there's nothing in that at all. Ye can't be always expecting a man to
give account of himself. Now, mavourneen, I'll give ye your tay, and
ye'll be able to get up when ye feel like it. Ah! There's Master Scott!
And would ye like him to come in and have a cup with ye?"

Three soft knocks had sounded on the door. The woman in the bed raised
herself, and her hair fell in glory around her, hair that at twenty-five
had been raven-black, hair that at thirty-two was white as the snow
outside the window.

"Is that you, Stumpy dear? Come in! Come in!" she called.

Her voice was hollow and deep. She turned her face to the door--a
beautiful, wasted face with hungry eyes that watched and waited
perpetually.

The door opened very quietly and unobtrusively, and a small,
insignificant man came in. He was about the size of the average schoolboy
of fifteen, and he walked with a slight limp, one leg being a trifle
shorter than the other. Notwithstanding this defect, his general
appearance was one of extreme neatness, from his colourless but carefully
trained moustache and small trim beard to his well-shod feet. His
clothes---like his beard--fitted him perfectly.

His close-cropped hair was also colourless and grew somewhat far back on
his forehead. His pale grey eyes had a tired expression, as if they had
looked too long or too earnestly upon the turmoil of life.

He came to the bedside and took the thin white hand outstretched to him
on which a wedding ring hung loose. He walked without awkwardness; there