'Thanks, pet Mary; when did you ever fail to please me?' said the old lady, caressing the girl's head, and adding, anxiously, 'You do not look well, Mary; where were you this morning? Not in the clachan, I hope, as I hear there is scarlatina there.'
'I have no fear; I took a kind message from Robert about a sick baby. I fear it is dying, and God pity the poor mother, the only light of whose life is likely to go out in darkness.'
'You have a tender heart, Mary. Robert, poor Robert; you know he has failed to pass, Mary?'
'Yes; I am so sorry, and so is Ellinor.'
'Ellinor may well be,' said Mrs. Wodrow, with some asperity.
'Why?' asked Mary, her colour deepening again.
'Because her fair face has come between him and his wits, poor fellow, and I shouldn't wonder if we lose him altogether.'
'Lose him!' repeated Mary, in a breathless voice; 'how?'
'He seems desperate and says that rather than slave for another session at college he will go for a soldier.'
'Oh, never, never think of such a thing!'