“What’s the lassie at now, with her picturing and her nonsense?” said her aunt, not sure whether she should be pleased with all this. “I’m just as usual, and so is the room. No more like a picture than on other days.”
She was in full dress—according to her ideas of full dress—and she was that every day of the year. She had on a gown of some soft black stuff, the skirt of which was partly covered by a wide black silk apron. A snowy kerchief was pinned across her breast, and fastened at her neck with a plain gold brooch, showing a braid of hair of mingled black and grey. Her cap was made in the fashion worn by the humblest of her countrywomen, but it was made of the finest and clearest lawn, and the full “set up” borders were edged with the daintiest of “thread” lace, and so were the wide strings tied beneath her chin. Not a spot nor a speck was visible upon it, or upon any part of her dress, nor indeed on any article which the room contained. She and her room together would have made a picture homely and commonplace enough, but it would have been a pleasing picture, with a certain quaint beauty of its own.
“It is that you are so peaceful in here always, and untroubled. That is what May means when she says it is like a picture in a book. And after the wind, and the sleet, and the stormy sea, it is quieting and restful to look in upon you.”
“Weel, maybe. But it is the same picture ilka day o’ the year, and I weary of it whiles. And the oftener you look in upon it, the better it will be for me. What ails the lassie? Canna ye bide still by the fire?”
For Jean had risen from her low seat, and was over at the window again.
“The clouds are breaking away. It is going to be fair, I think. We’ll need to be going, May, or we may be late. I’ll come over to-morrow, auntie, and good-bye for to-day.”
“But, lassie, what’s a’ your haste? Your father will be sure to come for you. Bide still where you are.”
“I think I’ll bide still, anyway,” said May. “I am no’ going, Jeannie. I’m no’ caring to go.”
“Yes, you are coming with me,” said her sister sharply. “You must come. I want to speak to you—and—yes, come away.”
May pouted and protested, but she followed her sister to the kitchen where they had left their cloaks, and they went away together. They kept for a while in the shelter of the houses nearest the sea, but they did not speak till they were beyond these. The wind was still high, but neither rain nor sleet was falling, and they paused a minute to take breath before they turned to meet it again.