“May, have you forgotten a year ago?—how you came here a year ago, because he asked you? Of course he could not speak, because of my father. Do you mean that he doesna care for you—more than for any one else.”
“He has kept it to himself, if he does. Oh! yes, I know—my father. But if he had had any thing to say, he would have said it, or I would have guessed it. I don’t know why you should have taken the like of that into your head.”
“I saw him seeking you out wherever we met. He said more to you at such times than to all the rest of us put together. He followed you always. Every one saw it as well as I. And then the day he went away—”
“Oh, Jean, what nonsense! I came that day to please you. You made me come. You must mind that well enough. As for his asking me, it was more than half in jest. I am sure he did not expect me to come. And he never could have seen us, on such a day.”
“And do you mean that if he were to come home to Portie and not find you here, it would be all the same to him?”
“Oh! he’ll find me here when he comes, and I shall be glad to see him safe and well. But he has no right to expect a warmer welcome from me than from—any other friend, and he doesna expect it.”
Jean looked at her in amazement.
“Have I been dreaming all the year?” said she.
“It would seem so. I have just as much right to ask you about Willie Calderwood, as you have to ask me.”
Jean shook her head.