In the evening John Beaton came in. Marjorie was already in her bed, but she was not asleep; and they wrapped her in a plaid, and brought her into the parlour again to see her friend. She had the same story to tell. She was glad, and she was sorry; but she was not afraid, since Allison was with her.
“I will have her all to myself,” said Marjorie.
John stooped to touch with his lips the little hand that lay on his arm.
“Happy little Marjorie,” he whispered in her ear.
She soon fell asleep, and was carried away to bed again. While Allison lingered beside her, John said to his friend:
“Robin, my lad, go up to your books for a while. I must have a word with Allison.”
Robin nodded his head, but he did not move till Allison returned. Then he started up in great haste.
“I must see Guthrie for a minute. Don’t go till I come back, John,” said he. “Can I do anything for you, Allison?”
“Nothing more,” said Allison; and Robin disappeared.
There was nothing said for a while. Allison took up her work. She was taking a few necessary stitches for the student, she said. They spoke about the child, and about those at home who would miss her greatly, and about other things.