“Because, if you had, I'd have asked you to fetch me some fresh flowers. Dolly is coming to dine with us, and she is so fond of seeing flowers on the centre of the table.”
“No; I have nothing to do at the Abbey. I 'm off towards Portrash.”
“Why not go over to the Burnside and fetch Dolly?” said she, carelessly.
“Perhaps I may,—that is, if I should find myself in that quarter; but I'm first of all bent on a profound piece of thoughtfulness or a good smoke,—pretty much the same thing with me, I believe. So good-bye for a while.”
His mother looked after him with loving eyes till the tears dulled them; but there are tears which fall on the affections as the dew falls on flowers, and these were of that number.
“His own father,—his own father!” muttered she, as she followed the stalwart figure till it was lost in the distance.
CHAPTER LXIII. AT THE COTTAGE BESIDE THE CAUSEWAY
I must use more discretion as to Mrs. Butler's correspondence than I have employed respecting Skeff Damer's. What she wrote on that morning is not to be recorded here. It will be enough if I say that her letter was not alone a kind one, but that it thoroughly convinced him who read it that her view was wise and true, and that it would be as useless as ungenerous to press Dolly further, or ask for that love which was not hers to give.
It was a rare event with her to have to write a letter. It was not, either, a very easy task; but if she had not the gift of facile expression, she had another still better for her purpose,—an honest nature steadfastly determined to perform a duty. She knew her subject, too, and treated it with candor, while with delicacy.