"Do you think he is so very ill, Vincent?" she said: she seemed to have no thought of herself—only of her grandfather.
"You must see he is very ill, Maisrie—very," he answered her. "But, as I say, if splendid courage will serve, then you may hope for the best. And he ought to be quieter in mind now. We will hear what the doctor has to say——"
But at this moment there was an unwonted sound without in the still little village—the sound of carriage-wheels on the stony street; and presently some vehicle, itself unseen, was heard to stop in front of the inn. In another second or so, a servant-girl opened the door of the parlour and timidly said to Maisrie—
"Miss Bethune, Miss."
"Miss Bethune?" Maisrie repeated, wondering.
"From the Castle, Miss," the girl said, in awe-stricken tones.
And it was curious that at such a crisis Maisrie's eyes should turn instinctively to Vincent—as if to appeal for advice. Of course his decision was taken on the instant.
"Ask Miss Bethune to step this way, then," he said to the girl.
Maisrie rose—pale a little, but absolutely self-possessed. She did not know who this might be—perhaps the bearer of grave and harassing tidings for her grandfather; for she had grown to fear Balloray, and all its associations and belongings. As it turned out she had not much to fear from this emissary. There came into the room a tall and elegant lady of about thirty, not very pretty, but very gentle-looking, with kind grey eyes. For a brief second she seemed embarrassed on finding a third person present; but that passed directly; she went up to Maisrie, and took her hand and held it, and said, in a voice so sweet and winning that it went straight to the heart—
"Dr. Lenzie has told me of your trouble. I'm very, very sorry. Will you let me help you in any way that is possible? May I send to Edinburgh for a trained nurse to give you assistance; and in the meantime, if you wished it, I could send along my maid to do anything you wanted—"