Annie’s beautiful brown eyes and Helen’s heavenly blue ones exchanged a long, meaningful glance.
“Ah, well, Helen,” said Annie, “you will be remembering the old song:
“‘We twa ha’ rin aboot the braes,
And pu’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wandered monie a weary fit
Sin’ auld lang syne.’”
“We’ve wandered monie a weary foot to-day, my dear,” answered Miss Helen, a trifle flippantly.
“I never heard so much ‘my dearing,’” thought Billie. “Will Cousin Helen never introduce us?”
“And which will be my other American cousin?” asked Miss Annie, with the evident intention of putting bygones out of her mind and being entirely polite and charming. “But I can guess without being told,” she added, embracing Billie. “You’re the image of your father, child. You have the same gray eyes; the same glint of gold color in the hair. You’re a Campbell, indeed, and glad I am to welcome you to Edinburgh.”
Miss Annie spoke with a beautiful English accent and only occasionally lapsed into Scotch dialect. There was a decided b-r-r-r to her r’s at all times, however, especially when she was telling an anecdote, and she told numbers of them during that memorable visit.
While Billie introduced her friends and greetings were being exchanged, Miss Helen turned her somewhat agitated gaze about the fine old room. The polished surfaces of the floor and mahogany tables and cabinets reflected the glow of the wood fire and the shining brass of the fender. On a corner of the mantel was a Canton jar filled with peacock feathers, which, with the red damask curtains at the windows and the old faded Turkey rug, gave a certain richness to the room,—the luster of time and careful usage.
“Not a thing changed, I see,” observed Miss Helen, “not even the peacocks’ feathers in the Canton vase.”
There was an accusing note in her voice when Miss Annie replied: