"So am I. Thank you for the good things. They sweetened a disagreeable subject."

"Perhaps she may be better than we expect. One can never tell what the unknown may turn out to be. Mother is inclined to be suspicious of all strangers," said Isabel.

"If mother's eyes were out, she would see faults in any one."

"Perhaps, if they were coming into Traquair House. She does not trouble herself about people who leave the Campbells alone."

"She spoke of poor brother David to-night. Did you notice it?"

"Yes."

"It was the first time I have heard her mention him since he left us."

"She has spoken of him to me, three or four times--a word or two--no more."

"Do you know where he is?"

"No."

"Does mother know?"

"No."

"Does any one know?"

"No. Mother is sure he is dead. I think so myself. He would have written to Robert if he was alive. He was gey fond of Robert."

"I was at school when he went away. I never heard why he went, for when I came home I was forbidden to name him. Did he do anything wrong?"

"No, no! You must not suppose such a thing. He was the most loving and honorable of men."

"Then why did he go away? Do you know?"

"Yes, I know all about it."

"Tell me, Isabel. I will never name the subject again. What did he do?"

"Just what Robert has done--married a girl not wanted in the family."

"Who was the girl? Why was she not wanted?"

"Her name was Agnes Symington. She was a minister's daughter."

"Was she pretty?"

"Very pretty, and good and sweet as a woman could be."

"Pretty, and good, and sweet, and a minister's daughter! What more did mother want?"

"Money."

"Was she poor?"

"Yes. Her father was dead, and she had learned dressmaking to support her mother and herself. She came to make our winter dresses, and David saw her and loved her. Though she was a minister's daughter, mother had always sent her to the servants' table, and she was nearly mad to think David had married a girl from the servants' table. It was disgraceful--in a way. The servants talked, and so did every one that knew us. But David loved her, and when he went he took both Agnes and her mother with him."

"What did father say?"

"He took David's part. He took it angrily. He amazed us. He sold David's share in the works for him, and so let strangers into the company, and he sent him away with his blessing, and plenty of money. David was crying when he bid father good-bye; and father was never the same after David left. We always believed that father knew where he went, and that he heard from him, through Mr. Oliphant or Dr. Robertson. But mother could get no words from him about David, except 'The boy did right. G.o.d pity the man whose wife is chosen for him!' I think father had to marry mother to save the works. I think so; I was not told it as a fact. Do not breathe a word of what I have told you. It is a dead story. David and father are both gone, and I dare say David's wife is married again."

"Thank you for telling me the story, Isabel. I will keep your confidence. Do not doubt it. I do not blame David. I think he did right.

I wish I could do the same thing. I----"

"Good-night!"

"I would run away to-morrow."

CHAPTER III

THE BRIDE'S HOME-COMING

Robert Campbell's home-coming was after the fashion Isabel had supposed it would be. On the eighth of November, Jepson received a telegram from him before nine in the morning, ordering fires to be kept burning brightly all day in his rooms. At eleven there was another telegram, directing Jepson to have the ferns and plants in the hall renewed, and flowers in vases put in the parlor and Mrs. Campbell's dressing-room. At two o'clock Jepson's message contained the information that Mr. and Mrs.

Campbell would be at the Caledonian Railway Station at half-past three o'clock, and they would expect the carriage there for them.

So when Theodora arrived at Traquair House, she was met by Jepson with obsequious attentions, the door was wide open to receive her, and the rooms were shining and glowing with light and warmth and beauty. Thus far, all her expectations were realized, but she missed the human welcome which ought to have vitalized its material symbols. Robert was evidently annoyed at the absence of his mother and sisters, and he asked sharply after them.

"They went to their rooms after lunch, sir, before I had time to inform them of the train you specified," Jepson answered.

Campbell seemed glad of so reasonable an excuse, and, turning to Theodora, said: "You must have a cup of tea, dear, and then rest for a couple of hours. I dare say we shall see no one before dinner. I suppose dinner is at seven, Jepson?"

"Yes, sir. Seven o'clock exactly, sir."

After her cup of tea Theodora went through their rooms with her husband and was charmed with everything that had been done for her comfort.

"Robert," she said, "there is nothing wanting in these rooms. Everything I could desire is here, except the smile and the kind words of welcome to them from your family."

"Those will come later, my sweet Dora. The Scotch are slow and undemonstrative. My mother and sisters always retire to their rooms after lunch, and it is extremely difficult for them to break a habit.

That is their way."

"If habits are kind and good, it is a very good way--in its way. But do you not think, Robert, that a little spontaneity is sometimes a refreshing and comforting thing?"

"It may be, but our temperaments are not spontaneous. Now, try and sleep before you dress. I will come for you at two minutes before seven. Be sure you are ready! Mother waits for no one, not even myself."

But in spite of all the thoughtful care which her husband had taken for her comfort, Theodora was invaded by a feeling of melancholy. Her heart sank fathoms deep, and she could not follow his advice to sleep. She felt chilled and depressed by the atmosphere she was breathing--an atmosphere impregnated with the personalities of people inimical to her.

Being conscious of this hostility, she began to reason about it, a thing in itself unwise; for happiness should never be a.n.a.lyzed.

Very soon she became aware of the futility of her thoughts. "They lead me to no certain end, for I am reasoning from premises unknown to me,"