"Tho nithe of you to thay tho!" she exaggerated laughing. "No, I won't lisp any more—until I forget myself. But how big you are—almost as big as Gavin himself."
"I am big enough," Angus admitted. "I get in my own way sometimes." For the first time he noticed a black band on her sleeve. She caught the glance.
"My father died two months ago." Her voice broke, and Angus looked away.
"I am sorry," he said awkwardly.
"I can't talk about it very well yet," she said. "I didn't mean to. One shouldn't—to a stranger."
"But I'm not a stranger. You seem like—well—like an old friend."
"I'm glad of that," she said, smiling a trifle sadly. "You see, father and I were always together, and it's new and—and hard to be alone. But I suppose I shall get used to it after a while."
"You have your kin here," he ventured.
"Yes, I have them," she agreed. "But they are not really my kin. And then I won't be with them very long."
"You are going away?" For some reason Angus experienced a sensation of regret.