Some thought of all this came into Graeme’s mind, as she sat watching her while she gathered together the brands with unsteady hands, and with the thought came a little remorse. She had been thinking little of Janet and her trials all these days she had been passing so pleasantly with her books, in the corner of her father’s study. She blamed herself for her thoughtlessness, and resolved that it should not be so in future. In the mean time, it seemed as though she must say something to chase the shadow from the kind face. But she did not know what to say. Janet set down the tongs, and raised herself with a sigh. Graeme drew nearer.
“What is it, Janet?” asked she, laying her hand caressingly on hers. “Winna you tell me?”
Janet gave a startled look into her face.
“What is what, my dear?”
“Something is vexing you, and you winna tell me,” said Graeme, reproachfully.
“Hoot, lassie! what should ail me. I’m weel enough.”
“You are wearying for a letter, maybe. But it’s hardly time yet, Janet.”
“I’m no wearyin’ the night more than usual. And if I got a letter, it mightna give me muckle comfort.”
“Then something ails you, and you winna tell me,” said Graeme again, in a grieved voice.
“My dear, I hae naething to tell.”