“Miss Mason doesn’t mean to be abrupt,” he said. “It’s merely her manner. She finds it difficult to express——”
Andrew turned on him. “Man, d’ye think I dinna ken. D’ye think ‘I’m maist obleeged’ told juist all that was in ma heart. I cud e’en ha’ knelt an’ ha’ kissed the hem o’ her skir-rt. An’ gin I had I’d ha’ been sobbin’ like a wee bit wean.” Andrew swallowed once or twice fiercely.
Then he saw the little faun.
“Ay,” he said, “yon’s bonny. I wad like fine to make a figure to stand in t’ auld lady’s garden, but aiblins she like it a wee bit draipit.”
“Charity,” laughed Barnabas, “colossal and in many robes.”
“Huh!” said Andrew scornfully, “it’s ha’ gran’ figure o’ Charity I was thinkin’ o’, but juist a wee figure o’ smilin’ Love wi’ his hands held oot to draw folk to his hearrt.”
And a year later such a little figure did stand—not in the garden—but in a corner of Miss Mason’s studio.
When Andrew had gone Barnabas went back into the studio.
“We disappointed you,” said Miss Mason. “That boy’s no more good at expressing his feelings than I am.”
“I understand,” said Barnabas lightly. “He managed though to say a bit more in the garden. By the way,” he went on, “no one has called to claim the ring yet, I suppose?”