“And she will have him for her own at last.”
Neither spoke for a long time after this. Jean’s head drooped lower, and though her eyes were on the sea, it was not the harbour of Portie that she saw, but a wide waste of ocean with a labouring ship, making for her desired haven, it might be, but bringing no one home to her. She rose and moved restlessly about the room.
“I wish you were able to go for a little walk, auntie. Dinna ye think it might do ye good to take a turn or two up and down by the sea?”
“No’ the day, my dear. But if ye would like to go out, never heed me. I think myself that a walk would do you good, or a fine long seam, such as your mother used to give you to do, when your restlessness was ower muckle for yourself and others. But the walk would be more to your mind, I dare say.” Jean laughed.
“But then, I have the long seam ready to my hands,” said she, sitting down again and taking up her work resolutely. By and by, when she forgot it and her face was turned seaward again, her aunt laid down hers also and said softly, with a certain hesitation,—
“Jean, my dear, did you and Willie Calderwood part friends?”
Jean sat absolutely motionless for a minute or two. “Yes, aunt, we were friends always. As to parting—”
“Weel—as to parting?”
“We had no parting. He went away without a word.”
“That was hardly like a friend on his part,” said Miss Jean gravely, and then in a little she added,—