Kenneth did not leave her till the bundle of firewood was deposited in the hut, and Morag had promised to come and pay them a visit at the cottage that afternoon.
And as he went sauntering down the hill with his hands in his pockets, whistling a tune, he thought what a very nice girl Morag was; and how glad he felt that it was not she who had gone away from the Glen. And he further decided that such a great bundle of sticks was much too heavy for a girl to carry, and resolved that, in future, he should always be in attendance to carry home the firewood.
As Morag re-entered the cottage, and glanced round the empty room, she saw something lying on the earthen floor which she had not dropped there; and stooping down, she picked up a little, half-worn glove, which told a tale. She looked eagerly round, as if some lingering presence of its owner must still pervade. Her bonnie wee leddy was leal and true after all, and she felt remorseful that she had doubted her for a moment. Kissing the token reverently, she opened the old kist, and slipped it between the folds of her most precious book, where it remained a sacred relic of that morning's visitor for many a long year.
[XIII.]
BACK IN LONDON.
T was a foggy November afternoon; the color of the surrounding atmosphere was almost as yellow as the gorgeous damask hangings which draped Mr. Clifford's handsome drawing-room. Our friend Blanche was wandering listlessly up and down the room, in one of her most restless moods, her governess remarked, as she looked up from a piece of elaborate lace-work which was growing rapidly under her diligent fingers.
It was the usual hour for walking, but the unpleasant weather had kept them indoors. Blanche seemed to find this play-hour extremely dull, and appeared to have failed in all her efforts to amuse herself. On one of the couches there lay open a beautiful drawing-room book of engravings, which she had been looking at, but she knew all the pictures by heart already, so she soon tired of turning the leaves. Then she went to the piano to try over some old chorales of her mamma's copying, which she had found among her music; but Miss Prosser presently remarked that she might play something more lively on such a dismal day as this, so Blanche, at last, glided away among the curtains, and stood looking out on the dense fog. The amber gloom enveloped even the nearest objects, so there was really nothing to see from the window, though Blanche stood gazing out intently. But there was a far-away look in her eyes which seemed to betoken that it was a mental picture which absorbed her.
Miss Prosser again glanced uneasily at her little charge; but this time she did not speak. Her pupil had been rather a puzzle to her of late, and she would gladly have shared her thoughts as she stood there. It was not her habit, however, to elicit confidences of any kind from her pupils; and, indeed, till quite lately, it had not been necessary in Blanche Clifford's case. Her nature was so frank and gay that her thoughts were generally shared by those nearest to her, whether they were sympathetic listeners or not. But, of late, a change had been stealing over the little girl. She had grown more quiet and self-contained than she used to be. Less wayward and troublesome she certainly was, but her governess sometimes thought, as she looked at her thoughtful face, that she would gladly welcome back some of the old boisterous ways which she used to characterize so severely.