“And how is your dear mother?  I was so sorry to hear from a mutual friend that she had been unwell.”  How thankful she was that she read each week various papers which reported people’s doings!

A sense of bewilderment lurked in her heart.  Who was this Lewis Haystoun who owned such a house and such a kindred?  The hypothesis of money made in coal seemed insufficient, and with much curiosity she set herself to solve the problem.

“Is Mr. Haystoun coming back to tea?” she asked by way of a preface.

“No, he has had to go to Gledsmuir.  We are all idle this afternoon, but he has a landowner’s responsibilities.”

“Have his family been here long?  I seem never to have heard the name.”

Lady Clanroyden looked a little surprised.  “Yes, they have been rather a while.  I forget how many centuries, but a good many.  It was about this place, you know, that the old ballad of ‘The Riding of Etterick’ was made, and a Haystoun was the hero.”

Mrs. Andrews knew nothing about old ballads, but she feigned a happy reminiscence.

“It is so sad his being beaten by Mr. Stocks,” she declared.  “Of course an old county family should provide the members for a district.  They have the hearts of the people with them.”

“Then the hearts of the people have a funny way of revealing themselves,” Lady Clanroyden laughed.  “I’m not at all sorry that Lewie was beaten.  He is the best man in the world, but one wants to shake him up.  His motto is ‘Thole,’ and he gets too few opportunities of ‘tholing.’”

“You all call him ‘Lewie,’” commented the lady.  “How popular he must be!”

Mabel Clanroyden laughed.  “I have known him ever since I was a small girl in a short frock and straight-brushed hair.  He was never anything else than Lewie to his friends.  Oh, here is my wandering brother and my only son returned,” and she rose to catch up a small, self-possessed boy of some six years, who led the flushed and reluctant George in tow.

The small boy was very dirty, ruddy and cheerful.  He had torn his blouse, and scratched his brow, and the crown of his straw hat had parted company with the brim.

“George,” said his sister severely, “have you been corrupting the manners of my son?  Where have you been?”

The boy—­he rejoiced in the sounding name of Archibald—­slapped a small leg with a miniature whip, and counterfeited with great skill the pose of the stable-yard.  He slowly unclenched a smutty fist and revealed three separate shillings.

“I won um myself,” he explained.

“Is it highway robbery?” asked his mother with horrified eyes.  “Archibald, have you stopped a coach, or held up a bus or anything of the kind?”

The child unclenched his hand again, beamed on his prize, smiled knowingly at the world, and shut it.

“What has the dreadful boy been after?  Oh, tell me, George, please.  I will try to bear it.”