Very naughty, certainly,—­but it is incumbent on me to tell the truth, and accordingly I have put it down.

Now my readers are doubtless prepared for a catastrophe.  They will expect to hear Mrs. Kinloch cry, “Lucy Ransom, you jade, what are you doing?  Take your clothes and trumpery and leave this house!” You will suppose that her son Hugh will be shut up in the cellar on bread and water, or sent off to sea in disgrace.  That is the traditional way with angry mistresses, I know; but Mrs. Kinloch was not one of the common sort.  She did not know Talleyrand’s maxim,—­“Never act from first impulses, for they are always—­right!” Indeed, I doubt if she had ever heard of that slippery Frenchman; but observation and experience had led her to adopt a similar line of policy.

Therefore she did not scold or send away Lucy; she could not well do without her; and besides, there were reasons which made it desirable that the girl should remain friendly.  She did not call out to her hopeful son, either,—­although her fingers did itch to tweak his profligate ears.  She knew that a dispute with him would only end in his going off in a huff, and she thought she could employ him better.  So she coughed first and then stepped out into the yard.  Hugh presently came sauntering down the walk, and Lucy sang among the clothes-lines as blithely and unconcerned as though her lips had never tasted any flavor more piquant than bread and butter.

It was rather an equivocal look which the mistress cast over her shoulder at the girl.  It might have said,—­“Poor fool! singe your wings in the candle, if you will.”  It might have been only the scorn of outraged virtue.

“Hugh,” said Mrs. Kinloch, “come into the house a moment.  I want to speak with you.”

The young man looked up rather astonished, but he could not read his mother’s placid face.  Her hair lay smooth on her temples, under her neat cap; her face was almost waxy pale, her lips gently pressed together; and if her clear, gray eyes had beamed with a warm or more humid light, she might have served a painter as a model for a

  “steadfast nun, devout and pure.”

When they reached the sitting-room, Mrs. Kinloch began.

“Hugh, do you think of going to sea again?  Now that I am alone in the world, don’t you think you can make up your mind to stay at home?”

“I haven’t thought much about it, mother.  I suppose I should go when ordered, as a matter of course; I have nothing else to do.”

“That need not be a reason.  There is plenty to do without waiting for promotion in the navy till you are gray.”

“Why, mother, you know I have no profession, and, I suppose I may say, no money.  At least, the Squire made no provision for me that I know of, and I’m sure you cannot wish me to live on your ‘thirds.’”

“My son, you should have some confidence in my advice, by this time.  It doesn’t require a great fortune to live comfortably here.”