"Sir," she said, turning to the elder of the two men, "you are here by my brother's orders, not mine. I am leaving just now, but I protest against the sale of this place, which is mine, and I intend one day returning to it."
With a slight bend of her head she went out into the rain, and before the two men could recover themselves she was seated in a waggonette which had been ready for some time, and, accompanied by Jean, was soon whirling along the road; her heart so hot with indignation that the pain and sorrow of going away was merged in that feeling.
At the station were the Macfarlanes with many a thoughtful gift for poor Mrs. Dorriman, and it was not till the train steamed out of the station, not till the last wave of the friendly hands grew dim in the distance, that the poor woman's fortitude gave way, and that, seated alone with no prying eye upon her, she wept, and the soreness of her heart grew better as the tension gave way to this feminine luxury.
The journey was troublesome more than long, there were two or three changes, and at one station two travellers got in accompanied by a bright-eyed middle-aged woman. At first Mrs. Dorriman was too much wrapped up in her own sad thoughts to take heed of what was passing, but she was at length roused by hearing her brother's name mentioned.
"John Sandford is coming out in a new light," said the lady, laughing and showing a row of pretty teeth. "Fancy his adopting two girls!"
"I am sorry for the girls. Who are they?" asked the elder of the two men.
"I have not an idea—but I should think he had some strong reason for going out of his usual way."
"I am very sorry for the girls too," laughed the lady, who looked as though she had never had any acquaintance with sorrow herself.
"They are probably in some way a charge upon him. John Sandford's not a man to do anything for nothing, it's not in him."
Mrs. Dorriman knew she ought to say something, but she literally had not the courage to throw such discomfiture among them.