So Mr. Elphinstone, having for once contrived a comfortable morning with his books, was disturbed by a tempestuous knock at the door, and the entrance of his highly discomposed countrywoman.
"Glenauchtie," said she breathlessly, "there's a wumman—a French body, in the garden, crackin' tae the bairn. She's gar'd him greet, and noo she's at rockin' him in her arrms. A'm thinkin' she'll be anither o' they deils frae Canterbury. Come awa quick, sir!"
"Dear, dear!" exclaimed her master, catching her alarm. "Fetch me my hat,—tis in the hall,—and let us go at once!"
"There's Grandpapa," said Anne, detaching himself from the warm and consolatory embrace. The lady rose from her knees as Mr. Elphinstone, closely followed by Elspeth, came hurrying towards them over the grass. But when he saw her Mr. Elphinstone mitigated his haste. She was not, somehow, what Mrs. Saunders had led him to expect.
"Madame?" he began, removing his hat.
"You are Mr. Elphinstone, Monsieur?" asked the lady, stumbling a little over the difficult, only once-heard name. "Forgive me that I have made acquaintance with your grandson before waiting upon you, Monsieur. I came in here to ask the gardener the number of your house. Forgive me, too, that I have made the little boy to cry."
Despite the consciousness of Elspeth, breathing out slaughter behind him, Mr. Elphinstone felt calm. This was some émigré's widow, perhaps (unaccustomed to the depth of French mourning, he would never have imagined it assumed for a brother) but she had certainly not come to beg financial assistance. Her air, even more than her dress, assured him of that. As to spiriting away the child——
"In what can I be of service to you, Madame?" he inquired.
"I came to ask news of someone," replied the stranger. "But"—she looked a moment at Anne—"I have had my answer."