“Oh! Janet, you must not ask. I have come to the point when ladies don’t like to answer that question, as you might very well know, if you would stop to consider a minute.”
“And what point may that be, if I may ask?”
“Oh! it is not to be told. Do you know Fanny begins to shake her head over me, and to call me an old maid.”
“Ay! that is ay the way with these young wives,” said Janet, scornfully. “There must be near ten years between you and Rose.”
“Yes, quite ten years, and she is almost a woman—past sixteen. I am growing old.”
“What a wee white Rose she was, when she first fell to your care, dear. Who would have thought then that she would ever have grown to be the bonny creature she is to-day?”
“Is she not lovely? And not vain or spoiled, though it would be no wonder if she were, she is so much admired. Do you mind what a cankered wee fairy she used to be?”
“I mind well the patience that never wearied of her, even at the worst of times,” said Mrs Snow, laying her hand tenderly on Graeme’s bowed head.
“I was weary and impatient often. What a long time it is since those days, and yet it seems like yesterday.” And Graeme sighed.
“Were you sighing because so many of your years lie behind you, my bairn?” said Mrs Snow, softly.