"It's just this dress of Margray's,—mother's right,—'t will never do for me; I'll wear shadows. But 't will not need the altering of a hair for you, Mary, and you shall take it."
"I think I see myself," said Mary Strathsay, "wearing the dress Margray married Graeme in!" For Margray had gone out to my mother in her turn.
"Then it's yours, Effie. I'll none of it!"
"I'm finely fitted out, then, with the robe here and the veil there! bridal or burial, toss up a copper and which shall it be?" said Effie, looking upward, and playing with her spools like a juggler's oranges. And here Margray came back.
She sat in silence a minute or two, turning her work this way and that, and then burst forth,—
"I'd not stand in your shoes for much, Alice Strathsay!" she cried, "that's certain. My mother's in a rare passion, and here's Sir Angus home!"
"Sir Who?" said Effie puzzled; "it was just Mr. Ingestre two years ago."
"Well, it's been Sir Angus a twelvemonth now and more,—ever since old
Sir Brenton went, and he went with a stroke."
"Yes," said Mary, "it was when Angus arrived in London from Edinboro', the day before joining his ship."
"And why didn't we ever hear of it?"