“Do you like living in the city?” said Shenac at last.
“For some things I like it—for most things, indeed; but sometimes I long for a sight of the fields and woods, more for my wee Mary’s sake than for my own.”
“This is our wool,” said Shenac, as they entered the barn; “I wish it was spun.”
“Shenac,” said her cousin kindly, “have you not undertaken too much? It’s all very well for you to speak of Hamish and Dan, but the weight must fall on you. I see that plainly.”
But Shenac would not let her think so.
“I only do my share,” said she eagerly.
“I think you could have helped them more by coming to M— and taking a situation. You could learn to do anything, Shenac, if you were to try.”
But Shenac would not listen.
“We must keep together,” said she; “and the land must be kept for Allister. There is no fear. We shall not grow rich, but we can live, if we bide all together and do our best.”
“Shenac,” persisted her cousin, “I do not want to discourage you; but there are so many things which a girl like you ought not to do—cannot do, indeed, without breaking your health. I know. I was the eldest at home. I know what there is to do in a place like yours. The doctor tells me I shall never be quite well again, because of the long strain of hard work and exposure when I was young like you. Think, if your health was to fail.”