“Don’t be angry with me, Moray,” she said, bursting into tears. “It was only because I loved you and suffered with you. I can’t bear to see my darling brother like this.”
“You—you were watching me?” he stammered.
“Don’t call it by that unkind title, dear,” she said. “I cannot bear it. I know how you grieve, and I have often sat at my window and seen you go out of a night, and waited till you came back. One night—don’t be angry with me, Moray,” she cried, throwing her arms about his neck—“I followed you to the Fir Mount, to see you were up there watching Glynne’s window.”
“Lucy! Last night?”
“No, no, dear,” she cried in alarm. “Don’t—don’t be so fierce with me. It was only once.”
He uttered a low, hoarse sigh as if of relief.
“It was one night when you had quite frightened me by being so despondent. I was afraid you meant to do yourself some mischief, and I stole out to see where you went. As soon as I understood why you had gone there, I came back.”
“Was it so strange a thing for an astronomer to go out to a high place where he could see some planet rise?”
Lucy was silent for a few moments.
“No, dear,” she said at last in a whisper, “nor for a man who loves to go and watch the house that holds all that is dear to him in life. But, Moray, dear, what is the matter with your hand?”