“There was a light,” the voice said presently, “but it was turned out as I looked.”

“Then I’ll let you in, and God kens I mean no wrang by it.”

Babbie entered shivering, and Jean rebarred the door.  Then she looked long at the woman whom her master loved.  Babbie was on her knees at the hearth, holding out her hands to the dead fire.

“What a pity it’s a fause face.”

“Do I look so false?”

“Is it true?  You’re no married to him?”

“Yes, it is true.”

“And yet you look as if you was fond o’ him.  If you cared for him, how could you do it?”

“That was why I did it.”

“And him could hae had wha he liked.”

“I gave up Lord Rintoul for him.”

“What?  Na, na; you’re the Egyptian.”

“You judge me by my dress.”

“And soaking it is.  How you’re shivering—­what neat fingers—­what bonny little feet.  I could near believe what you tell me.  Aff wi’ these rags, an I’ll gie you on my black frock, if—­if you promise me no to gang awa wi’t.”

So Babbie put on some clothes of Jean’s, including the black frock, and stockings and shoes.

“Mr. Dishart cannot be back, Jean,” she said, “before morning, and I don’t want his mother to see me till he comes.”

“I wouldna let you near her the nicht though you gaed on your knees to me.  But whaur is he?”

Babbie explained why Gavin had set off for the Spittal; but Jean shook her head incredulously, saying, “I canna believe you’re that grand leddy, and yet ilka time I look at you I could near believe it.”

In another minute Jean had something else to think of, for there came a loud rap upon the front door.

“It’s Tammas Whamond back again,” she moaned; “and if the mistress hears, she’ll tell me to let him in.”

“You shall open to me,” cried a hoarse voice.

“That’s no Tammas’ word,” Jean said in bewilderment.

“It is Lord Rintoul,” Babbie whispered.

“What?  Then it’s truth you telled me.”

The knocking continued; a door upstairs opened, and Margaret spoke over the banisters.

“Have you gone to bed, Jean?  Some one is knocking at the door, and a minute ago I thought I heard a carriage stop close by.  Perhaps the farmer has driven Mr. Dishart home.”

“I’m putting on my things, ma’am,” Jean answered; then whispered to Babbie, “What’s to be done?”

“He won’t go away,” Babbie answered, “You will have to let him into the parlor, Jean.  Can she see the door from up there?”

“No; but though he was in the parlor?”

“I shall go to him there.”

“Make haste, Jean,” Margaret called.  “If it is any persons wanting shelter, we must give it them on such a night.”

“A minute, ma’am,” Jean answered.  To Babbie she whispered, “What shall I say to her?”

“I—­I don’t know,” answered Babbie ruefully.  “Think of something, Jean.  But open the door now.  Stop, let me into the parlor first.”