“Mairi,” said Sheila, standing quite erect, but with her eyes cast down, “is my cousin.”

“Your cousin!  Don’t be ridiculous, Sheila.  You know very well that Mairi is nothing more or less than a scullery-maid; and I suppose you mean to take her out of the kitchen and introduce her to people, and expect her to sit down at table with them.  Is not that so?” She did not answer, and he went on impatiently:  “Why was I not told that this girl was coming to stay at my house?  Surely I have some right to know what guests you invite, that I may be able at least to ask my friends not to come near the house while they are in it.”

“That I did not tell you before—­yes, that was a pity,” said Sheila, sadly and calmly.  “But it will be no trouble to you.  When Mrs. Lorraine comes up at two o’clock there will be luncheon for her and for her friends.  She will not have to sit down with any of my relations or with me, for if they are not fit to meet her, I am not; and it is not any great matter that I do not meet her at two o’clock.”

There was no passion of any sort in the measured and sad voice, nor in the somewhat pale face and downcast eyes.  Perhaps it was this composure that deceived Frank Lavender:  at all events, he turned and walked out of the house, satisfied that he would not have to introduce this Highland cousin to his friends, and just as certain that Sheila would repent of her resolve and appear in the dining-room as usual.

Sheila went down stairs to the kitchen, where Mairi still stood awaiting her.  She gave orders to one of the servants about having luncheon laid in the dining-room at two, and then she bade Mairi follow her up stairs.

“Mairi,” she said, when they were alone, “I want you to put your things in your trunk at once—­in five minutes if you can:  I shall be waiting for you.”

“Miss Sheila!” cried the girl, looking up to her friend’s face with a sudden fright seizing her heart, “what is the matter with you?  You are going to die!”

“There is nothing the matter, Mairi.  I am going away.”

She uttered the words placidly, but there was a pained look about the lips that could not be concealed, and her face, unknown to herself, had the whiteness of despair in it.

“Going away!” said Mairi, in a bewildered way.  “Where are you going, Miss Sheila?”

“I will tell you by and by.  Get your trunk ready, Mairi.  You are keeping me waiting.”

Then she called for a servant, who was sent for a cab; and by the time the vehicle appeared Mairi was ready to get into it, and her trunk was put on the top.  Then, clad in the rough blue dress that she used to wear in Borva, and with no appearance of haste or fear in the calm and death-like face, Sheila came out from her husband’s house and found herself alone in the world.  There were two little girls, the daughters of a neighbor, passing by at the time:  she patted them on the head and bade them good-morning.  Could she recollect, five minutes thereafter, having seen them?  There was a strange and distant look in her eyes.