“And where is she to get,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with a slight choke in her throat, “what you call the man of her heart?” “Oh, my dear lady, you that have known Susie all through, how can you ask? He proposed to her when she was twenty, and I believe he has asked her every year since----” “So he has told you that old story; but he had not the courage, knowing a little more than you do, to speak to me of the man of her heart. Oh no, he had not the boldness to do that! And is Susie aware of the happiness you are preparing for her, her father and you?” the old lady said, grimly. “Mr Logan,” said the lady, “has a timidity about that which I don’t understand. I tell him he is frightened for his daughter. It is as if he felt he had jilted her.” “Indeed, and it is very like that,” Mrs Ogilvy said. “He thought you, perhaps, dear Mrs Ogilvy, as such a very old friend, would tell her,--and then, when he found that you were disinclined to do it, he--well, I fear he has shirked it again. Nothing so cowardly as a man in certain circumstances. I believe at the last I will have to do it myself.” “Nobody could be better qualified----” “Do you really think so? I’m so glad you are learning to do me justice. It’s all for her good--you know it is. To marry and have children of her own is better than acting mother to another person’s children. Oh yes, they are her own brothers and sisters now; but they will grow up, and if Susie does not marry, what prospect has she? Those who really love her should take all these things into account.” Mrs Ainslie spoke these sensible words with many little gestures and airs, which exasperated the older woman perhaps all the more that there was nothing to be said against the utterance itself. But at that moment she heard a step that she knew well upon the gravel outside, and of all people in the world to meet and divine who Robert was, and publish it abroad, this interloper, this stranger, who had awakened a warmer feeling of hostility in Mrs Ogilvy’s bosom than any one had done before, was the last. She sat breathless, making no answer, while she heard him enter the house: he had been in the garden with his pipe and his newspaper--for it was still morning, and not an hour when the Hewan was on guard against visitors. His large step, so distinctly a man’s step, paused in the hall. Mrs Ogilvy raised her voice a little, to warn him, as she made an abstract reply. “It’s rare,” she said, “that we’re so thankful as we ought to be--to them that deal with us for our good.” “Do you hear that step in the passage?” cried Mrs Ainslie. “Ah, I know who it is. It is dear James--it is Mr Logan, I mean. I felt sure he would not be long behind me. Mayn’t I let him in?”