The old dame answered with the air that a naughty child or a pouting maiden might have had.  ‘I’ll no eat it—­tak’ it away!  I’ll no eat it.  Not for you, no—­nor for my mither there’—­she looked defiantly at her grey-haired daughter—­’no, nor for my father himself!’

‘Not a mouthful has passed her lips to-day,’ moaned Miss Macdonald.  She wrung excited hands and stepped back a pace into the shadow; she felt too modest to pose as her mother’s mother before the curious eyes of the two men.

The old lady appeared relieved when the spinster was out of her sight.  ’I don’t know ye, gentlemen, but perhaps now my mither’s not here, ye’ll tell me who it was that rang the door-bell a while since.’

The men hesitated.  They were neither of them ready with inventions.

She leaned towards the doctor, strangely excited.  ‘Was it Mr. Kinnaird?’ she whispered.

The doctor supposed her to be frightened.  ‘No, no,’ he said in cheerful tones; ‘you’re mistaken—­it wasn’t Kinnaird.’

She leaned back pettishly.  ‘Tak’ away the broth; I’ll no’ tak’ it!’

The discomfited four passed out of the room again.  The women were weeping; the men were shaking their heads.

It was just then that the new servant passed into the sick-room, bearing candles in her hands.

‘Jeanie, Jeanie Trim,’ whispered the old lady.  The whisper had a sprightly yet mysterious tone in it; the withered fingers were put out as if to twitch the passing skirt as the housemaid went by.

The girl turned and bent a look—­strong, helpful, and kindly—­upon this fine ruin of womanhood.  The girl had wit ‘Yes, ma’am?’ she answered blithely.

’I’ll speak with ye, Jeanie, when this woman goes away; it’s her that my mither’s put to spy on me.’

The nurse retired into the shadow of the wardrobe.

‘She’s away now,’ said the maid.

‘Jeanie, is it Mr. Kinnaird?’

‘Well, now, would you like it to be Mr. Kinnaird?’ The maid spoke as we speak to a familiar friend when we have joyful news.

’Oh, Jeanie Trim, ye know well that I’ve longed sair for him to come again!’

The maid set down her candles, and knelt down by the old dame’s knee, looking up with playful face.

‘Well, now, I’ll tell ye something.  He came to see ye this afternoon.’

‘Did he, Jeanie?’ The withered face became all wreathed with smiles; the old eyes danced with joy.  ‘What did ye say to him?’

’Oh, well, I just said’—­hesitation—­’I said he was to come back again to-morrow.’

‘My father doesn’t know that he’s been here?’ There was apprehension in the whisper.

‘Not a soul knows but meself.’

‘Ye didna tell him I’d been looking for him, Jeanie Trim?’

‘Na, na, I made out that ye didna care whether he came or not.’

’But he wouldna be hurt in his mind, would he?  I’d no like him to be affronted.’