“There is no need to speak of this night to anyone,” she said dully. “I will tell my uncle what I think I need, and no more.”
“Very well,” he said briefly, and after a little he went on, “Of course you will understand, Miss Ess, that I hold you in no way to what you said of myself back there. You were overwrought, and I understand, although you had better know that I will still hope.”
“The word I gave I will keep,” she said, “if you still wish it, as indeed I can hardly expect.”
“Wish it?” he exclaimed ardently. “It is the one wish——” he checked himself and finished quietly, “But I will say no more now. You have passed through enough for one night.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said in the same dull tones; “nothing matters—now.”
Scottie was shocked and amazed when he saw her again. “Are ye ill, lass?” he said. “Ye’re lookin’ like a ghost.”
“No, I’m not ill,” she answered. “Please take no notice of me. I’m upset over something—that’s all.”
“Ye’d tell me, lass, if it was onything I could help ye in?” he said very tenderly.
Her lip quivered. “Yes, uncle, I would tell you. But it’s nothing you can help me in. Nobody can help me.”
Later that evening, when they were sitting together, Scottie pretending to read, but covertly and anxiously watching her, and she sitting with her sewing idle in her lap and her eyes set on nothing, she roused herself and said, “I’ve broken everything off with Steve Knight, uncle. Please don’t ask me any questions, or make it any harder for me. It is all over now.” She waited a little to offer him the chance to speak, but beyond a low “Vera weel, lass,” he said nothing.