“Hush,” said Marjory gaily, “or I will retaliate. Now I must go. Mrs. Catherine is quite out of sorts for the want of you, Anne; and Alice is drooping as prettily as possible. Why did not your Norman come last night, and then we might—all of us—have rejoiced over him at the Tower?”
The next morning, the first excitement of their joy over, the three sisters sat together in the Merkland parlor. Mrs. Ross was superintending various domestic matters. Lewis was at the Tower. Norman had gone out with his son. Christian, Marion, and Anne were sitting together, with Lilie on her stool at their feet, communing “of all that was in their heart”—and that was much.
“It was very strange to us,” said Marion, “I cannot tell you how strange, to hear from Mr. Sutherland—of Merkland, of you, of ourselves. He told us our own story—so much as he knew of it, and sought our sympathy and pity for his friends. Strangely—most strangely—did we feel as he spoke.”
“I did not think Archie would have spoken of a thing so private,” said Anne.
“Nay, do not blame him,” said Marion. “He saved our Lawrie’s life a few days after his arrival; and that of course, even if he had possessed fewer good qualities of his own, must have at once opened our hearts, and our house to him. But we liked him for himself, and he seemed to like us; and then as we knew him better, the home he spoke of, the names he mentioned, were very music to Norman’s ears. I cannot tell you, Anne—you cannot fancy—how your brother has longed and yearned for the home we dared not return to.”
There was a pause.
“And then,” continued Marion, “as he gradually became, a member of our family, and a very dear friend, we gradually received his confidence. He spoke one night of ‘little Alice Aytoun.’ The name startled us both. Norman asked who she was—and then, Anne—by degrees we heard our own story—very sad and mysterious he thought it, although he knew not, Christian, the half of its sadness. But Anne, he said, was convinced of the innocence of her dead brother, and was full of hope for the vindication of his memory. ‘Who is Anne?’ I asked. Mr. Sutherland looked astonished for a moment, and then slightly embarrassed. He seemed to think it strange that there should be any one who did not know. Anne; and, sister Anne, he did you justice. We were strangely excited that night, Norman and I. I could not prevail upon him to go to rest. He walked about the room with a mixture of joy and fear on his face, that only people who have known such a position as ours could realize, repeating to himself, ‘Anne—the child—my little sister Anne!’ It was balm to him to think that you had faith in him, and hope for him; and yet he was full of fear lest he should endanger”—
Marion paused—the tears came into her eyes; she looked at Christian.
“Go on, Marion,” said Christian, leaning her head upon her hand. “Go on—he is safe now, and past all peril.”
“Our poor Patrick!” exclaimed his younger sister, “my gentle, broken-hearted, sad brother! At that time when the eighteenth year was nearly past, Norman was afraid—Norman was full of terror, lest any exertion made for him should disturb the peace of Patrick. He was as willing to suffer for him then, as he was when he went away—that terrible time!”