But at the moment a sudden outcry arose somewhere in the garden. They could see nothing where they were sitting, but they heard the sound of many voices—entreating, expostulating, scolding, and at last they heard words.
“Ye needna tell, May. Naebody will ken wha did it.”
“I wouldna tell Mr Dawson—for—oh! for ony thing.”
“An’ naebody will ken that it was you that did it.”
“It wasna me, but it was my fault; and if Sandy winna tell, I must, and just take the wyte (blame) mysel’.”
“Eh! Marion! Yon’s him speaking to the leddy. I wouldna be you for something.”
“Something untoward has happened, I doubt,” said Miss Jean. “I hope no ill has come to any of the apple-trees.”
Now Mr Dawson’s apple-trees were the pride of his heart. It is not easy to raise fruit trees of any kind so near to the sea; and as far as apple-trees are concerned, the fruit is not of the best, when success has crowned persevering effort. But on a few young trees, bearing for the first time, there hung several apples beautiful to behold, and they had been watched through all the season with interest by every one in the house, but above all by Mr Dawson. So when Miss Jean said “apple-trees,” he rose at once to satisfy himself that they were safe.
But alas! before he had fairly turned to go, all doubt was at an end. There were many children at a little distance, and two or three were drawing near, and in the hand of one, a girl in her teens, was a broken branch, on which hung two of the half dozen apples from the best of all the trees. Mr Dawson had watched them with too great interest not to know just where the little branch belonged. He did not speak,—indeed the little maiden did not give him time.
“It was a’ my wyte, Mr Dawson, and I’m very grieved,” said she, holding up the branch, and looking up into his face with eager, wistful eyes.