In the morning Ducie, wearing her hat and cloak, served her late mistress and little David with their breakfast; then the three parted forever. David cried bitterly; the women had no tears left. In half-an-hour McNab came to remove the tray.
"I would leave your room as it is, ma'am," she said. "It will be seen to. Tak' my advice, and dinna lift a finger to it. Yoursel' and Master David will be getting your breakfast ten minutes earlier, for I am going to look after that bit business mysel'. You needna fret a moment anent the matter. It's settled."
"I do not intend to fret about anything, McNab."
"That's right. It is a lang lane that has no turning. You are coming to the turning, I think."
"I think so."
"But I wouldn't let on I saw it."
"Neither by look, nor word."
"That's right, too. If wanted, call McNab, but be sparing o' calls—there is both watcher and listener. I'm telling you."
"I know."
Theodora smiled understandingly, and McNab left the room, but left behind her a strong sense of guardianship and love. Yet just then McNab was rather in the dark, for her foster-son had not had time to tell her of his journey to Yorkshire. But uncertainty did not dash McNab, she had one of those blessed dispositions that are always sure no news is good news; and who always expect the "something" that may have happened, to be something wonderfully auspicious.