But they did not go in the morning as they meant to do. They lingered long over the breakfast-table, and then in the garden and in the wood, and the father and son went down the burn and through the green parks beyond, never thinking how the time was passing, till Jean came to tell them that dinner was waiting.
After dinner they went to the town. But they did not go down the High-street. They were both shy at the thought of all the eyes that would be upon them there.
“And it should be your aunt first,” said Mr Dawson.
So they went down a lane that led straight to the sea and then turned to Miss Jean’s house.
“You’ll go in by yourself and I’ll step on and come back in a while,” said his father.
He had not stepped far before a hand touched his arm, and a pair of shining eyes met his.
“Oh, Mr Dawson! Is it George come home? And isna your heart like to break for joy?”
There were tears as well as smiles on the beautiful face that looked up into his with joyful sympathy and with entire confidence that sympathy would be welcome. For an instant Mr Dawson met her look with strangely contending emotions. Then a strange thing happened. He took the bonny moved face between his two hands, and stooping down, kissed it “cheek and chin” without a word.
He would not have believed the thing possible a minute before, he could hardly believe if a minute afterwards, as he turned back again towards his sister’s house. Mrs Cairnie coming slowly down the street saw it—and then she doubted, telling herself, that “her e’en were surely nae marrows,” or that the last “drappie” she had taken at “The Kail Stock” had been ower muckle for her, and the first person to whom she told the story thought the same.
Bonny Marion’s mother and brother saw it from the window of their own house: he with amazement, she with dismay.