“Papa never speaks to me, May,” Milly said, who was half-frightened, half-flattered by being thus chosen for her father’s companion. “He never says anything but ‘My bonnie bairn!’ And sometimes, ‘May will be kind to her—May will be kind to her.’ That is all he ever says.”
“You must try and get him to talk, my dear,” said Uncle Charles. “Make remarks, if it was only upon the sea and the rocks, or the fishing-boats, and the way they hang about in-shore. If he but said, ‘Hoots! hold your tongue, Milly,’ it would be something gained.”
“Oh, Uncle Charles, what remarks can I make,” said Milly, “and me so little? Only when he says May will be kind to me, I greet—I mean I cry; and then he pats me on the head. As if I ever expected any other thing of May!”
“My little darling!” Marjory said, holding her close, “as if there was anybody, but a monster, that would not be kind to you.”
Another time it would be Fleming who would be the expositor.
“Mr. Charlie should hurry hame,” the old servant said, shaking his head. “I’m no a man of many words; but, Miss Marjory, he should hurry hame.”
“I hope he is coming, Fleming, as fast as winds and waves can bring him.”
“Lord! what’s the good of that telegraph?” said Fleming. “If a body could travel by’t, when they’re sair wanted, it would be worth having—instead o’ thae blackguard messages that plunge a hail house in trouble without a why or a wherefore. Ay, he should hurry hame.”
“Why do you say so?” asked Marjory, more anxious than the others.
“Because—humph!” said Fleming, pausing, and looking round upon them. “Miss Marjory, a’ the world’s no young like you, and heedless. I have my reasons. You ken nothing about it—nothing about it. Eh, but I hope he’ll hurry hame!”