Jean stood looking at it for a moment, with the strangest mingling of emotions—joy for her sister, sorrow for herself—a feeling as if the old familiar life were come to an end, and a new life beginning; nay, as if the very foundations of things were being removed.
“We can never be the same again—never,” she said, with a sharp touch of pain at her heart. “I have lost my bonny May.”
It was foolish to be grieved, it was worse than foolish to be angry, at the thought of change; but she knew that if she were to look closely into her heart, she would find both grief and anger there.
“I canna help it, but I needna yield to it,” she said; and then she turned resolutely toward the kitchen, where Beckie was awaiting necessary directions with regard to dinner.
She lingered over her arrangements, and by and by put her own hands to some of them, for she found it impossible to settle quietly to any thing, though she told herself that her restlessness was foolish and not to be excused. It took her out of the house at last, and down the walk past the well and through the wood, where she had many times gone during the last few months to the most sweet and peaceful spot in all the world, she thought—where her mother and her little brother and sisters lay; and here, after a while, her father found her. He was not free from restlessness either, it seemed. Jean rose as he drew near.
“Where is your sister? Should you have left her?” asked he doubtfully.
Jean shook her head and laughed.
“They shut the door upon me.”
“Ay! He’s in earnest, yon lad. You like him, Jean? Though it’s soon to ask.”
“Not too soon. I liked him the first glance I got of him. He has a good, true face. Yes; I like him.”