Jacky’s first impulse was to turn her back on Schole, and flee without a moment’s delay to Oranside. She recollected herself, however; she only sat down on the mossy garden-path, and indulged in a fit of joyous crying—pride, and exultation, and affection, all contributing their part. “For I kent,” said Jacky to herself, tremulously, when Anne was gone, “I aye kent she was like somebody—a’ but the e’en—and it would be her mother’s e’en!”
But Jacky recollected her charge—recollected the solemn tenant who lay within those walls, and became graver. Marget was sitting in the kitchen when she entered, refreshing herself with a cup of tea. Their salutations were laconic enough.
“Is that you, lass?” said Marget.
“Yes, it’s me,” said Jacky. “Miss Anne said I was to come in and stay; and she’ll be back soon hersel.”
“And wha’s Miss Anne that’s taking sae muckle fash wi’ this puir afflicted family?” said Marget. “Are ye ony friend to us, lassie? or what gars your mistress and you come into our house, this gate?”
“Miss Anne says Miss Lillie is a friend. I think it’s maybe by ither friends being married, but I dinna ken—only that they’re connected—Miss Anne said that.”
“And what do they ca’ ye?” continued Marget.
“They ca’ me Jacobina Morison—I was christened that after my uncle—but I aye get Jacky at hame; and they ca’ Miss Anne, Miss Ross, of Merkland.”
“She’ll be frae the north country,” said Marget. “I never heard o’ ony Norland freends Miss Kirstin had. Onyway it maun be for love ony fremd person taks heed o’ us—for it canna be for siller. They’re a strange family. Ye see the breath was scarce out o’ Maister Patrick, puir lamb—he was liker a bairn, than a man of years at ony time—when Miss Kirstin she gaed away. I saw your leddy seeking her—whaur she’s gane, guid kens.”
“Did she ever do that before?” asked Jacky.