"Then it would be very hard on the daughters not to have them."

"So hard that the death of young Alexander may have been one of the
greatest disasters of my life, as well as of poor Keith's. However,
this is riding out to meet perplexities. He is most likely to
outlive me; and, moreover, may marry and put an end to the
difficulty. Meantime, till my charge is relieved, I must go and see
after him, and try if I can fulfil Hubert's polite request that I
would take him away. Rosie, my woman, I have hardly spoken to you.
I have some hyacinth roots to bring you to-morrow."

In spite of these suspicions, Colonel Keith was not prepared for what
met him on his return to Myrtlewood. On opening the drawing-room
door, he found Lady Temple in a low arm-chair in an agony of crying,
so that she did not hear his approach till he stood before her in
consternation. Often had he comforted her before, and now, convinced
that something dreadful must have befallen one of the children, he
hastily, though tenderly, entreated her to tell him which, and what
he could do.

"Oh, no, no!" she exclaimed, starting up, and removing her
handkerchief, so that he saw her usually pale cheeks were crimson--
"Oh, no," she cried, with panting breath and heaving chest. "It is
all well with them as yet. But--but--it's your brother."

He was at no loss now as to what his brother could have done, but he
stood confounded, with a sense of personal share in the offence, and
his first words were-- "I am very sorry. I never thought of this."