“If that story’s true,” said the cook, who was too much disturbed and too anxious to hear everything to take any trouble about her own work, which the kitchen-maid was accomplishing sadly while her principal talked and cried over the dreadful rumour which had swept hither on the wings of the wind. “Oh, it’s true enough,” said Foggo, whose disposition was dismal--“and there’s little dinner will be wanted here this night, for sooner or later they must hear. It was more than I could well bear to hear them talking of the big tea on the terrace and who was coming. I hope the Scrymgeour people will not be so mad as to let their young ones come: and nobody else will come, for it’s well known over the country by this time, though she doesn’t know.” “Oh, my poor bonnie lady,” said the cook weeping--“and the kind maister, that had a pleasant word for everybody.” “Not so pleasant a word for them that crossed him,” said Foggo. “Not that I would say a word against him, and him a drowned man.” Early in the afternoon Fred came home. It was a house that stood always with open doors and windows, so that there was no need to open to any familiar comer; but Foggo was in the hall, chiefly because he too was excited and eager to have the first of any news that might arrive, when the youth with his light step came in. His eager question, “Is my father at home?” made the grave butler more solemn than ever. “No, sir, the master has not been back since he left the house yesterday morning,” said Foggo. But though his looks were so significant, that the very dogs saw that something was the matter, Fred neither gave nor communicated any news. He rushed upstairs three steps at a time, and burst into the drawing-room, where his mother was sitting. She had tried to lie down, as she had said, but Mrs. Dalyell could not rest: her nerves would not be stilled, and her thoughts grew so many that they buzzed in her ears, and seemed to suffocate her in her throat. She was sitting at the window which commanded the gate, so that she might see who appeared, ever watching for that telegraph boy, who in a moment might set all right. “You have come back early, Fred,” she said. “And have you come alone?” “Mother, what’s this I hear, that my father has never come home?” “Who has told you such a thing? Your father has many affairs in his hands; he’s often been called away in a hurry.” “You knew then he was going somewhere? It’s all right, then, thank God!” said Fred; “and that dreadful thing in the papers has nothing to do with him.” “What dreadful thing in the papers?” cried Mrs. Dalyell. It was not till Fred had thus committed himself in his haste and anxiety that he felt how foolish it was to refer to a report which as yet was not authenticated. He went to look for the papers, cursing his own rashness. But Foggo had more sense than might have been supposed. He had conveyed that _Scotsman_ out of the way.