“Are ye angry with me, sir? And winna ye forgive me?” said Maysie, the sweet wistfulness coming back to her eyes. “I’m very grieved.”
“It canna be helpit. Never heed,” said Mr Dawson, repeating his sister’s words. “I dinna think I mind your name,” added he, not meaning to say it, but making a great effort to recover himself.
“I’m Marion Calderwood,” said she, a sudden brightness, followed by a cloud as sudden, passing over her face. She lifted beseeching eyes to his face, and then she turned to Miss Jean.
“Run awa’, lassie, with the lave o’ the bairns,” said Miss Jean.
“Maybe I should go hame?”
“Hoot, lassie! Never heed. Only run away with the lave.”
Quite unconscious that he owed an apology to Mrs Eastwood for his abrupt departure, Mr Dawson turned and strode off in another direction.
“They must be precious apples,” said Mrs Eastwood, looking after him with surprise not unmingled with disgust.
“It’s an old trouble,” said Miss Jean sorrowfully. “He’ll hear none o’ her fine words the night,” she added to herself, conscious, amid her trouble, of some satisfaction that it should be so.
No, Mr Dawson was not likely to listen patiently to words of any kind that night. The very first look from the child’s eyes smote his heart with a pang in which there was regret, as well as anger and pain. For a sudden remembrance of eyes as sweet, and with the same look of wistful appeal in them came back to him—the eyes of bonny Elsie Calderwood, who had come between him and his son.