After Mr. Dickson had finished saying all he had come to say, and had gone to catch his train, Jean started out to call on her minister.  Pamela met her at the gate.

“Well, Jean, and whither away?  You look very grave.  Are you going to tell the King the sky’s falling?”

“Something of that kind.  I’m going to see Mr. Macdonald.  I’ve got something I want to ask him.”

“I suppose you don’t want me to go with you?  I love an excuse to go and see the Macdonalds.  Oh, but I have one.  Just wait a moment, Jean, while I run back and fetch something.”

She joined Jean after a short delay, and they walked on together.  Jean explained that she was going to ask Mr. Macdonald’s advice how best to use her money.

“Has the lawyer been?” Pamela asked, “Do you understand about things?”

Jean told of Mr. Dickson’s visit.

“It’s a fearful lot of money, Pamela.  But when it’s divided into four, that’s four people to share the responsibility.”

“And what are you going to do with your share?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do.  I’m not going to take a house and fill it with guests who will be consistently unpleasant, as the Benefactress did.  And I’m not going to build a sort of fairy palace and commit suicide from the roof like the millionaire in that book Midas something or other.  And I hope I’m not going to lose my imagination and forget what it feels like to be poor, and send a girl with a small dress allowance half a dozen muslin handkerchiefs at Christmas.”

“I suppose you know, Jean—­I don’t want to be discouraging—­that you will get very little gratitude, that the people you try to help will smarm to your face and blackguard you behind your back?  You will be hurt and disappointed times without number....  You see, my dear, I’ve had money for quite a lot of years, and I know.”

Jean nodded.

They were crossing the wide bridge over Tweed and she stopped and, leaning her arms on the parapet, gazed up at Peel Tower.

“Let’s look at Peel for a little,” she said.  “It’s been there such a long time and must have seen so many people trying to do their best and only succeeding in making mischief.  It seems to say, ’Nothing really matters:  you’ll all be in the tod’s hole in less than a hundred years.  I remain, and the river and the hills.’”

“Yes,” said Pamela, “they are a great comfort, the unchanging things—­these placid round-backed hills, and the river and the grey town—­to us restless mortals....  Look, Jean, I want you to tell me if you think this miniature is at all like Duncan Macdonald.  You remember I asked you to let me have that snapshot of him that you said was so characteristic and I sent it to London to a woman I know who does miniatures well.  I thought his mother would like to have it.  But you must tell me if you think it good enough.”

Jean took the miniature and looked at the pictured face, a laughing boy’s face, fresh-coloured, frank, with flaxen hair falling over a broad brow.