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Updated: May 6, 2025
"No," replied Roland, "my name is Graeme, so please you Roland Graeme, whose forbears were designated of Heathergill, in the Debateable Land." "Ay, I knew it was a name from the Debateable Land. Hast thou any acquaintance in Edinburgh?"
"They call me Lady Abbess, or Mother at the least, who address me," said Dame Bridget, drawing herself up, as if offended at her friend's authoritative manner "the Lady of Heathergill forgets that she speaks to the Abbess of Saint Catherine."
Farquaharson noted with concern the trance-like abstraction in which her son sat, as one apart. Later as she mixed for the General the night-cap toddy, which was an institution hallowed by long usage, she commented on it. "I'm afraid Stuart isn't well," she volunteered. "He's not a moody boy by nature, and he doesn't seem himself to-day. Perhaps we had better send him to Doctor Heathergill.
His expectations, or hopes, if we may call them so, were, however, disappointed; for, when Catherine re-entered on the summons of the Abbess, and placed on the table an earthen pitcher of water, and four wooden platters, with cups of the same materials, the Dame of Heathergill, satisfied with the arbitrary mode in which she had borne down the opposition of the Abbess, pursued her victory no farther a moderation for which her grandson, in his heart, returned her but slender thanks.
Farquaharson nodded her head. "He must have been feeling positively ill," she declared. "Nothing less could have kept him away." But the father, who had never before shown evidence of a hard heart, permitted his quizzical twinkle to broaden into a frank grin, "With every confidence in Dr. Heathergill, I doubt his ability to aid our declining son." "Then you think ?" "Precisely so.
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