Mrs Ogilvy looked up at him for a moment in dismay, feeling as if there was justice, something she had not thought of, in his remark; and then, being overwhelmed with fatigue and the conflict of so many feelings, went into her parlour, and sat down to recover herself in her chair. There were no “jolly voices” about, no sound of the other whose movements were always noisier than those of Robbie; and Robbie himself, as he hung about, had less colour and energy than usual--or perhaps it was only because she was tired, and everything around took colour from her own mood. “Is he not with you to-day?” she said faintly. “Is he not with me?--you mean Lew, I suppose: where else should he be? He’s up-stairs, I think, in his room.” “You say where else should he be, Robbie? Is he always to be here? I’m wishing him no harm--far, far from that; but it would be better for himself as well as for you if he were not here. Where you are, oh Robbie, my dear, there’s always a clue to him: and they will come looking for him--and they will find him--and you too--and you too!” “What’s the meaning of all this fuss, mother--me too, as you say?” “Well,” said Mrs Ogilvy, “it is perhaps not extraordinary--my only son; but I’ve no wish that harm should come to him--oh, not in this house, not in this house! If he would but take warning and go away where he would be safer than here! I’ve been in Edinburgh to ask my old friend, and your father’s friend, and your friend too, Robbie, what could be done--if there was anything that could be done.” “You have gone and betrayed us, mother!” “I have done no such thing!” cried Mrs Ogilvy, raising herself up with a flush of indignation--“no such thing! It was Mr Somerville who brought me the news first, before you appeared at all. He was to hurry out to that weary America to defend you--or send a better than himself: that was before you came back, when we thought you were there still, and to be tried for your life. I was going--myself,” she said, suddenly faltering and breaking down. “You would not have gone, mother,” said Robbie, with a certain flash of self-appreciation and bitter consciousness. “Ay, that I would to the ends of the earth! You are my Robbie, my son, whatever you are--and oh, laddie, you might be yet--everything that you might have been.” “Not very likely,” he said, with a half groan and half sneer. “And what might I have been? A respectable clod, tramping to kirk and market--not a thought in my head nor a feeling in my heart--all just habit and jog-trot. I’m better as I am.”