"Oh, Mrs. Keith, it is so dreadful. I cannot tell my poor son. I don't

know what might be the consequence."

Tears came into Rachel's eyes. "Indeed," she said, "I am very sorry for

you. I believe every one knows that I have felt what it is to be guilty

of fatal mischief, but, indeed, indeed I am sure that to realize it all

is the only way to endure it, so as to be the better for it. Believe me,

I am very sorry, but I don't think it would be any real comfort to

your son to hear that poor Bessie had never been careful, or that I was

inexperienced, or the nurse ignorant. It is better to look at it fairly.

I hear Mr. Clare coming in. Will you see him?" she added suddenly, much

relieved.

But Mrs. Carleton did not wish to see him, and departed, thinking Alick

Keith's wife as bad as had ever been reported, and preparing an account

of her mismanagement wherewith to remove her son's remorse.

She was scarcely gone, and Rachel had not had time to speak to Mr.

Clare, before another visitor was upon her, no other than Lord Keith's

daughter, Mrs. Comyn Menteith; or, as she introduced herself, "I'm

Isabel. I came down from London to-day because it was so very shocking

and deplorable, and I am dying to see my poor little brother and uncle

Colin. I must keep away from poor papa till the doctors are gone, so I

came here."

She was a little woman in the delicately featured style of sandy

prettiness, and exceedingly talkative and good-natured. The rapid

tongue, though low and modulated, jarred painfully on Rachel's feelings

in the shaded staircase, and she was glad to shut the door of the

temporary nursery, when Mrs. Menteith pounced upon the poor little baby,

pitying him with all her might, comparing him with her own children,

and asking authoritative questions, coupled with demonstrations of her

intention of carrying him off to her own nursery establishment, which

had been left in Scotland with a head nurse, whose name came in with

every fourth word--that is, if he lived at all, which she seemed to

think a hopeless matter.

She spoke of "poor dear Bessie," with such affection as was implied in

"Oh, she was such a darling! I got on with her immensely. Why didn't you

send to me, though I don't know that Donald would have let me come," and

she insisted on learning the whole history, illustrating it profusely

with personal experiences. Rachel was constantly hoping to be released

from a subject so intensely painful; but curiosity prevailed through

the chatter, and kept hold of the thread of the story. Mrs. Menteith

decidedly thought herself defrauded of a summons. "It was very odd of

them all not to telegraph for me. Those telegrams are such a dreadful

shock. There came one just as I set out from Timber End, and I made sure

little Sandie was ill at home, for you know the child is very delicate,

and there are so many things going about, and what with all this

dreadful business, I was ready to faint, and after all it was only a

stupid thing for Uncle Colin from those people at Avoncester."




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