“And that dear, sweet babe! I don’t think she loves it better herself. And only a night or two since she was down on her knees, crying fit to break her heart, by its side; and she said to me, ‘Jane—Jane, when something happens to me, be a mother to it; never leave her side, come what may.’”
“And ye promised her?” said Sandy, earnestly.
“Of course,” exclaimed Jane, as she wiped her eyes.
“Gude lass—gude lass; and it’s not me that will ask ye to. Ye shall watch over the little thing, Jenny, and I’ll help ye. But what’s she mean aboot when something happens her?”
“Oh, it’s her low way, and I think she’s afraid of Sir Murray; and now all this change in him isn’t natural. I tell you, Alexander—”
“Gude; I like that,” muttered the Scot, as, in her earnestness, Jane laid her hand upon his arm.
“I tell you, that if anything happens to my dear lady, I shall think it’s his doing.”
“Hoot—tut—tut! lassie, ye’re giving way to strange thoughts, such as oughtn’t to be in a Christian woman’s heart. And now, lassie, I winna bother ye, but ye’ll always talk to me like this, and come to me for counsel. I’m nae Solomon, Jenny, but I’ll always tell ye the most I know. And there, there, little one, ye’ll be my ain wife some day, winna ye?”
There must have been something very satisfactory in Jane’s reply, for, after a few moment’s silence, Alexander McCray went softly away upon the points of his boots, making his way into the garden, where he was soon busy superintending the improvement of flower-beds, and making alterations in spots that had long been an eyesore to him, inasmuch as they had been favourite whims of the now pensioned off, prejudiced old man, who had hitherto ruled the grounds.
“Gude sake, she’s a real woman,” muttered Sandy, as he raised his cap to Lady Gernon, who, basket in hand, passed him on her way to the gates. “I like to see a woman with a lo’e for flowers, even if they be the wild wee bits o’ things she picks. But here comes the laird.”