“No, I cannot.  I must not.”

Mrs. Elton rang the bell.

“James, tell the coachman I want the carriage in an hour.”

Mrs. Elton was as submissive to her coachman as ladies who have carriages generally are, and would not have dreamed of ordering the horses out so soon again for herself; but she forgot everything else when a friend was in need of help, and became perfectly pachydermatous to the offended looks or indignant hints of that important functionary.

Within a few minutes after Hugh took his leave, Mrs. Elton was on her way to repeat a visit she had already paid the same morning, and to make several other calls, with the express object of finding pupils for Hugh.  But in this she was not so successful as she had expected.  In fact, no one whom she could think of, wanted such services at present.  She returned home quite down-hearted, and all but convinced that nothing could be done before the approach of the London season.

CHAPTER XVII.

Strife.

They’ll turn me in your arms, Janet,
  An adder and a snake;
But haud me fast, let me not pass,
  Gin ye would be my maik.

They’ll turn me in your arms, Janet,
  An adder and an aske;
They’ll turn me in your arms, Janet,
  A bale that burns fast.

They’ll shape me in your arms, Janet,
  A dove, but and a swan;
And last, they’ll shape me in your arms
  A mother-naked man: 
Cast your green mantle over me —­
  And sae shall I be wan.

Scotch Ballad:  Tamlane.

As soon as Hugh had left the house, Margaret hastened to Euphra.  She found her in her own room, a little more cheerful, but still strangely depressed.  This appearance increased towards the evening, till her looks became quite haggard, revealing an inward conflict of growing agony.  Margaret remained with her.

Just before dinner, the upstairs bell, whose summons Margaret was accustomed to obey, rang, and she went down.  Mrs. Elton detained her for a few minutes.  The moment she was at liberty, she flew to Euphra’s room by the back staircase.  But, as she ascended, she was horrified to meet Euphra, in a cloak and thick veil, creeping down the stairs like a thief.  Without saying a word, the strong girl lifted her in her arms as if she had been a child, and carried her back to her room.  Euphra neither struggled nor spoke.  Margaret laid her on her couch, and sat down beside her.  She lay without moving, and, although wide awake, gave no other sign of existence than an occasional low moan, that seemed to come from a heart pressed almost to death.

Having lain thus for an hour, she broke the silence.

“Margaret, do you despise me dreadfully?”

“No, not in the least.”

“Yet you found me going to do what I knew was wrong.”

“You had not made yourself strong by thinking about the will of God.  Had you, dear?”