“And, Jean, love, were ye never mair than friends?” Then Jean rose, and turning looked straight in her aunt’s face.
“No. Never more than friends. You surely havena been thinking ill thoughts of Willie, auntie?”
“That’s nae likely. But whiles I ha’e wondered—and now that he is coming hame—” Jean stood a moment irresolute, and then coming forward she sat down on a hassock at her aunt’s feet, as she often did, and leaned her head upon her hand.
“Jean, my dear, have ye nothing to say to me?”
“No, aunt. There is nothing. I have no more right to grieve or to be glad for Willie Calderwood than any one of his many friends in Portie.”
“Grief or gladness is whiles no’ a question o’ rights,” said Miss Jean gently.
Jean said nothing. She was too weary and spent to be very angry with herself for the weakness which had betrayed her secret. But she had strength and courage to shut her lips on the words that rose to them. And before her aunt had time for another word they heard Mrs Calderwood speaking to Nannie at the door. Except for a sudden bright colour that had risen to her cheeks, Jean was just as usual when she came in.
“There’s nae news?” said Miss Jean.
This had long been her first salutation to any one coming in.
“No, there is nothing more,” said Mrs Calderwood.