“Get your pronouns right, my little Peggy. Ah! the son; _va pour le fils_,” said Sir Ludovic, with a drowsy smile, and turned back to his book. Margaret stood for a moment with her hand on his shoulder, looking at him with that irritation which is the earliest form of pain. A vague uneasiness came into her mind, but it was so veiled in this impatience that she did not recognize it for what it was. The only conscious feeling she had was, how provoking of papa! not to take more interest, not to ask more, not to say anything. Then she dropped her hand from his shoulder and turned away, and went to sit in the window with the first chance book she could pick up. She was not thinking much about the book. She was half annoyed and disappointed to have got her own way so easily. Had he understood her? Margaret did not feel quite happy about this facile assent. It made of Rob Glen no wonder at all, no disturbing individuality. He was something more, after all, than Sir Ludovic thought. What was all her own tremor for, if it was to be lightly met with a _va pour le fils_? She was not satisfied; and indeed the little rustlings of her impatience, her subdued movements, as she sat behind, did all for her father that he wanted. They kept him awake. The drowsiness which comforted him, yet which he was afraid of, fled before this little thrill of movement. Even if she had been altogether quiet, is there not a thrill and reverberation in the air about a thinking creature? Sir Ludovic was kept awake and alive by the consciousness of another near him, living in every nerve, filling the silence with a little thrill of independent being. This kept him, not only from dozing, but even from active occupation with his book. After a little while he too began to be restless, turned the pages hastily, then himself turned half round toward her. “My Peggy!” he said. In a moment she was standing by his side. “What is it? Did you want me, papa?” “No, it is nothing, only to see that you were there. I heard you, that was all; and in the sound there was something strange, like a spirit behind me--or a little mouse, as I said before.” “Had I better go away? would you rather be without me?” “No, my little girl; but sit in my sight, that I may not be puzzled. The thing is that I can feel you thinking, my Peggy.” “Papa! I was not thinking so much--not of anything in particular, not to disturb you.” “No, my dear, I am not complaining; they were very soft little thoughts, but I heard them. Sit now where I can see you, and all will go right.” “Yes, papa. And you are sure you have no objections?” Margaret said, after a moment’s pause, standing by him still. “To what? to the teaching of the drawing? Oh, no objections--not the least objection.” “And you don’t mind him coming to the house-- I mean--Mr. Glen?” “Is there any reason why I should mind?” the old man asked, quickly, rousing into something like vigilance.