“She is a pretty little thing,” said Rosamond, philosophically, “and she is quick enough. She would soon be just like other people, if she were about in town for a little. But Eddy, what is the use of talking when you are far too young to marry? At your age father could not have intended that.”
“I shall soon be old enough to be pulled up,” said Eddy, “on my own account. Don’t you know I’ll come of age in the beginning of the year? After that no one can come on the governor for my infant wants, don’t you know. I wish they would: he wouldn’t give them a farthing, and I should get all the fun; but they are far too cute for that. This Johnson fellow, don’t you know——”
“The don?” said Rosamond; “has he lent you money? I thought these men had never any money to lend.”
“Oh, that depends!” said Eddy. He burst into a great laugh, but immediately restrained himself. “He could get me into a pretty scrape if he liked, so I must keep friends with him. I mean to get Mother Rowland to ask him to the ball.”
“How dare you call her Mother Rowland?” said the girl, stamping her foot.
“Oh, dare! I dare do—whatever suits me,” said the young man. “Look here,” he added, “I don’t want you to dance with him all the same.”
Rosamond turned upon her brother and gave him a look of scorn. It was not often that she condescended to look at any one to whom she was talking; but her glance was very direct and keen when she took the trouble. And she did not make any reply. They were by this time at the entrance to the gamekeeper’s cottage, and she swept in at the always open door. “May we come in?” she condescended to say, but did not pause for an answer. Old Rankin was sitting up in bed, taking his forenoon refreshment: which he himself described as “supping a wheen broth.”
“Oh you’re welcome, my young leddy. Ye will have come about the dowg; but I think it is mair civil, in an ordinary way, if you would just chap at the door.”
“That’s what I say,” said Eddy; “but she takes her own way. I hope you’re better, Rankin, and no rheumatism. It’s not so cold, for there’s no wind this morning; but the hoar frost is still lying under the trees.”
“Ay,” said Rankin, “there will be rain the morn. These white frosts aye brings rain, no to say that it’s ever sweered to come. I’m muckle obliged to you for asking for me. You’re the only one of the young folk at the House that ever minds I am a man. And a very ill man. They think I’m some kind of a creature for producin’ dowgs.”