The eldest sister was standing with her face touching the window.
“The sea looks fearsome over yonder,” said she.
“Ay. But they’ll ha’e room enough when once they are outside the harbour bar, and then the wind will drive them off the rocks and out to sea; and they are in God’s hands.”
“Auntie Jean,” said the girl turning a pale face toward her, “why do you say the like of that to-day?”
“It’s true the day as it’s true ilka day. Why should I no’ say it? My dear, the thought of it is a consolation to many a puir body in Portie the day.”
“But it sounds almost like a prophecy of evil to—to the ‘John Seaton,’ as you said it. And the sea is fearsome,” repeated she, turning her face to the window again.
“Lassie, come in by to the fire. Ye’re trembling with cold, and I dare say ye’re feet are no’ so dry as they should be. Come in by and put them to the fire.”
“But we havena long to bide.”
However she came at her aunt’s bidding, and sat down on a stool, shading her face with a paper that she took from the table.
“Auntie Jean,” said May, “I have seen just such a picture in a book, as you would make if you were painted just as you are, with your hands folded on your lap, and your stocking and your ball of worsted beside you, and your glasses lying on the open book. Look, Jeannie, look at auntie. Is she not like a picture as she sits now?”