The continued disappointment, which was no disappointment but only the fall of a fancy, a bubble of fond imagination in which there was no reality at all--happened once more, while these two ladies sat together and listened. And then the shadow of a man crossed the open window--a little man--who, not knowing he was seen, paused to wipe his bald head and recover his breath before he rang the bell at the open door. The house was all open, fearing nothing, the sunshine and atmosphere penetrating everywhere. “It is Mr Somerville, my man of business. It will only be something about siller,” Mrs Ogilvy said in a low tone. “I will go away, then,” said Susie. She paused a little, holding her old friend’s hands. “And if it’s any comfort,” she said, “when you’re sitting alone and thinking, to mind that there is one not far away that is thinking too--and believing----” “It is a comfort, Susie--God bless you for it, my dear----” “Well, then, there are two of us,” she said, with a smile beaming out of the tearfulness of her face, “and it will be easier when this weary month is past.” Susie, in her fresh summer dress, with her sweet colour and her pleasant smile, met, as she went out, the old gentleman coming in. She did not know him, but gave him a little bow as she passed, with rural politeness and the kindness of nature. Susie was not accustomed to pass any fellow-creature without a salutation. She knew every soul in the parish, and every soul in the parish knew her. She could not cross any one’s path without dropping, as it were, a flower of human kindness by the way, except, of course, when she was in Edinburgh or any other large and conventional place, where she only thought her goodwill to all whom she met. The visitor, coming from that great capital and used to the reticences of town life, was delighted with this little civility. He seized his hat, pulling it once more off his bald head, and went into the Hewan uncovered, as if he had been going into the presence of the Queen. It gave him a little courage for his mission, which, to tell the truth, was not a very cheerful mission, nor one which he had undertaken with any alacrity. It was not that Mrs Ogilvy’s income had sustained any diminution, or that he had a tale of failing dividends and bad investments to tell. What she had was invested in the soundest securities. It did not perhaps bring her in as much as would now be thought necessary; but it was as safe as the Bank of England, and the Bank of Scotland, and the British Linen Company, all rolled into one. Her income scarcely varied a pound year by year. There was very little for her man of business to do but to receive the modest dividends and send her the money as she required it. She would have nothing to do with banks and cheque-books. She liked always to have a little money in the house--but there was little necessity for frequent meetings between her and the manager of her affairs. He would sometimes come in on rare