Marion looked up as she spoke, and encountered a glance from Christian's fine gray eyes which made her feel at once that she had spoken improperly.
"I don't like to hear you speak in that way of my sister, Marion," said Christian, very gravely. "Setting aside your own personal debt of gratitude for her care and kindness ever since you were a baby, there is not a woman in the world more worthy of respect than Barbara McGregor. Yes, Barbara had a love-affair which came to a sorrowful termination. She was troth-plight to a very fine young man named Fergus Kerr, who was mate of an East Indiaman. He engaged for one more voyage before he should be married, with the promise of being promoted to the command of a fine new vessel on his return. The vessel sailed with every prospect of a favourable voyage, and was never heard of again.
"You have a lively imagination, Marion. I leave you to represent to yourself all the agony of suspense and despair before Barbara settled down into her present state of cheerful content and daily self-sacrifice—a self-sacrifice which has grown so complete that she has ceased to be aware of it herself. I have known many good women, but I never knew one better than Barbara."
Mrs. Campbell spoke with an earnestness which brought tears into her eyes. The two walked on in silence a little way, and then Marion broke out again:
"After all, Aunt Christian, all this does not reconcile me to my present way of life, this round of petty details which takes up all my time and is so belittling and cramping. I am sure I am willing to help, and I do. I do half the errands for the family, and more too. I help about the butter and feed the hens and churn. I am willing to sacrifice myself to any extent, but—"
"What do these errands consist in?" asked Aunt Christian.
"Oh, in many little things—in buying sugar and tea, and all such things as we buy at the store, in getting grandfather snuff and going to the post-office, and so on. I am willing to do them, too, but I do feel it a great sacrifice to occupy my mind and time with such trifles."
"But, Marion, don't you eat and drink your share of the sugar and tea and spices and flour? And do not the dairy and the hens help to buy your new frocks and hats, and so on?"
"Yes, I suppose so, of course."
"Well, then, excuse me, my dear, but really is there any such great self-sacrifice in buying your own dinner or your own hats and gloves? Are you not working for yourself all the time?"