“Father, how could I—believing that it was Hamish? Hamish, dear Hamish, say you forgive me!”
Hamish was the only one who had retained calmness. Remarkably cool was he. He gazed upon them with the most imperturbable self-possession—rather inclined to be amused than otherwise. “Suspect me!” cried he, raising his eyebrows.
“We did, indeed!”
“Bien obligé,” responded Mr. Hamish. “Perhaps you shared the honour of the doubt?” he mockingly added, turning to Mr. Huntley.
“I did,” replied that gentleman. “Ellen did not,” he added, losing his seriousness in a half laugh. “Miss Ellen and I have been at daggers-drawn upon the point.”
Hamish actually blushed like a schoolgirl. “Ellen knows me better,” was all he said, speaking very quietly. “I should have thought some of the rest of you had known me better, also.”
“Hamish,” said Mr. Huntley, “I think we were all in for a host of blunders.”
Mr. Channing had listened in surprise, Mrs. Channing in indignation. Her brave, good Hamish! her best and dearest!
“I cannot see how it was possible to suspect Hamish,” observed Mr. Channing.
But, before any more could be said, they were interrupted by Mr. Galloway, an open letter in his hand. “Here’s a pretty repast for a man!” he exclaimed. “I go home, expecting to dine in peace, and I find this pill upon my plate!” Pill was the very word Roland had used.