ething."

"Yes, busy about something," repeated Graeme, a little scornfully. "But
about things that might as well be left undone, or that another might do
as well."

"And I daresay some one could be found to do the work of the best and
the busiest of us, if we werena able to do it. But that is no' to say
but we may be working to some purpose in the world for all that. But it
is no' agreeable to do other folks' work, and let them get the wages,
I'll allow."

"Will said something like that to me once, and it is possible that I may
have some despicable feeling of that sort, since you and he seem to
think it," said Graeme, and her voice took a grieved and desponding
tone.

"My dear, I am bringing no such accusation against you. I am only
saying that the like of that is not agreeable, and it is not profitable
to anybody concerned. I daresay Mrs Arthur fancies that it is her, and
no' you that keeps the house in a state of perfection that it is a
pleasure to see. She persuades her husband of it, at any rate."

"Fanny does not mean--she does not know much about it. But that is one
more reason why I ought to go. She ought to have the responsibility, as
well as to fancy that she has it; and they would get used to being
without us in time."

"Miss Graeme, my dear, I think I must have told you what your father
said to me after his first attack of illness, when he thought, maybe,
the end wasna far-away."

"About our all staying together while we could. Yes, you told me."

"Yes, love, and how he trusted in you, that you would always be, to your
brothers and Rose, all that your mother would have been if she had been
spared; and how sure he was that you would ever think less of yourself
than of them. My dear, it should not be a light thing that would make
you give up the trust your father left to you."

"But, Janet, it is so different now. When we first came here, the
thought that my father wished us to keep together made me willing and
glad to stay, even when Arthur had to struggle hard to make the ends
meet. I knew it was better for him and for Harry, as well as for us.
But it is different now. Arthur has no need of us, and would soon
content himself without us, though he may think he would not; and it may
be years before this can be Will's home again. It may never be his
home, nor Harry's either."

"My dear, it will be Harry's home, and Will's, too, while it is yours.
Their hearts will ay turn to it as hom