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Jean--being Jean--had withdrawn unnoticed and slipped upstairs to the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?"