“No!” exclaimed Jacky indignantly, “Married! It’s because ye dinna ken Miss Anne.”
“Miss Anne’s just like ither folk,” was the laughing response; “and there’s nae ill in being married.”
“Lassie, there’ll be news o’ you, if you’re no a’ the better hadden in,” cried Tibbie. “Set ye up wi’ your lads and your marryings! Maybe the young lady’s delicate, or she’ll hae friends at the sea-side.”
To which more delicate fishing interrogatories, Jacky, who knew that Anne was neither delicate nor had any friend at the sea-side, prudently refrained from making any answer.
The next day, Anne, accompanied by Mrs. Aytoun and Alice, set out for Aberford on a search for lodgings. Mrs. Aytoun had a friend, a regular frequenter of all places of general resort, whose list of sea-bathing quarters was almost a perfect one, and fortified by the results of her experience, they departed upon their quest, leaving Jacky in Bessie’s care behind them, to dream at her leisure over that wonderful Edinburgh, whose stately olden beauty the strange girl, after her own fashion, could appreciate so well.
Anne observed, with regret and sympathy, the gloom of silence that fell over the kind mother by her side, as they approached their destination. She observed the long, sad glances thrown through the windows of the coach at the country road, known long ago, when Mrs. Aytoun was not a widow. There were no other passengers to restrain their conversation, and when they were very near the village, Mrs. Aytoun pointed to a house, surrounded with wood, and standing at a considerable distance from the road. “Yonder, Alice, look—you were born there.”
Alice looked eagerly out. “You liked this place better than Aytoun, mother? Aytoun must have been very gloomy always.”
“Aytoun was a larger house than we needed, Alice—you have heard me say so—and I was in very delicate health then. I was never well while—” your father lived, Mrs. Aytoun was about to say, but she checked herself hurriedly; not even in so slight a way would she reproach the dead.
The coach stopped—they were in the dull main street of the village. Mrs. Aytoun took out her list—at the head of the column stood “Mrs. Yammer”—the sea-bathing friend had particularly recommended the house, whose mistress bore so distressful a name. It was a short way out of the village, close upon the sea-side; they turned to seek it.
The magnificent Firth lay bright before them, its islands standing out darkly from its bosom, and its sunny glories bounded by the fertile shores and distant hills of the ancient kingdom of Fife. The exuberant wealth of these rich Lothian lands was bursting out around into Spring’s blythest green—a sunny April sky overhead, and April air waving in its golden breadths about them everywhere—it was impossible to think of sadness there. The shadow of her old woe floated away from Mrs. Aytoun’s unselfish spirit—Alice was so gay, Anne so pleasantly exhilarated, that she could not refuse to rejoice with them.