CHAPTER IV.
My poor little boy sadly missed many things that were joys or daily events at home in India. Yet he did not magnify their importance unduly, and remembered that he must not grieve the loving heart which probably ached with just as keen a longing as his own. This was heroism of a negative kind, I fancy.
At Loch Lossie they were not at all demonstrative people. They never kissed each other in the day-time, or walked arm in arm, or sat very near together.
To Jeff these things had become natural, and his spontaneous, affectionate nature seemed suddenly frozen up by circumstances. The dull ache of longing for kindly, smiling eyes, for little playful speeches, at times seemed more than he could bear.
And to him who had lived in the constant presence of his mother the many restrictions laid upon the children at Loch Lossie seemed cruelly hard; and it was a discipline that seemed to have no meaning, that seemed to presuppose disobedience.
He might not go in the drawing-room or conservatory without leave, or look at the books in the library, or pick the commonest flowers in the garden, or walk near the loch. No promise was ever regarded as sacred by his seniors.
"But if I give you my word, Uncle Hugh," he had pleaded in early days, "not to go near the water, or touch the boats, surely I may go down the drive."
Uncle Hugh only looked down on him with cold denial.
"Little boys are not to be trusted; their promises are not worth much," he answered.
Then Jeff got very red, and burst out passionately: