“Pity! it’s a downright wrong and injury to the lad—there’s nae saying if his mind will ever get the better o’t.”
“And is the house empty?” said Anne; “does no one live in it?”
“Naebody that belangs to the house—but there are folk in’t.—There’s a brother and a sister o’ them, and they’re far frae common folk.”
“Is the sister tall and thin—with large, dark, melancholy eyes?” said Anne, anxiously.
“Ay, Miss Ross,” said Miss Crankie, casting a sharp inquisitive look at Anne; “where hae ye fa’en in with her? it’s no often she has ony commerce with strangers.”
“I met her on the sands,” said Anne, suppressing her agitation with an effort; “and was very much struck by her look.”
“I dinna wonder at that—she never was just like ither folk; and since her sister died—puir Kirstin!”
“Have they a story then?” said Anne; she was trembling with interest and impatience—she could scarcely contain herself to ask the question.
“Ay, nae doubt, ye’ll be fond of stories, Miss Ross? the most of you young ladies are.”
“I do feel very much interested in that singular melancholy woman,” said Anne, tremulously.