“It might have been, but I dinna think it. Mrs Calderwood is a proud woman, Jean, my dear,—and—”
“Well?”
“Weel, ye have been consorting with fine folk lately, and maybe—”
“Auntie Jean! Dinna say more, for that is not your real thought; and that is a terrible thing to say of you.”
“My dear, it is my real thought, as far as it goes. I ha’e little doubt that was present in Mrs Calderwood’s mind when she met you in the High-street—with other things.”
“We’ll take the other things first then,” said Jean, the angry colour rising in her cheeks. “You must think your friend but a poor creature, or she must think it of us.”
It was the first time in all the girl’s life, that her eyes with an angry light in them had rested fully on her aunt’s face. Her aunt did not resent it, or notice it, except by a gentle movement of her head from side to side, and the shadow of a smile passed over her face. She looked grave enough as she answered, however.
“I am far from thinking her a poor creature, whatever she may think of us. And, Jean, my dear, I think ye maun ken something of the other things, though ye never heard them from me.”
Jean’s look grew soft and sad, and she came and leaned on her aunt’s chair.
“Do you mean about bonny Elsie, and—our Geordie? Was it because of Elsie that Geordie went—and lost himself? Tell me about it.”