Elizabeth answered, what she had before determined to say, as sufficiently explaining her errand, and yet betraying nothing that her mistress might wish concealed.

“Please, ma’am, I’m Miss Leaf’s servant.  My missis is ill, and I want a letter sent at once to Miss Hilary.”

“Oh! come in, then.  Elizabeth, I think, your name is?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What made you leave home at this hour of the night?  Did your mistress send you?”

“No.”

“Is she so very ill?  It seems sudden.  I saw Miss Hilary to-day, and she knew nothing at all about it.”

Elizabeth shrank a little before the keen eye that seemed to read her through.

“There’s more amiss than you have told me, young woman.  Is it because your mistress is in serious danger that you want to send for her sister?”

“No.”

“What is it then?  You had better tell me at once.  I hate concealment.”

It was a trial; but Elizabeth held her ground.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am; but I don’t think missis would like any body to know, and therefore I’d rather not tell you.”

Now the honest Scotswoman, as she said, hated any thing underhand, but she respected the right of every human being to maintain silence if necessary.  She looked sharply in Elizabeth’s face, which apparently re-assured her, for she said, not unkindly,

“Very well, child, keep your mistress’s secrets by all means.  Only tell me what you want.  Shall I take a cab and fetch Miss Hilary at once?”

Elizabeth thanked her, but said she thought that would not do; it would be better just to send the note the first thing to-morrow morning, and then Miss Hilary would come home just as if nothing had happened, and Miss Leaf would not be frighted by her sudden appearance.

“You are a good, mindful girl,” said Miss Balquidder.  “How did you learn to be so sensible?”

At the kindly word and manner, Elizabeth, bewildered and exhausted with the excitement she had gone through, and agitated by the feeling of having, for the first time in her life, to act on her own responsibility, gave way a little.  She did not exactly cry, but she was very near it.

Miss Balquidder called over the stair-head, in her quick, imperative voice—­

“David, is your wife away to her bed yet?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then tell her to fetch this young woman to the kitchen and give her some supper.  And afterward, will you see her safe home, poor lassie?  She’s awfully tired, you see.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And following David’s gray head, Elizabeth, for the first time since she came to London, took a comfortable meal in a comfortable kitchen, seasoned with such stories of Miss Balquidder’s goodness and generosity, that when, an hour after, she went home and to sleep, it was with a quieter and more hopeful than she could have believed possible under the circumstances.