“Was it last night you heard this, Jacky?”
“No, Miss Anne, it was this morning very early. I wanted to see the sea,” said Jacky, bashfully, “and I saw the sun rise. But I think the lady wasna heeding for the sea. She wasna there at a’. She was in her ain spirit.”
“And you are sure you are not mistaken, Jacky?” said Anne.
“Miss Anne!” exclaimed Jacky, “ye would ken yourself, if you saw her. Its just Lilie’s e’en—only they are far, far deeper and sadder, and aye searching and travelling, as if something was lost that they bid to find, and were seeking for night and day.”
“That they bid to find!” The words roused Anne. “Did you mention this to any one?” she asked.
Jacky looked injured—an imputation on her honor she could not bear.
“I never tell things, Miss Anne. I’m no a talepyet.”
“Well, Jacky, remember that I trust you. I have heard that this lady has had great sorrow; and she has some good reason, no doubt, for not keeping Lilie beside her. Mind, you must never mention this to any one—not to Bessie—not even to your mother, when we return. No one knows it, but you and me. I am sure I can trust you, Jacky.”
Jacky gave a faithful promise, and went away with secret and proud dignity. She also had entered upon the search—she had begun to co-operate with Anne.