There were rumors that after the death of Nannie's mother,
Herbert Maitland had been inclined to look for consolation to a
certain Miss Molly Wharton (she that afterward married another
widower, Henry Knight); and everybody thought Miss Molly was
willing to smile upon him. Be that as it may, he suddenly found
himself the husband of his late partner's daughter, a woman eight
years older than he, and at least four inches taller; a silent,
plain woman, of devastating common sense, who contradicted all
those femininities and soft lovelinesses so characteristic, not
only of his first wife but of pretty Molly Wharton also.

John Blair, the father of the second Mrs. Maitland, an
uneducated, extremely intelligent man, had risen from puddling to
partnership in the Maitland Works. There had been no social
relations between Mr. Maitland, Sr., and this new member of the
firm, but the older man had a very intimate respect, and even
admiration for John Blair. When he came to die he confided his
son's interests to his partner with absolute confidence that they
would be safe. "Herbert has no gumption, John," he said; "he
wants to be an 'artist.' You've got to look after him." "I will,
Mr. Maitland, I will," said John Blair, snuffling and blowing his
nose on a big red pocket-handkerchief. He did look after him. He
put Herbert's affairs ahead of his own, and he made it clear to
his daughter, who in business matters was, curiously enough, his
right-hand man, that "Maitland's boy" was always, as he expressed
it, "to have the inside track."

"I ain't bothering about you, Sally; I'll leave you enough. And
if I didn't, you could scratch gravel for yourself. But