"Everybody seems to bring their troubles to you, Jean," said Peggy.
Miss Leslie looked up.
"Troubles? Oh, no! I assure you, when Eliza Dishart and I drink tea together, there is no talk of troubles. We are very grand. We talk about the Court, and freights, and the possibility of Union between the Established Kirk and the Free. But trouble—oh, dear, no! Once only did we consent to be informal. That was one wild night in December two years ago. Half the chimney-pots in London were flying about in the air, and she knew that his ship was in the Channel, homeward bound. She came chapping at my door about ten o'clock, just as I was going to bed, and asked me if I would let her sit here for the night. Indeed, I was very glad of her company. I remember I managed to pick out the tune of the 'Hymn for Those at Sea' for her on my piano, and we sang it together. Very ridiculous we must have looked. We have never mentioned the occurrence since."
During this narrative Peggy sat silent and preoccupied. Finally she said:—
"It must be a great relief to be able to unload your worries on to some one else. A girl has just been unloading hers on to me."
Jean regarded her friend's averted face curiously.
"Indeed?" she replied.
"Yes. A man—"
Miss Leslie nodded.
"Quite so," she remarked drily. "She has presumed too far, and he won't come back."