The doctor spoke. 'It's a very bad tale I'm hearing about you to-day,
that you've begun to refuse your meat. A person of your experience,
Mistress Macdonald, ought to know that we must eat to live.' He had a
basin of food in his hand. 'Now just to please me, Mistress Macdonald.'

The old dame answered with the air that a naughty child or a pouting
maiden might have had. 'I'll no eat it--tak' it away! I'll no eat it.
Not for you, no--nor for my mither there'--she looked defiantly at her
grey-haired daughter--'no, nor for my father himself!'

'Not a mouthful has passed her lips to-day,' moaned Miss Macdonald. She
wrung excited hands and stepped back a pace into the shadow; she felt
too modest to pose as her mother's mother before the curious eyes of the
two men.

The old lady appeared relieved when the spinster was out of her sight.
'I don't know ye, gentlemen, but perhaps now my mither's not here, ye'll
tell me who it was that rang the door-bell a while since.'

The men hesitated. They were neither of them ready with inventions.

She leaned towards the doctor, strangely excited. 'Was it Mr. Kinnaird?'
she whispered.

The doctor supposed her to be frightened. 'No, no,' he said in cheerful
tones; 'you're mistaken--it wasn't Kinnaird.'

She leaned back pettishly. 'Tak' away the broth; I'll no' tak' it!'