“There’s nothing fit for any one to wear,” answered Willy, gloomily. “I was out this morning to see, and there was nothing but a few violets.”
“I am sorry you did not pick them,” I said, with pacific intention; “I should have been very glad to wear them. They think it would simplify matters if I slept at Clashmore to-night,” I went on. “I think it would be a good plan, if you don’t mind, Uncle Dominick?”
“It is entirely for you to decide, my dear,” he said coldly; “you can make any arrangements that you like. The man is waiting for an answer.”
“Well, I will sleep there,” I said, goaded to decision by his ungracious manner.
I accordingly wrote a note to Connie to that effect, and, having sent it, went up to dress.
With the aid of the ministrations of Maggie, the red-haired housemaid, who had developed a deep attachment for me, I was arriving at the more advanced stages of my toilet, when I heard a knock at my door.
“I’ve got you some violets,” said Willy’s voice, “but I’m afraid they’re not up to much. I’ve left them outside.”
I heard him run down the passage to his own room, and, opening the door, I saw a small bunch of violets lying on the ground. I picked them up; there were very few of them, and they were drenched with rain. Willy must have been all this time toilsomely searching for them with a lantern in the dark.
“Has it been raining, Maggie?” I asked.
“’Deed, then, it has, miss, and teeming rain this half-hour.”