“And what about this, deacon?” asked Mr Elliott, laying his hand on the purse that Sampson had placed on the table.
But Mr Snow had little to say about it. If he knew where the idea of the minister’s holidays originated, he certainly did not succeed in making it clear to the minister and Graeme.
“But that matters little, as long as it is to be,” said Mrs Snow, coming to the deacon’s relief. “And it has all been done in a good spirit, and in a proper and kindly manner, and from the best of motives,” added she, looking anxiously from Graeme to her father.
“You need not be afraid, my kind friends,” said Mr Elliott, answering her look, while his voice trembled. “The gift shall be accepted in the spirit in which it is offered. It gives me great pleasure.”
“And, Miss Graeme, my dear,” continued Mrs Snow, earnestly, “you needna look so grave about it. It is only what is right and just to your father—and no favour—though it has been a great pleasure to all concerned. And surely, if I’m satisfied, you may be.”
Sampson gave a short laugh.
“She’s changed her mind about us Merleville folks lately—”
“Whist, man! I did that long ago. And, Miss Graeme, my dear, think of seeing your brothers, and their friends, and yon fine country, and the grand river that Harry tells us of! It will be almost like seeing Scotland again, to be in the Queen’s dominions. My dear, you’ll be quite glad when you get time to think about it.”
“Yes—but do they really think papa is so ill?”
She had risen to get a light, and Mrs Snow had followed her from the room.