“Does your mother think ye’re like your sister?” said she, evading the question.
“My mother hardly ever speaks about my sister. But once—some one said—that I minded him of her.”
As she spoke, a feint, sweet colour overspread her face. Her eyes did not fall before the grave eyes of her old friend, but there came into them a soft, bright gleam, “like a glint o’ sunshine on the sea,” Miss Jean told herself as she gazed.
“Ay, ye’re like her. I think them that mind her weel would say that ye’re like her.”
Marion’s head drooped and rested on her hand.
“Whiles I wonder how it would have seemed if Elsie hadna died.”
“It was a mysterious Providence indeed, her early death. The living should lay it to heart,” said Miss Jean; and then she took up the book that lay at her hand—a sign that no more was to be said at that time.