"How old are ye?" she asked at last, her back still turned.
"Sixteen past," he answered, slowly.
"Aye," said she, "I suppose ye are."
She stared at him then with a queer look in her face—as though she would have beaten him had she been able. Then, placing another platter upon the table, she jerked her head at him to sit beside her.
"Rob," she said, after a long silence, "to me you have always been undergrown for your years. It seems but yesterday since ye came."
"It was eight years ago," he answered, still upon his guard.
"So long?" said she, and took up her knife, but eating nothing.
The meal proceeded in utter silence. Rob would have given a world to be away. What was in his aunt's mind he did not know, he could not guess. Her face expressed nothing, only her eyes stared at him unblinkingly, like the unfathomable eyes of an eagle.
"Rob," said she, at last, "when do you get your marching orders?"
"To-morrow, Aunt Margaret," he replied. "You must not be grieved at my going; I cannot bide here when my people are out. Of course, we may not leave Inverness for a while."