“Miss Graeme, my dear, if it’s a wise and right thing for your father to take you all over the sea, the going or the biding o’ your elder brother can make no real difference. You must seek to see the rights o’ this. If your father hasna him to help him with the bairns and—ither things, the more he’ll need you, and you maun hae patience, and strive no’ to disappoint him. You hae muckle to be thankful for—you that can write to ane anither like a printed book, to keep ane anither in mind. There’s nae fear o’ your growin’ out o’ acquaintance, and he’ll soon follow, you may be sure. Oh, lassie, lassie! if you could only ken!”
Graeme raised herself up, and leaned both her arms on Janet’s lap.
“Janet, what did your mother say?”
Janet gulped something down, and said, huskily,—
“Oh! she said many a thing, but she made nae wark about it. I told your father I would go, and I will. My mother doesna object.”
“And Sandy?” said Graeme, softly, for there was something working in Janet’s face, which she did not like to see.
“Sandy will aye hae my mother, and she’ll hae Sandy. But, lassie, it winna bear speaking about to-night. Gang awa’ to your bed.”
Graeme rose; but did not go.
“But couldna Sandy go with us? It would only be one more. Surely, Janet—”
Janet made a movement of impatience, or entreaty, Graeme did not know which, but it stopped her.