“I had a proposition to make, Brownlow.  My sister and I invested in a house at St. Cradocke’s when I was curate there, and she meant to retire to me when she had finished Barbara.  My married curate is leaving it next week, when I go home.  The single ones live in the rectory with me, and I think of making it a convalescent home; but this can’t be begun for some months, as the lady who is to be at the head will not be at liberty.  Do you think your mother would do me the favour to occupy it?  It is furnished, and my housekeeper would see it made comfortable for her.  Do you think you could make the notion acceptable to her?” he said, colouring like a lad, and stuttering in his eagerness.

“It would be a huge relief,” exclaimed Jock.  “Thank you, Mr. Ogilvie.  Belforest has come to be like a prison to her, and it will be everything to have Armine in a warm place among reasonable people.”

“Is Kenminster more unreasonable than formerly?”

“Not Kenminster, but Woodside.  I say, Mr. Ogilvie, you haven’t any one at St. Cradocke’s who will send Armine and Babie to walk three miles and back in the rain for a bit of crimson cord and tassels?”

“I trust not,” said Mr. Ogilvie, smiling.  “That is the way in which good people manage to do so much harm.”

“I’m glad you say so,” cried Jock.  “That woman is worse for him than six months of east wind.  I declare I had a hard matter to get myself to go to Church there the next day.”

“Who is she?”

“The sister of the Vicar of Woodside, who is making him the edifying martyr of a goody book.  Ah, you know her, I see,” as Mr. Ogilvie looked amused.

“A gushing lady of a certain age?  Oh yes, she has been at St. Cradocke’s.”

“She is not coming again, I hope!” in horror.

“Not likely.  They were there for a few months before her brother had the living, and I could quite fancy her influence bringing on a morbid state of mind.  There is something exaggerated about her.”

“You’ve hit her off exactly!” cried Jock, “and you’ll unbewitch our poor boy before she has quite done for him!  Can’t you come down with me on Saturday, and propose the plan?”

“Thank you, I am pledged to Sunday.”

“I forgot.  But come on Monday then?”

“I had better go and prepare.  I had rather you spoke for me.  Somehow,” and a strange dew came in David Ogilvie’s eyes, “I could not bear to see her there, where we saw her installed in triumph, now that all is so changed.”

“You would see her the brightest and bravest of all.  Neither she nor Babie would mind the loss of fortune a bit if it were not, as Babie says, for ‘other things.’  But those other things are wearing her to a mere shadow.  No, not a shadow-—that is dark—-but a mere sparkle!  But to escape from Belforest will cure a great deal.”