“What is she going to do? What is the matter?” said Margaret, turning to the twins.
“She can’t help it,” said Sylvia; “she must do it. She is going to howl.”
“To do what?” said Margaret Grant.
“Howl. Did you never howl? Well, perhaps you never did. Anyhow, she must get away as far as possible before she begins, and we had better go back to the house. You wouldn’t like the sound of Betty’s howling.”
“But are you going to let her howl, as you call it, alone?”
“Let her? We have no voice in the matter,” replied Hester. “Betty always does exactly what she likes. Let’s go quickly; let’s get away. It’s the best thing she can do. She’s been keeping in that howling-fit for over a week, and it must find vent. She’ll be all right when you see her next. But don’t, on any account, ever again mention the heather that we brought from Craigie Muir. She may get over its death some day, but not yet.”
“Your sister is a very strange girl,” said Margaret.
“Every one says that,” replied Sylvia. “Don’t they, Het?”
“Yes; we’re quite tired of hearing it,” said Hetty. “But do let’s come quickly. Which is the farthest-off part of the grounds—the place where we are quite certain not to hear?”
“You make me feel almost nervous,” said Margaret. “But come along, if you wish to.”