to you? or did you tell me? I did not know that there ever was anybody at Earl’s-hall that could draw so well.” “Dear Jean,” said Grace, thinking it a good opportunity to appear in Margaret’s defence, “let her alone, let the poor child alone to-night; she is too tired for anything. Are you not too tired, darling Margaret? I am sure you want to go to bed.” “I hope I know better than to overtire her,” said Jean, with some offence; “there is no need for you to come, Grace. Where have you put the picture, Margaret? Why, you have put it with its face to the wall! Is that to save it from the dust, or because you don’t like to see it? My dear, I don’t want to be unkind, but this is really carrying things too far. You don’t mean to say you have taken a dislike to Earl’s-hall?” “No,” Margaret said, under her breath; though it seemed to her that to look at the picture again was more than she could bear. “And it is a very pretty picture,” said Jean, turning it round and sitting down on the sofa to look at it--“a very pretty picture! By-and-by you will be very glad to have it. And who was it you said did it? I never thought Randal Burnside was an artist. Perhaps he got one of the people to do it who are always at Sir Claude’s. But, my dear, if that is so, I can’t let you take a present from a young man like Randal Burnside.” “It was not Randal”-- Margaret was eager to clear him: “he never sent me anything in a present; he would not think of me at all. It was--once when he came to make a picture of papa, which is beautiful-- He was a young man from the farm.” “A young man from the farm!” “Rob Glen,” said Margaret, almost choked, yet forcing herself to speak. “Papa said he might do it. I did not know anything about it, but I suppose he must have finished it; and here it is.” It seemed a simple statement enough, if she had not been so breathless, and changed color so continually, and looked so haggard about the eyes. Mrs. Bellingham heard this account with a blank face.