and unhappy. Still (if you could lend me your little carriage), I
_might_ take a surly drive toward Craig Fernie, all by myself, and I
_might_ stumble against Miss Silvester--in case you have any thing to
say."

"Any thing to say?" repeated Blanche. She put her arm round her uncle's
neck, and whispered in his ear one of the most interminable messages
that ever was sent from one human being to another. Sir Patrick
listened, with a growing interest in the inquiry on which he was
secretly bent. "The woman must have some noble qualities," he thought,
"who can inspire such devotion as this."

While Blanche was whispering to her uncle, a second private
conference--of the purely domestic sort--was taking place between Lady
Lundie and the butler, in the hall outside the library door.

"I am sorry to say, my lady, Hester Dethridge has broken out again."

"What do you mean?"

"She was all right, my lady, when she went into the kitchen-garden, some
time since. She's taken strange again, now she has come back. Wants the
rest of the day to herself, your ladyship. Says she's overworked, with
all the company in the house--and, I must say, does look like a person
troubled and worn out in body and mind."

"Don't talk nonsense, Roberts! The woman is obstinate and idle and
insolent. She is now in the house, as you know, under a month's notice
to leave. If she doesn't choose to do her duty for that month I shall
refuse to give her a character. Who is to cook the dinner to-day if I