Sir Harry Rokestone's voice, clear and kindly, often heard through the house, calls me from the hall; he wants to know whether "little Ethel" will come out for a ride; or, if she would like a drive with him into the town to see the skaters, for in the shallower parts the mere is frozen.
One day I came into Sir Harry's room, on some errand, I forget what. Mr. Blount was standing, leaning on the mantelpiece, and Sir Harry was withdrawing a large key from the door of an iron safe, which seemed to be built into the wall. Each paused in the attitude in which I had found him, with his eyes fixed on me, in silence. I saw that I was in their way, and said, a little flurried:
"I'll come again; it was nothing of any consequence," and I was drawing back, when Sir Harry said, beckoning to me with his finger:
"Stay, little Ethel—stay a minute—I see no reason, Blount, why we should not tell the lassie."
Mr. Blount nodded acquiescence.
"Come here, my bonny Ethel," said Sir Harry, and turning the key again in the lock, he pulled the door open. "Look in; ye see that shelf? Well, mind that's where I'll leave auld Harry Rokestone's will—ye'll remember where it lies?"
Then he drew me very kindly to him, smoothed my hair gently with his hand, and said:
"God bless you, my bonny lass!" and kissed me on the forehead.
Then locking the door again, he said:
"Ye'll mind, it's this iron box, that's next the picture. That's all, lassie."