-Miss--ah
yes, Craven--Miss Amelia Craven--did her all honour. It only remained
to hear the decision of--of (a smirk, several dimples and a prolonged
tapping on the lid of his snuffbox)--_Mistress Duncan MacAlpine_.

"I will go with my husband," said Irma simply.

"There's for you, Frances!" cried the Advocate, turning to his companion
with a little teasing "hee-hee" of laughter, almost like the neigh of a
horse; "there spoke all the woman."

But Lady Frances had very deliberately turned about and was walking,
without the least greeting or farewell, in the direction of her own
house of Sciennes.

"There goes a Kirkpatrick," said the Advocate, tapping his box
cynically; "cry with them, they will hunt your enemies till they drop.
Cry off with them, and it's little you will see of them but the back of
their hand."

He touched my Irma on her soft cheek with the tips of his fingers. "And
I wish, for your goodman's sake," he said, "that this little lady's
qualities do not run in the female line."

"I hope," said Irma, "that I shall always have grace to obey my
husband."

"Graces you have--overly many of them, as it is easy to see," quoth the
gallant Advocate, taking off his hat and bowing low, "but it is seldom
indeed that ladies use either Grace or their graces for such a purpose!"

CHAPTER XXXII

THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE MEADOWS

Irma and I had a great seeking for the little house, great enough for
two, with such convenience as, at the time, could be called modern, and
yet within reach of our very moderate means. First of all Freddy and I
had gone to the Nun's House to ask for Irma's box and accoutrement.
These made no great burden. Nevertheless, we borrowed a little "hurley,"
or handcart, from the baker's girl opposite, who certainly bore no
malice. I had our marriage lines in my pocket, lest any should deny my
rights. But though we did not see the Lady Kirkpatrick, the goods were
all corded and placed ready behind the door of the porter's lodge. We
had them on the "hurley" in a minute. The Lady Frances passed in as we
were carrying out the brass-bound trunk of Irma's that had been my
grandmother's. She went by as if she had not seen us, her curiously
mahogany face more of the _punchinello_ type than ever--yet somehow I
could not feel but that most of this anger was assumed. These women had
shown Irma no kindness, indeed had never troubled themselves about her
existence, all the long time she had stayed