Miss Insches paused with an incipient tear in her eye. The worshipped minister son, of whom the mother at home was so proud—the omnipotent brother whose slightest word was law—alas! was he to cease to be an idol—to come down from his absolute throne, and be limited to a constitutional monarchy like any other man, with perhaps a young, proud wife exacting service from him, instead of rendering the devoted homage which was Robert’s due? Miss Insches’s eye again wandered over the shining tables of the sacred drawing-room, and her heart was troubled.
“He’s aye had his ain way, puir man!” she repeated, mournfully, as she carefully closed the door and sighed. Poor Robert! he was to be married, as all Fendie said—he was to have his own way no longer.
The Reverend Robert was seated at his writing table in the library; it was a study day. Miss Insches stole noiselessly in, closed the door, and took her seat at the window, with her seam in her hand. Robert was writing his sermon; the good sister sewed those new shirts of his in devout silence; when her thread fell she picked it up with a look of guilt—she might have disturbed Robert. Foolish Robert! the young wife would not reverence his stillness so.
“Janet,” said Robert, graciously, “we are to dine at Kirkmay on Monday. I have just had a note from Mrs Whyte.”
“Ye dinna mean me, too, Robert?” said Miss Insches.
“Certainly I mean you too, Janet,” said the young man, with some impatience. “Why, you have been at Kirkmay before.”
“Yes, Robert, I’m meaning that,” responded the dutiful sister humbly, “but it’s the Monday of the preachings, is’t no? and will there be more folk than ministers?”
“Mrs Whyte is to have a few friends,” said the Reverend Robert, with a conscious smile, “and there is no reason why they should only be ministers.”
“I didna say there was,” said Miss Insches; “is onybody we ken to be there, Robert?”
Robert smiled again. His sister had come to understand the particular meaning of this smile.