“May we inquire the reason of this sudden resolution?” at length said Miss Jacky in a tone of stifled indignation.

“Certainly, if you are disposed to hear it; it is because I find that there is company expected.”

The three ladies turned up their hands and eyes in speechless horror.

“Is it that virtuous woman Lady Maclaughlan you would shun, nephew?” demanded Miss Jacky.

“It is that insufferable woman I would shun,” replied her nephew, with a heightened colour and a violence very unusual with him.

The good Miss Grizzy drew out her pocket-handkerchief, while Mrs. Douglas vainly endeavoured to silence her husband, and avert the rising storm.

“Dear Douglas!” whispered his wife in a tone of reproach.

“Oh, pray let him go on,” said Miss Jacky, almost choking under the effort she made to appear calm.  “Let him go on.  Lady Maclaughlan’s character, luckily, is far above the reach of calumny; nothing that Mr. Archibald Douglas can say will have power to change our opinions, or, I hope, to prejudice his brother and Lady Juliana against this most exemplary, virtuous woman—­a woman of family—­of fortune—­of talents of accomplishments; a woman of unblemished reputation—­of the strictest morals, sweetest temper, charming heart, delightful spirits, so charitable—­every year gives fifty flannel petticoats to the old people of the parish—–­”

“Then such a wife as she is!” sobbed out Miss Grizzy.  “She has invented I don’t know how many different medicines for Sir Sampson’s complaint, and makes a point of his taking some of them every day; but for her I’m sure he would have been in his grave long ago.”

“She’s doing all she can to send him there, as she has done many a poor wretch already, with her infernal compositions.”

Here Miss Grizzy sank back in her chair, overcome with horror; and Miss Nicky let fall the teapot, the scalding contents of which discharged themselves upon the unfortunate Psyche, whose yells, mingling with the screams of its fair mistress, for a while drowned even Miss Jacky’s oratory.

“Oh, what shall I do?” cried Lady Juliana, as she bent over her favourite.  “Do send for a surgeon; pray, Henry, fly!  Do fetch one directly, or she will die; and it would quite kill me to lose my darling.  Do run, dearest Harry!”

“My dear Julia, how can you be so absurd?  There’s no surgeon within twenty miles of this.”

“No surgeon within twenty miles!” exclaimed she, starting up.  “How could you bring me to such a place?  Good God! those dear creatures may die—­I may die myself—­before I can get any assistance!”

“Don’t be alarmed, my dearest niece,” said the good Miss Grizzy; “we are all doctors here.  I understand something of physic myself; and our friend Lady Maclaughlan, who, I daresay, will be here presently, is perfect mistress of every disease of the human frame.”

“Clap a cauld potatae to the brute’s tae,” cried the old Laird gruffly.