“Ye have brought her with ye,” said Marg’ret half reproachfully when Anne had been placed in a chair before the fire.
“She had the same right as I. We have both deserted the old house.”
“Oh, my bonny dear, but not the same. Kirsteen, my lamb—ye’re all well, all well?”
Marg’ret searched with longing eyes the face that had so long been lost to her. Some things she knew, many she divined. She asked no question but looked and saw, and sighed and shook her head. The face was not the girl’s face she knew; but she was not aware that the change in it had come within the last six months, the setting of the mobile lines with a certain fixedness, the mysterious depths that had come into the laughing, flashing, soft, fierce eyes she knew, the eyes that were made of light. Behind the light there was now a deep sea, of which the meanings were hidden and manifold.
“There’s no question of me,” said Kirsteen, meeting her look steadfastly, “but of my mother—”
“She is just herself,” said Marg’ret, “just herself, poor body. The end is coming fast and she has little fear of it. Oh, I think very little fear; but taken up with small things as she always was.”
“Will ye go up? The Laird is about the house: and I am feared he will make some stramash when he sees ye. If ye were to wait till he is in bed? She has not said a word about ye all day, but I’ve seen her as if she was listening. She’ll maybe have had some inkling from the Lord that her bairn was coming. She’s real peaceable and contented,” said Marg’ret, putting her apron to her eyes. “The Almichty is just dealing with her like a petted bairn. She’s no feared—her that aye thought the grasshopper a burden—I ken fine that she has been looking for ye the livelang day.”
“I will just go up,” said Kirsteen again.
“And what am I to do with her?”