Alison looked at her friend in sore perplexity. There was—there had been for some time—a change working in the little woman, a hardening process, it seemed. It was a hiding process, too, for it seemed to raise a barrier between her and Alison, between her and the children, between her and the common, wholesome, pleasant things of every-day life. She let the girl, the children, the household,—the rest of the world, for that matter,—go their own ways; while she, absorbed, intent, wrapt in some dream, seemed to breathe a separate air. A kind of hard eagerness was taking the place of her old bright gaiety; a certain determined selfishness seemed to conquer the keen, if perhaps rather shallow, sympathy, that made her personality so winning in its normal phases. Wistfully, across the boundless levels of her girlish inexperience, Alison looked at her little friend. What ailed her? How could she help? One tremendous, one unswerving resolution formed itself gradually in the girl’s mind at this time; she was there to help Nancy, to stand beside her through thick and thin. Nancy had helped her, had saved her from an abyss of life-long misery. She would be Nancy’s friend to the last limits of undeviating loyalty. But in the meantime, Alison being young, looked forward to Saturday; with rather a fearful joy, perhaps, for how was one to meet an offended—so justly offended—a friend as Mr. Herries, after the offence? She half-feared some message would arrive, coldly declining the pleasure of her society on Saturday’s expedition. Was it not quite possible—probable, even? But Saturday arrived, bringing no such cruel message, however richly deserved; and Alison, from her little northern window, saw the Rose of Day blush and quiver through the cloudless winter sky, and knew that another glorious frost-bound day was granted for Danny’s safe removal to the sea. They made quite a triumphal procession going down to the Grassmarket. First went Jean, bearing in her stout arms the little invalid, almost lost in shawls; then came Alison, with his bundle and his box of toys; Willy capered in the rear; and Nancy, Nancy herself, armed with her own inimitable, charming, dazzling impudence, tripped down with them to see them off. She met her cousin with an unabashed front. ’I am not coming, Archie,’ she said, in a plaintive tone, and with a melting glance. ’My mother’s tact tells me ’tis better to have the parting with my poor Danny now, and here, whilst the child is excited with the start and the pleasure of his drive. Were I to come, and then leave him in a strange place, there’d be a sad scene, most detrimental to his health, and shattering to my poor nerves.’ Herries simply raised his eyebrows; but he presently drew his cousin aside, while the others were busy setting Danny and his belongings in the coach.