Miss Bathgate suddenly had a recollection of Jean as she had seen her pass that morning—­a wistful face under a shabby hat.

“Hut,” she said, tossing her head and lying glibly.  “It’s ma opeenion that the Lord askit Miss Jean when he was in Priorsford, and she simply sent him to the right about.”

She took a drink of tea, with a defiant twirl of her little finger, and pretended not to see the shocked expression on Mawson’s face.  To Mawson it sounded like sacrilege for anyone to refuse anything to his lordship.

“Oh, Beller!  Miss Jean would ’ave jumped at ’im!”

“Naething o’ the kind,” said Miss Bathgate fiercely, forgetting all about her former pessimism as to Jean’s chance of getting a man, and desiring greatly to champion her cause.  “D’ye think Miss Jean’s sitting here waitin’ to jump at a man like a cock at a grossit?  Na!  He’ll be a lucky man that gets her, and weel his lordship kens it.  She’s no pented up to the een-holes like thae London Jezebels.  Her looks’ll stand wind and water.  She’s a kind, wise lassie, and if she condescends to the Lord, I’m sure I hope he’ll be guid to her.  For ma ain pairt I wud faur rather see her marry a dacent, ordinary man like a minister or a doctor—­but we’ve nane o’ thae kind needin’ wives in Priorsford the noo, so Miss Jean ‘ll mebbe hev to fa’ back on a lord....”

On the afternoon of the day this conversation took place in Hillview kitchen, Jean sat in the living-room of The Rigs, a very depressed little figure.  It was one of those days in which things seem to take a positive pleasure in going wrong.  To start with, the kitchen range could not go on, as something had happened to the boiler, and that had shattered Mrs. M’Cosh’s placid temper.  Also the bill for mending it would be large, and probably the landlord would make a fuss about paying it.  Then Mhor had put a newly-soled boot right on the hot bar of the fire and burned it across, and Jock had thrown a ball and broken a precious Spode dish that had been their mother’s.  But the worst thing of all was that Peter was lost, had been lost for three days, and now they felt they must give up hope.  Jock and Mhor were in despair (which may have accounted for their abandoned conduct in burning boots and breaking old china), and in their hearts felt miserably guilty.  Peter had wanted to go with them that morning three days ago; he had stood patiently waiting before the front door, and they had sneaked quietly out at the back without him.  It was really for his own good, Jock told Mhor; it was because the gamekeeper had said if he got Peter in the Peel woods again he would shoot him, and they had been going to the Peel woods that morning—­but nothing brought any comfort either to Jock or Mhor.  For two nights Mhor had sobbed himself to sleep openly, and Jock had lain awake and cried when everyone else was sleeping.

They scoured the country in the daytime, helped by David and Mr. Jowett and other interested friends, but all to no purpose.