“A little,” said Mr Cameron, drily.
“Little Cary,” said my uncle, softly, turning to me, “do you know that you are very like somebody?”
“Like whom, Uncle?” said I.
“Somebody I loved very much, my child,” he answered, rather sadly; “from whom Angus has his blue eyes, and Flora her smile.”
“You mean Aunt Jane,” said I, speaking as softly as he had done, for I felt that she had been very dear to him.
“Yes, my dear,” he replied; “I mean my Jeannie. You are very like her. I think we shall love each other, Cary.”
I thought so too.
Mr Cameron left us this morning. To-day I have been exploring with Flora, who wants to go all over the house and garden and village—speaks of her pet plants as if they were old friends, and shakes hands with everyone she meets, and pats every dog and cat in the place. And they all seem so glad to see her—the dogs included; I do not know about the cats. As we went down the village street, it was quite amusing to hear the greetings from every doorway.
“Atweel, Miss Flora, ye’ve won hame!” said one.
“How’s a’ wi’ ye, my bairn?” said another.