Biddy sighed impatiently.  Sir Eustace had always been hard to manage.  She had never really conquered him even in the days when she had made him stand in the corner and go without sugar in his tea.  She well remembered the shocking occasion on which he had flung sugar and basin together into the fire so that the others might be made to share his enforced abstinence.  She believed he was equal to committing a similar act of violence if baulked even now.  But he never was baulked.  At thirty-five he reigned supreme in his own world.  No one ever crossed him, unless it were Master Scott, and of course no one could be seriously angry with him, poor dear young man!  He was so gentle and kind.  A faint, maternal smile relaxed Biddy’s grim lips.  She became aware that the white world below was a-flood with sunshine.

The snowy mountains that rose against the vivid blue were dream-like in their beauty.  Where the sun shone upon them, their purity was almost too dazzling to behold.  It was a relief to rest the eyes upon the great patches of pine-woods that clothed some of the slopes.

“I wonder if Miss Isabel will be happy here,” mused Biddy.

That to her mind was the only thing on earth that really mattered, practically the only thing for which she ever troubled her Maker.  Her own wants were all amalgamated in this one great desire of her heart—­that her darling’s poor torn spirit should be made happy.  She had wholly ceased to remember that she had ever wanted anything else.  It was for Miss Isabel that she desired the best rooms, the best carriages, the best of everything.  Even her love for Master Scott—­poor dear young man!—­depended largely upon the faculty he possessed for consoling and interesting Miss Isabel.  Anyone who did that earned Biddy’s undying respect and gratitude.  Of the rest of the world—­save for a passing disapproval—­she was scarcely aware.  Nothing else mattered in the same way.  In fact nothing else really mattered at all.

Ah!  A movement from the bed at last!  Her quick ears, ever on the alert, warned her on the instant.  She turned from the window with such mother-love shining in her old brown face under its severe white cap as made it as beautiful in its way as the paradise without.

“Why, Miss Isabel darlint, how you’ve slept then!” she said, in the soft, crooning voice which was kept for this one beloved being alone.

Two white arms were stretched wide outside the bed.  Two dark eyes, mysteriously shadowed and sunken, looked up to hers.

“Has he gone already, Biddy?” a low voice asked.

“Only a little way, darlint.  He’s just round the corner,” said Biddy tenderly.  “Will ye wait a minute while I give ye your tay?”

There was a spirit-kettle singing merrily in the room.  She busied herself about it, her withered face intent over the task.

The white arms fell upon the blue travelling-rug that Biddy had spread with loving care outside the bed the night before to add to her mistress’s comfort.  “When did he go, Biddy?” the low voice asked, and there was a furtive quality in the question as if it were designed for none but Biddy’s ears.  “Did he—­did he leave no message?”