“Oh no! I only wondered why I didna hear them.”
The wind howled drearily about the house, and they listened to it for a time in silence.
“It’s no’ like spring to-night, Janet,” said Menie.
“No, dear, it’s as wintry a night as we have had this while. But the wind is changing to the south now, and we’ll soon see the bare hills again.”
“Yes; I hope so,” said Menie, softly.
“Are you wearying for the spring, dear?”
“Whiles I weary.” But the longing in those “bonny e’en” was for no earthly spring, Janet well knew.
“I aye mind the time when I gathered the snowdrops and daisies, and the one rose, on my mother’s birthday. It was long before this time of the year—and it seems long to wait for spring.”
“Ay, I mind; but that was in the sheltered garden at the Ebba. There were no flowers blooming on the bare hills in Scotland then more than here. You mustna begin to weary for the spring yet. You’ll get down the brae soon, maybe, and then you winna weary.”
Menie made no answer, but a spasm passed over the face of Graeme. The same thought was on the mind of all the three. When Menie went down the brae again, it must be with eyelids closed, and with hands folded on a heart at rest forever.