But on the day when she had spoken to Frank, as already recorded, her restlessness was more acute than ever. She asked him each time he came in, whether he had “taken any steps;” though what step the poor boy could have taken, he did not know, nor did she, except that one step of consulting the minister, which was simple enough, but which, as has been seen, was rendered difficult to Frank on the other side. The next day, that morning on which Frank lost all his time on the East Sands, with Johnny Wemyss, and his new beast, the poor lady could not contain herself at all. She sat down at the window for a minute, and gazed out as if she were expecting some one; then she jumped up, and went over all the rooms up-stairs, looking for something, she said, which she could not find. She could not keep still. The other servants began to compare opinions and to agree with the lady’s maid. At last before twelve o’clock Mrs. Mowbray put on her “things,” for the third or fourth time, and sallied forth, not dressed with her usual elaborate nicety, but with a shawl too heavy for the warm day, and a bonnet which was by no means her best bonnet. Perhaps there is no greater difference between these times and ours, than the fact of the bonnet and shawl, as opposed to the easier hat and jacket, which can be put on so quickly. Mrs. Mowbray generally took a long time over the tying of her bonnet strings, which indeed was a work of art. But in the hasty irregularity of that morning she could not be troubled about the bonnet strings, but tied them anyhow, not able to give her attention to the bows. It may easily be seen what an agitation there must have been in her bosom, when she neglected so important a point in her toilet. And her shawl was not placed carefully round her shoulders, in what was supposed to be the elegant way, but fastened about her neck like the shawl of any farmer’s wife. Nothing but some very great disturbance of mind could account for an outward appearance so incomplete. “She’s going to see the minister,” said Hunter, her woman, to Janet, the cook. Hunter had been unable to confine her trouble altogether to her own breast. She did not indeed say what she feared, but she had confided her anxiety about her mistress’s health in general to Janet, who was of a discreet age, and knew something of life. “Weel, aweel,” said Janet, soothingly, “she can never do better than speak to the minister. He will soothe down her speerits, if onybody can; but that’s not the shortest gait to the minister’s house.”