“Perfectly right, James,” said his mother, promptly, “I was about to advise this myself; and if you find anything satisfactory to report, you can bid this Lewis still come. I shall want to see who it is, who has superseded me in my little daughter’s heart.”
“Oh, no, mother—no, no,” cried Alice, imploringly. “Do not say that.”
James Aytoun rose and laid his hand caressingly upon his little sister’s fair hair. She had been a child when he was rising into manhood. He thought her a child still—and with the grave difficulties of this, very unexpected problem, which they had to solve, there mingled a half-mirthful, half-sad, sort of incredulous wonder. Little Alice had done a very important piece of business independently and alone. Little Alice had the sober glory of matronhood hanging over her fair, girlish forehead. Little Alice was engaged!
CHAPTER XV.
SEVERAL days before Alice left the Tower, Lewis had written to Robert Ferguson, the youthful Edinburgh advocate, of whose very early call to the bar his father was so justly and pleasantly proud, telling him all they knew and guessed of Norman’s history, except the one circumstance of his escape from the shipwreck; and explaining, in some slight degree, the immediate reason of their anxiety to clear their brother’s name from the foul blot that lay upon it. Very shortly after Alice Aytoun’s departure, an answer came to the letter of Lewis.
With quick interest, partly in that it was one of the first cases in which his legal wisdom had been consulted, and partly from the kindly feeling of neighborship, which is so warm in Scotland, the young lawyer embraced the search, and promised to go down instantly to the parish in which the deed was done, or even to engage the assistance of an acute writer, of experience in his craft, if Lewis thought that desirable. Mr. Robert, however, with a young man’s abundant confidence in his own power, fancied that he could accomplish the work quite as well alone. “He would go down quietly to the village,” he said, “taking care to do nothing which might put the true criminal, if he still lived, upon his guard; and as soon as he had procured any information, would report it to Lewis.”
The letter was satisfactory—the warm readiness of belief in Norman’s innocence pleased Anne. In such a matter, however strong one’s own faith may be, it is a great satisfaction to hear it echoed by other minds.
In the afternoon of that day, Anne went, by appointment, to the Tower, to communicate Robert’s opinion to Mrs. Catherine.—She made a circuit by the mill, to see Lilie; for Mrs. Catherine and Archibald, she knew, had business in Portoran, and would not return early. It was a clear, bright, mild day, with a spring haze of subdued sunshine about it, reminding one, pleasantly, that the year “was on the turn.” Lilie was not at home.
“And I wish ye would speak to that outre lassie, Jacky Morison, Miss Anne,” said Lilie’s careful guardian. “She had the bairn away this morning, and trails her about to a’ kinds of out o’ the way places; in the wood, and on the hills; and I’m not sure in my ain mind, that it’s right to let the bairn wi’ the like o’ her.”
“Jacky is sure to be very careful,” said Anne.