“Or George might have changed. He had seen no one else, and though Elsie was good, and bonny too, there was a great difference between her and—and some that we have seen,—ladies educated and accomplished as well as beautiful. And, Jean, I canna but be sorry for my father.”
“Sorry! That says little. My heart is like to break for him whiles—and it might have been so different!” said Jean sadly.
“If he were living, we should have heard from him before this time.”
“Who can say? Oh! he is living! I canna think he is dead. Poor papa, he must have a sore heart often.”
“Jean,” said her sister after a long silence, “do you think he would do it all over again? I mean—do you think he would be as hard on—you or me?”
“Do you mean—Willie?” asked Jean at last. “Well—Willie or another. It is not easy for my father to change.”
“No, it is not. But, May, have patience. Things often come round in strange ways when we least expect it. If George would only come again! How long is it since the ‘John Seaton’ sailed?”
“A good while since.”
Jean could have told her sister the days and even the hours that had passed since then, but she did not. When she asked the question, it was her brother she was thinking of; but May, who could not know that, believed that she was thinking of Willie Calderwood.
“He may be captain next voyage,” said May. “But I wish he could leave the sea altogether. My father could open the way for that, if he chose.”