There was no one in the usual sitting-room, no one in the bright kitchen beyond, and, going to the foot of the stairs, Graeme raises her voice, which has an echo of impatience in it still, and calls:
“Mrs Nasmyth.”
For Janet is oftener called Mrs Nasmyth than the old name, even by the bairns now, except at such times as some wonderful piece of coaxing is to be done, and then she is Janet, the bairn’s own Janet still. There was no coaxing echo in Graeme’s voice, however, but she tried to chase the vexed shadow from her face as her friend came slowly down the stairs.
“Are you not going to sit down?” asked Graeme, as she seated herself on a low stool by the window. “I wonder where the bairns are?”
“The bairns are gone down the brae,” said Mrs Nasmyth; “and I’m just going to sit down to my seam a wee while.”
But she seemed in no hurry to sit down, and Graeme sat silent for a little, as she moved quietly about the room.
“Janet,” said she, at last, “what brings Deacon Snow so often up here of late?”
Janet’s back was toward Graeme, and, without turning round, she answered:
“I dinna ken that he’s oftener here than he used to be. He never stayed long away. He was ben the house with the minister. I didna see him.” There was another pause.
“Janet,” said Graeme again, “what do you think Mrs Greenleaf told me all Merleville is saying?”