“Yes. About Aunt Jean. ‘A solitary single woman?’ No. Not solitary. That has such a sorrowful sound. Oh! she is not solitary in an unhappy sense; even when she is quite alone in her own house by the sea.”
“What I mean is, that she has neither husband nor child. She is alone in that sense. And if ye think that she hasna whiles felt—weel—as if she had missed something in life—that’s no’ my thought.”
“Yes—and that is part of the discipline, I suppose. Missed something—yes. But then, having had these things she might have missed that which makes her different from, and better than, any one else. I ken no one like my Aunt Jean.”
“Weel—ye’re no’ far wrong there. And if ye had kenned her in her youth, you would have said the same. There were none like her then more than now. But she’s growing unco frail-like now, poor body?” added Mr Dawson with a sigh.
And then there was more said. Mr Dawson went on to tell many stories of his sister’s youth, all going to prove that there were few like her for sense and goodness even then. Most of these his daughters had heard before, but they liked to listen all the same. And Mr Dawson forgot his letters, and Jean forgot that it was only to keep his eyes away from them, that she had begun to speak about her aunt, and she took courage because of her success.
Chapter Nine.
An Invitation.
She was not always so successful; still she was successful to a degree that surprised herself, in withdrawing her father from the silent and sombre musings which of late had become habitual to him. This was the work which she set herself. Her time, while he was in the house, or near it, was given to him. She disturbed him doubtless now and then when he would have been better pleased to be left to himself; but upon the whole he responded to her advances, and by and by showed in many ways that he counted upon her interest in whatever he might be doing, and on such help as she could give.