But Mrs. Dorriman must never know that she had made a sacrifice to be near her; and with a fair attempt at a laugh she said—
"You know, my dear, I was always ill to command. Better this than be under a mistress who might be a harder mistress than ever you were to do with."
Mrs. Dorriman could not speak. She looked round the room to see in what way she could help to make things comfortable. She resolved that something should be done to the windows, and she noted other things. But the feeling uppermost in her mind was, that it would not be for long. Jean and herself—they would at no distant day wend their way back to the hill-side together.
"And are you happy? Are you comfortable, my dear?" asked Jean, "How is it with you?"
"I am comfortable, Jean, and have all to make me comfortable; but, like you, I miss the great purple hills, the life and light of the sea, the freedom and brightness of Inchbrae."
"And yet you speak cheerfully, my dear;" and the poor woman looked wistfully at her former mistress.
"I speak cheerfully, Jean," and Mrs. Dorriman rose and laid her hand caressingly upon the old woman's shoulder, "because, Jean, the darkest and longest day comes to an end; you and I will go back to the light and the sunshine. We shall go back, Jean, there again."
"But the place is sold; it has passed into the hands of a stranger," said the old woman, wondering.
"We shall go back," said Mrs. Dorriman, firmly. "Yes, Jean, that hope keeps me from despair; that conviction comforts me. We shall go back to Inchbrae once more," and so saying she left her.