Peter turned away his head as if deeply shocked at the accusation, and Mrs. M’Cosh, with the tea-cloth over her arm, regarded him with an indulgent smile.  She had infinite tolerance for Peter’s shortcomings.

“Peter was kinna late last night,” she would say, as if referring to an erring husband, “an’ I juist sat up for him.”  She had also infinite leisure.  It was no use Jean trying to hurry the work forward by offering to do some task.  Mrs. M’Cosh simply stood beside her and conversed until the job was done.  Jean never knew whether to laugh or be cross, but she generally laughed.

Once when the house had been upset by illness, and trained nurses were in occupation, Jean had rung the bell repeatedly, and, receiving no answer, had gone to the kitchen.  There she found the Mhor, then a very small boy, seated on a chair playing a mouth-organ, while Mrs. M’Cosh, her skirts held coquettishly aloft, danced a few steps to the music.  Jean—­being Jean—­had withdrawn unnoticed and slipped upstairs to the sick-room much cheered by the sight of such detachment.

Mrs. M’Cosh had been eight years with the Jardines and was in many ways such a treasure, and always such an amusement, that they would not have parted from her for much red gold.

“Bella Bathgate’s expectin’ her lodger the morn.”  The tea-tray was ready to be carried away, but Mrs. M’Cosh lingered.

“Oh, is she?” said Jean.  “Who is it that’s coming?”

“I canna mind the exact name, but she’s ca’ed the Honourable an’ she’s bringin’ a leddy’s maid.”

“Gosh, Maggie!” ejaculated Jock.

“I asked you not to say that, Jock,” Jean reminded him.

“Ay,” Mrs. M’Cosh continued, “Bella Bathgate’s kinna pit oot aboot it.  She disna ken how she’s to cook for an Honourable—­she niver saw yin.”

“Have you seen one?” Jock asked.

“No’ that I know of, but when I wis pew opener at St. George’s I let in some verra braw folk.  One Sunday there wis a lord, no less.  A shaughly wee buddy he wis tae.  Ma Andra wud hae been gled to see him sae oorit.”

The eyes of the Jardines were turned inquiringly on their handmaid.  It seemed a strange reason for joy on the part of the late Andrew M’Cosh.

“Weel,” his widow explained, “ye see, Andra wis a Socialist an’ thocht naething o’ lords—­naething.  I used to show him pictures o’ them in the Heartsease Library—­fine-lukin’ fellays wi’ black mustacheys—­but he juist aye said, ‘It’s easy to draw a pictur’, and he wouldna own that they wis onything but meeserable to look at.  An’, mind you, he wis richt.  When I saw the lord in St. George’s, I said to masel’, I says, ‘Andra wis richt,’ I says.”  She lifted up the tray and prepared to depart.  “Weel, he’ll no’ be muckle troubled wi’ them whaur he’s gone, puir man.  The Bible says, Not many great, not many noble.”

“D’you think,” said Mhor in a pleasantly interested voice, “that Mr. M’Cosh is in heaven?” (Mhor never let slip an opportunity for theological discussions.) “I wouldn’t care much to go to heaven myself, for all my friends are in”—­he stopped and cast a cautious glance at Jean, and, judging by her expression that discretion was the better part of valour, and in spite of an encouraging twinkle in the eyes of Jock, finished demurely—­“the Other Place.”