“I suppose Scotch ministers have not much money?” continued Cecilia.
“I don’t know—I think not,” I answered. “But I rather fancy my Uncle Drummond has a little of his own.”
Cecilia darted another look at me, and then dropped her eyes as if she were studying the grass.
“And Mr Keith?” she said presently, “is he a relation?”
“I don’t know much about him,” said I, “only what I have heard Flora say. He is no relation of theirs, I believe. I think he is the squire’s son.”
“The squire’s son!” cried Cecilia, in a more interested tone. “And who is the squire?—is he rich?—where is the place?”
“As to who he is,” said I, “he is Mr Keith, I suppose. I don’t know a bit whether he is rich or poor. I forget the name of the place—I think it is Abbotsmuir, or something like that. Either an abbot or a monk has something to do with it.”
“And you don’t know if Mr Keith is a rich man?” said Cecilia, I thought in rather a disappointed tone.
“No, I don’t,” said I. “I can ask Flora, if you want to know.”
“Not for the world!” cried Cecilia, laying her hand again on mine. “Don’t on any account let Miss Drummond know that I asked you such a question. If you like to ask from yourself, you know—well, that is another matter; but not from me, on any consideration.”