'Na! hev I?' said Robert, putting up his hand. 'But I maun gang—there's nae help for 't,' he added.—'Gin I cud only win to my ain room ohn Betty seen me!—Eh! mem, I hae blaudit (spoiled) a' yer bonny goon. That's a sair vex.'
'Never mind it,' returned Miss St. John, smiling. 'It is of no consequence. But you must come with me. I must see what I can do for your head. Poor boy!'
'Eh, mem! but ye are kin'! Gin ye speik like that ye'll gar me greit. Naebody ever spak' to me like that afore. Maybe ye kent my mamma. Ye're sae like her.'
This word mamma was the only remnant of her that lingered in his speech. Had she lived he would have spoken very differently. They were now walking towards the house.
'No, I did not know your mamma. Is she dead?'
'Lang syne, mem. And sae they tell me is yours.'
'Yes; and my father too. Your father is alive, I hope?'
Robert made no answer. Miss St. John turned.
The boy had a strange look, and seemed struggling with something in his throat. She thought he was going to faint again, and hurried him into the drawing-room. Her aunt had not yet left her room, and her uncle was out.
'Sit down,' she said—so kindly—and Robert sat down on the edge of a chair. Then she left the room, but presently returned with a little brandy. 'There,' she said, offering the glass, 'that will do you good.'