“He has very seldom spoken to me since—the old days.”
“But that might be because of my father, ye ken,” said May laughing. And then she added gravely, “We may be glad that there is nothing between him and either of us, Jean. It would only have been another heartbreak. I have fancied whiles, that you were thinking about him—but I am very, very glad for your sake that—”
“Of course I have been thinking about him—about him and you. I ought to be glad that I have been only dreaming, as you say, because of my father. But—poor Willie!—I doubt he has been dreaming too.”
“No, Jean, not about me. And even if it had been as you thought, I would never have listened to him, and indeed he never would have spoken after all that’s come and gone.”
“It would not have been the same to my father, as George and Elsie.”
“But coming after—it would have been all that over again, and worse. And Willie Calderwood is as proud and hard about some things, as my father.”
“And that might have kept him from speaking,” said Jean.
“And so it ought, even if he had had any thing to say, which he had not. You need not shake your head as though you didna believe me.”
“I must believe you—since you say so—for yourself. But you may be mistaken about him, though he never spoke.”
“Never spoke!” repeated May, mimicking her sister’s voice and her grave manner. “And do you think I would have needed words to let me know if he had cared for me—in that way? You are wise about some things, Jean, but you are not just so wise as you might be about others. Wait a while.”