Gilbert was first to break the depressing silence that ensued. He felt vaguely that all was not so well with his brother as he had been led to believe.
“Forgive me, brother,” he murmured contritely, “for bringing this trouble on ye.”
“Never mind, Gilbert; it was to be, I ken,” answered Rob absently.
Gilbert was silent a moment. “But the money, Robert, is it—are ye——” he stammered, then stopped in embarrassed confusion.
“’Tis the sum I expect from the sale of a poem. Jean, see if there is aught of the Posty.” She rose and went to the window and peered anxiously down the dusty road.
“I didna’ have the ready money with me,” went on Robert lightly, as if it were a matter of small importance, “or I would have fixed it up at once. But ye shall hae the money, laddie, when my letter comes,” and he smiled reassuringly into Gilbert’s anxious face.
“God bless ye, Robert; ye have taken a great load off my heart.”
Jean returned to her seat by the hearth, and listlessly took up her needlework. “I fear Posty has forgotten us to-day,” she said in answer to Robert’s questioning look.
“‘I’ll wait till sundown for my money,’ he shouted.”