“Pray do not alarm yourself, ma’am,” said Mr. Sclater, slowly recovering his breath: he was not yet quite sure of Gibbie, or confident how best he was to be managed; “this young—gentleman is Sir Gilbert Galbraith, my ward.—Sir Gilbert, this lady is Miss Kimble. You must have known her father well—the Rev. Matthew Kimble of the next parish to your own?”
Gibbie smiled. He did not nod, for that would have meant that he did know him, and he did not remember having ever even heard the name of the Rev. Matthew Kimble.
“Oh!” said the lady, who had ceased her battery, and stood bewildered and embarrassed—the more that by this time the girls had all gathered round, staring and wondering.
Ginevra’s eyes too had filled with wonder; she cast them down, and a strange smile began to play about her sweet strong mouth. All at once she was in the middle of a fairy tale, and had not a notion what was coming next. Her dumb shepherd boy a baronet!—and, more wonderful still, a Galbraith! She must be dreaming in the wide street! The last she had seen of him was as he was driven from the house by her father, when he had just saved her life. That was but a few weeks ago, and here he was, called Sir Gilbert Galbraith! It was a delicious bit of wonderment.
“Oh!” said Miss Kimble a second time, recovering herself a little, “I see! A relative, Miss Galbraith! I did not understand. That of course sets everything right—at least—even then—the open street, you know!—You will understand, Mr. Sclater.—I beg your pardon, Sir Gilbert. I hope I did not hurt you with my parasol!”
Gibbie again laughed aloud.
“Thank you,” said Miss Kimble confused, and annoyed with herself for being so, especially before her girls. “I should be sorry to have hurt you.—Going to college, I presume, Sir Gilbert?”
Gibbie looked at Mr. Sclater.
“He is going to study with me for a while first,” answered the minister.
“I am glad to hear it. He could not do better,” said Miss Kimble. “Come, girls.”