“Are ye no’ ower weary to be down again, my dear?” said Mr Dawson. “Ye ha’e had an afternoon of exertion and excitement, and ye maun mind that ye ha’e anither dependin’ on ye now.”
“Tired! Do I look tired?” said Marion.
Certainly there was no sign of fatigue in the bright face of the young mother as she came smiling toward him.
“Weel, then, George, ye’ll bring in your aunt and Mrs Calderwood. The dinner has waited long, and it shall wait no longer.” And he gave his arm to Marion as he spoke.
“My dear,” said he, leading her to Jean’s place at the head of the table, “sit ye here, for I doubt Jean will want little dinner the day.” And it was Marion’s seat ever after.
“Has any thing happened to Jean?” said Marion. “Nothing is wrong, I hope.”
“Nothing that can be helpit, I doubt. Ye’ll hear in time, I dare say.” And then he nodded to Mrs Calderwood who had grown very white.
“Ay, it’s the old way. I doubt your Willie is thinking as little of you as my Jean is of me at this moment. But we’ll take our dinner anyway.”
Mrs Calderwood sat down without a word. It was an awkward hour for every one of them, though Miss Jean and her nephew did what they could to keep up conversation for them all. It was all the more so for Mr Dawson, that he was not sure what his own feelings were or ought to be. He sat hardly hearing what was said, though he put in a word now and then, but all the time he was thinking,—
“If any one had said to me four years since that the widow Calderwood’s daughter would be sitting at the head of my table, and that I should be glad to see her there, would I have believed it? And her mother too, the very sight o’ whose widow’s cap used to anger me in the kirk itself. As for Jean, my sister, I ay ken when she’s pleased, though she says nothing. And George too, though I dare say he’s sorry for me, and will say no word to his friend, till I give him leave—as I maun do now, I suppose, whether I’m pleased or no’.”