At noon I shall meet him, my Colin, my dear.”
What a shame to laugh at Mrs. Grant of Laggan's nice old song, at the pretty Highland tune which ere now I have hummed over the moor for miles. Since, when we were children, I myself was in love with Colin! a love which found vent in much petting of his mother, and in shy presents to himself of nuts and blackberries: until, stung by indifference, my affection
“Shrunk
Into itself, and was missing ever after.”
Do we forget our childish loves? I think not. The objects change, of course, but the feeling, when it has been true and unselfish, keeps its character still, and is always pleasant to remember. It was very silly, no doubt, but I question if now I could love anybody in a fonder, humbler, faithfuller way than I adored that great, merry, good-natured schoolboy. And though I know he has not an ounce of brains, is the exact opposite of anybody I could fall in love with now—still, to this day, I look kindly on the round, rosy face of “Colin, my dear.”
I wonder if he ever will marry our Lisa. As far as I notice, people do not often marry their childish companions; they much prefer strangers. Possibly, from mere novelty and variety, or else from the fact that as kin are sometimes “less than kind,” so one's familiar associates are often the furthest from one's sympathies, interests, or heart.
With this highly moral and amiable sentiment—a fit conclusion for a social evening, I will lock my desk.
Lucky I did! What if Lisabel had found me writing at—one in the morning! How she would have teased me—even under the circumstances of last night, which seem to have affected her mighty little, considering.
I heard her at my door, from without, grumble at it being bolted. She came in and sat down by my fire. Quite a picture, in a blue flannel dressing-gown, with her light hair dropping down in two wavy streams, and her eyes as bright as if it were any hour rather than 1.30 a.m., as I showed her by my watch.