“Yes, very glad,” added Helen, hastily, fancying she could detect in the prematurely acute and sensitive face a consciousness that he was not altogether welcome.  “My father was this minute preparing to start for the Castle.”

“My Lord didna like to trouble the minister to be walking out this coarse day,” said Malcolm, with true Highland ingenuity of politeness.  “His lordship thocht that instead o’ Mr. Cardross coming to him, he would just come to Mr. Cardross.”

“No, Malcolm,” interposed the little voice, “it was not exactly that.  I wished for my own sake to come to the Manse again, and to ask if I might come every day and take my lessons here—­it’s so dreary in that big library.  I’ll not be much trouble, indeed, sir,” he added, entreatingly; “Malcolm will carry me in and carry me out.  I can sit on almost any sort of chair now; and with this wee bit of stick in my hand I can turn over the leaves of my books my very own self—­I assure you I can.”

The minister walked to the window.  He literally could not speak for a minute, he felt so deeply moved, and in his secret heart so very much ashamed of himself.

When he turned round Malcolm had placed the little figure in an arm-chair by the fire, and was busy unswathing the voluminous folds of the plaid in which it had been wrapped.  Helen, after a glance or two, pretended to be equally busy over her daily duty—­the common duty of Scotch housewives at that period—­of washing up the delicate china with her own neat hands, and putting it safe away in the parlor press; for, as before said, Mr. Cardross’s income was very small, and, like that of most country ministers, very uncertain, his stipend altering year by year, according to the price of corn.  They kept one “lassie” to help, but Helen herself had to do a great deal of the housework.  She went on doing it now, as probably she would in any case, being at once too simple and too proud to be ashamed of it; still, she was glad to seem busy, lest the earl might have fancied she was watching him.

Her feminine instinct had been right.  Now for the first time taken out of his shut-up nursery life, where he himself had been the principal object—­where he had no playfellows and no companions save those he had been used to from infancy—­removed from this, and brought into ordinary family life, the poor child felt—­he could not but feel—­ the sad, sad difference between himself and all the rest of the world.  His color came and went—­he looked anxiously, deprecatingly, at Mr. Cardross.

“I hope, sir, you are not displeased with me for coming to-day.  I shall not be very much trouble to you—­at least I will try to be as little trouble as I can.”

“My boy,” said the minister, crossing over to him and laying his hand upon his head, “You will not be the least trouble; and if you were ever so much, I would undertake it for the sake of your father and mother, and—­” he added, more to himself than aloud—­“for your own.”