Anne had put on her bonnet, and stood at the gate on her way out.
“What is it, Jacky?”
Jacky hung her head in shy awkwardness.
“It was just naething, Miss Anne.”
Anne comprehended what the “just naething” was, and, understanding the singular interest and delicate sympathy of this elfin attendant of hers, knew also how perfectly she was to be trusted.
“Jacky,” she said, “what I tell you, you will never tell again, I know: this gentleman who died last night was nearly connected with us—if Marget asks you any questions, you can tell her that; and my work is accomplished here—accomplished in sorrow and in hope. By-and-by my brother of whom you have heard, will come home I trust, in peace and honor, to his own house and lands.—The work we came here for is done.”
Jacky was tremulously proud, but she had yet another question.
“And if ye please, Miss Anne—little Miss Lilie?”
A radiant light came into Anne’s eye. It was the first time she had dared to speak of the near relationships with which she now hoped to be surrounded.
“Lilie is my niece—my brother’s child—I believe and hope so, Jacky.”