“You have Sandy still.”
“Aye, thank God. May He have him in His keeping.”
“And he will come yet.”
“Yes, I have little doubt. But I’ll no’ set myself to the hewing out of broken cisterns this while again. The Lord kens best.”
After that night Mrs Snow never left the house for many hours at a time till Menie went away. Graeme never told her father of the sorrow that was drawing near. As the days went on, she saw by many a token, that he knew of the coming parting, but it did not seem to look sorrowful to him. He was much with her now, but all could see that the hours by her bedside were not sorrowful ones to him or to her. But to Graeme he did not speak of her sister’s state till near the very last.
They were sitting together in the firelight of the study, as they seldom sat now. They had been sitting thus a long time—so long that Graeme, forgetting to wear a cheerful look in her father’s presence, had let her weary eyes close, and her hands drop listlessly on her lap. She looked utterly weary and despondent, as she sat there, quite unconscious that her father’s eyes were upon her.
“You are tired to-night, Graeme,” said he, at last. Graeme started, but it was not easy to bring her usual look back, so she busied herself with something at the table and did not speak. Her father sighed.
“It will not be long now.”
Graeme sat motionless, but she had no voice with which to speak.
“We little thought it was our bonny Menie who was to see her mother first. Think of the joy of that meeting, Graeme!”