"So it would. Well, it was your mother's—your real mother's wish. Fact is, she was very ill when you were born, and there was a bit of Scotch blood in her; she had lived in Aberdeenshire. She was all Aberdeen in every sort of way, through and through, in her nature, I mean; canny, and straight and true, like the real, best Scotch folks. After you were born she had a sort of fever, and she saw purple heather all around her—the heather of the moors. So she begged of me to call the child 'Heather,' and I did. You are called after the moors in Aberdeenshire—a very respectable sort of ancestress, too, eh, Heather, my love, eh, eh?"
"Yes, father."
My father had now recovered his breath; he sat upright and looked at me; he took my hand.
"I have something to say to you," was his remark.
I looked back at him and nodded. Our joyful time together was over now; our time of pain had begun. I knew this fact quite well. I nodded to him emphatically.
"And I have something to say to you."
"Well, Heather, I, being the elder, have the privilege of my years, have I not?"
"You have," I said.
I was glad of this. I was a coward at that moment, and wanted to put off the evil day.
"Well, now, little girl, a straight question requires a straight answer. Why did you leave your mother's house and mine yesterday, and go away without saying a word to anybody? Do you think you acted kindly or well to Lady Helen or myself?"