Then Lewis wrote letters, slightly querulous, requiring her presence at home—and Mrs. Catherine sent one characteristic note promising, “if ye will be a good bairn and come back, maybe to go with ye myself, when the weather is more suiting for the seaside.” She was doing no good in Aberford; so with a heavy heart Anne returned home.
The first day after her arrival at Merkland, she visited the Mill. With what strange feelings swelling in her heart did she draw the child to her side, and take into her own its small soft hand. The little strange exotic Lilie, the wonder of the quiet parish—was she indeed a Lilias Rutherford?—a daughter of the banished Norman?—her own nearest kin and relative?
“Jacky Morison’s been up this morning already, Miss Anne,” said Mrs. Melder. “Indeed, and ye may think muckle o’ yoursel, Lilie my woman—baith leddy and maid comin anceerrant to see ye, the first thing after their home-coming. She’s an awfu’ strange lassie yon, Miss Anne; ane would think she had gotten some word o’ the bairn that naebody else kens. She was aye unco fond o’ her, but now it’s Miss Lilie every word.”
Strange indeed! these intuitive perceptions of Jacky’s puzzled Anne greatly.
“That was what they called Lilie at home,” said the child thoughtfully.
“Ay, listen till her; I dinna misdoubt it, Miss Anne—the folk that sent a’ yon bonnie things, maun be weel off in this world.”
“Will you come and walk with me, Lilie?” said Anne: “see what a beautiful day it is.”
The child assented eagerly, and trying on her bonnet, Anne led her out. They went to the foot of the tree on which were carved the names of those two exiles—Norman and Marion. It was a fit resting-place for their sister and their child. Anne seated herself on the turf, and placed Lilie by her side.
“Can you tell me where your home is, Lilie?”
“Away yonder,” said Lilie, “far away, over the sea.”