“Neither are you, dear Lady Torridon.  Is not that enough to keep me?”

A short yelp of laughter broke from Nicholas; and he stooped to examine his boot.

Lady Torridon opened her lips, closed them again, and turned her back on the girl.

“But you are cruel,” said Beatrice’s voice from behind, “and—­”

The woman turned once more venomously.

“You do not want me,” she said.  “You have taken one son of mine, and now you would take the other.  Is not my daughter enough?”

Beatrice instantly stepped up, and put her hand on the other’s arm.

“Dear Mistress,” she said; and her voice broke into tenderness; “she is not enough—­”

Lady Torridon jerked her arm away.

“Come, Mary,” she said.

* * * * *

Matters were a little better after that.  Sir James was not told of the incident; because his son knew very well that he would not allow Beatrice to stay another day after the insult; but Chris felt himself bound to consult those who had heard what had passed as to whether indeed it was possible for her to remain.  Nicholas grew crimson with indignation and vowed it was impossible.  Mary hesitated; and Chris himself was doubtful.  He went at last to Beatrice that same evening; and found her alone in the oak parlour, before supper.  The sportsmen had not yet come back; and the other ladies were upstairs.

Beatrice affected to treat it as nothing; and it was not till Chris threatened to tell his father, that she told him all she thought.

“I must seem a vain fool to say so;” she said, leaning back in her chair, and looking up at him, “and perhaps insolent too; yet I must say it.  It is this:  I believe that Lady Torridon—­Ah! how can I say it?”

“Tell me,” said Chris steadily, looking away from her.

Beatrice shifted a little in her seat; and then stood up.

“Well, it is this.  I do not believe your mother is so—­so—­is what she sometimes seems.  I think she is very sore and angry; there are a hundred reasons.  I think no one has—­has faced her before.  She has been obeyed too much.  And—­and I think that if I stay I may be able—­I may be some good,” she ended lamely.

Chris nodded.

“I understand,” he said softly.

“Give me another week or two,” said Beatrice, “I will do my best.”

“You have worked a miracle with Meg,” said Chris.  “I believe you can work another.  I will not tell my father; and the others shall not either.”

* * * * *

A wonderful change had indeed come to Margaret during the last month.  Her whole soul, so cramped now by circumstances, had gone out in adoration towards this stranger.  Chris found it almost piteous to watch her—­her shy looks, the shiver that went over her, when the brilliant figure rustled into the room, or the brisk sentences were delivered from those smiling lips.  He would see too how their hands met as they sat together; how Margaret would sit distracted and hungering for attention, eyeing the ceiling, the carpet, her embroidery; and how her eyes would leap to meet a glance, and her face flush up, as Beatrice throw her a soft word or look.