'Had he thought more at times we had not been reduced to such shifts—not that I upbraid him, poor old man.'
'I detest catering for these great folks, who ignore our existence, save by a bow—more often a stare—at church,' persisted Ellinor.
'I care not—together we are independent, and happy here as the day is long: are not you so, Ellinor?'
'Yes; but how if one of us were to get married? Such things happen.'
'Don't speculate on that, though I think Robert Wodrow does,' said Mary, with something between a laugh and a sigh, as she took her way to the hen-court to see after her fowls.
CHAPTER II.
MARY'S ADVENTURE.
On the following day, after seeing old Elspat duly installed in one of the cosiest rooms of the old portion of the mansion as a kind of housekeeper, Mary Wellwood put on her garden-hat, brought forth her fishing-tackle, tied a pretty basket round her waist, and, taking her rod, a dainty little one—the gift of Ellinor's admirer, Robert Wodrow—set forth, accompanied by Jack, to get a trout or two from the May, for Mary was an expert angler, giving, ere she departed, a last look at her favourite hen, with a callow brood of primrose-coloured chickens, over which she clucked noisily in the sunshine amid a wisp of straw, while eyeing Jack the terrier with keen alarm and antagonism.
Mary left Ellinor again at her easel, and smiled when she saw that the latter had given some finishing touches to her costume, and had stuck a sprig in her lace collarette, in expectation of a visit from Robert Wodrow and his mother. She knew well of the loving friendship and incipient regard that had long existed between Rob and Ellinor; and that as friends of years' standing each had begun—she hoped—to feel that in all the world the other was the dearest, and a union for life would of course follow.
But young Wodrow, who was now past his twentieth year, had 'his way to make' in the world, and, till he had graduated in medicine, matrimony was not to be seriously thought of.