“But it is dreary whiles, aunt, very dreary, when the wind blows loud, and the winter is here.” Miss Jean smiled.
“I think winter makes less difference to my outlook than it does to yours, Jean, my dear. It’s ay the sea, and ay the same, yet ay changing ilka day o’ the year, be it summer or winter. It is like a friend’s face to me now after all that’s come and gone.”
It was not easy getting below the surface of things, because their thoughts were of the kind not easily spoken. Miss Jean said least, but she looked and listened and was moved by the soft flowing English speech of their new friend, in a way that filled her with amazement, “after all these years,” she said to herself.
By and by May came in, leaving Hugh Corbett in the pony carriage at the door. She hesitated a moment, shy, but smiling, on the threshold, and then Mr Manners led her forward to be kissed and congratulated and made much of by her aunt.
“Ye’ll try and be a good wife—as your mother was,” said Miss Jean softly, and she gave a tearful, appealing glance toward him who had won the child’s heart.
“I love her dearly,” said he gently. “And I will care for her first always.”
“I believe ye,” said Miss Jean.
What with his good, true face, his kindly ways and winning-speech, he had won her good word, as easily as he had won Jean’s “who liked him at the first glance,” as she had told her father.
Mr Manners’ visit was necessarily brief, but when he went away, he carried with him the good-will, and more than the good-will, of them all. Even young Corbett, who had at first resented the break made in the pleasant life they had been living of late by his monopolising Miss May’s time and attention, agreed with the rest at last. They became mutually interested over shells and seaweeds, beetles and birds’ nests, and they were very friendly before Mr Manners went away.
Before his departure Mr Manners put Jean’s friendship to the test.