"Go on," said Mona, "talk to me. Nobody helps me but you. It does me good even to hear your voice."
CHAPTER XXVII.
A NEOPHYTE.
Once more Mona arrived at Borrowness, and once more Rachel was awaiting her at the station.
There was no illusion now about the life before her, no uncertainty, no vague visions of self-renunciation and of a vocation. All was flat, plain, shadowless prose.
"I must e'en dree my weird," she said to herself as the train drew into the station; but a bright face smiled at Rachel from the carriage-window, a light step sprang on to the platform, and a cheerful voice said—
"Well, you see I am all but true to my word; and you have no idea what a lot of pretty things I have brought with me."
"Mona," said Rachel mysteriously, as they walked down the road to the house, "I have a piece of news for you. Who do you think called?"
"I am afraid I can't guess."
"Mr Brown!"