A mass of Parish accounts, which she had taken out of his hands, required attention. It was past six o'clock, and Jean counted on a quiet hour for work. Nobody could be expected to call late on such a day. But hardly had she taken up her pen, before a quick double tinkle of the back-door bell sounded.
"Somebody wanting something, I suppose," she murmured, with a little thrill of impatience.
"If you please, Miss Trevelyan—"
Jean turned to face the parlour-maid, a new and raw importation.
"Yes, Elizabeth."
"Master's wanted, Miss—very particular."
"My father? He cannot go out."
"There's a man dying, Miss—up the gorge. He's dreadful bad, and he wants to see master as quick as can be."
"Impossible! Up the gorge, in his state—a day like this. What is the man's name?"
"Barclay, Miss."