Randall stood apart still, with his smile upon his lips. True, there had been a momentary curve on his brow at Lithgow’s first mention of his sister’s name, but his face cleared immediately. Poor little July! Randall might know her sufficiently timid and simple--but July was a baby, a toy, a good-hearted kindly little fool to her intellectual brother--and any higher qualities sweet or womanly about her remained to be found out by other eyes than his. “And Miss Annie has promised us all the sightseeing in the world,” said Menie with forced gaiety, anxious to talk, and to conciliate--to remove all trace of the little breaking of lances which had just passed. “July and Jenny and I, we are to see all manner of lions; and though they will be very dull at Crofthill when she is gone, Mr Home and Miss Janet have consented--so next week July is to come.” “Poor July! she will have enough to talk of all her life after,” said her brother. “Yes; our kindly country seems such a waste and desert place to you London gentlemen,” said Mrs Laurie; “and it is wonderful, after all, how we manage to exist--ay, even to flourish and enjoy ourselves--in these regions out of the world.” But Randall made no response. A shivering chill came over Menie Laurie; this half-derisive silence on one side, this eager impulse of contradiction and opposition on the other, smote her to the heart. It had been rising gradually for some days past, and Menie, without being quite aware of it, had noticed the bias with which her mother and her betrothed listened and replied to each other; the unconscious inclination of each to give an unfavourable turn to the other’s words, a harshness to the other’s judgment, an air of personal offence to a differing opinion, of grave misdemeanour to a piece of blameless jesting. Lithgow, stranger as he was, discovered in a moment, so quick and sensitive was his nature, the incipient estrangement, and grew embarrassed and annoyed in spite of himself--annoyed, embarrassed, it looked so much like the last ebullition of some domestic quarrel; but Lithgow was a stranger, and had no interest farther than for the harmony of the moment in any strife of these conflicting minds.