“There is no silliness in that, I hope, Mrs. Rothesay?”
“Certainly not—was I not always proud of yours?” said the wife, with a meekness not newly learnt She hunted in her reticule for Sara's letter, and read.
“Ah, here is the name—Alison Balfour: do you know it?”
“I did once, when I was a boy.”
“Stay! do not go away in that hasty manner. Pray, talk to me a little more, Angus; it is so dull to be confined to this sick-room. Tell me of this Alison Balfour; you know I should like to hear about your friends.”
“Should you?—that is something new. If it had been always so—if you had indeed made my interests yours, Sybilla!” There was a touch of regret and old tenderness in his voice. She thought he was kind on account of her illness, and thanked him warmly. But the thanks sent him back to his usual cold self; he did not like to have his weakness noticed.
Mrs. Rothesay understood neither one state of feeling nor the other, so she said, cheerfully, “Come, now for the story of Alison Balfour.”
“There is no story to tell. She was merely a young companion of my aunt Flora. I knew her for some years—in fact, until she married Mr. Gwynne. She was a noble woman.”
“Really, Angus, I shall grow jealous,” said Mrs. Rothesay, half in jest, half in earnest. “She must have been an old love of yours.”
Her husband frowned. “Folly, Sybilla! She was a woman, and I a schoolboy!”