Kate struggled through this extraordinary epistle with astonishment. “Who in the world is it from?” she asked Bud.
“Charles, stupid,” said Bud, astonished that there should be any doubt about that point. “Didn't I—didn't we write him the other night? It was up to him to write back, wasn't it?”
“Of course,” said Kate, very conscious of that letter still unposted, “but—but he doesn't say Charles anything, just Charles. It's a daft like thing not to give his name; it might be anybody. There's my Charles, and there's Charles Maclean from Oronsay—what way am I to know which of them it is?”
“It'll be either or eyether,” said Bud. “Do you know Charles Maclean?”
“Of course I do,” said the maid. “He's following the sea, and we were well acquaint.”
“Did he propose to you?” asked Bud.
“Well, he did not exactly propose,” admitted Kate, “but we sometimes went a walk together to the churchyard on a Sunday, and you know yourself what that means out in Colonsay. I'll just keep the letter and think of it. It's the nicest letter I ever got, and full of information. It's Charles Maclean, I'll warrant you, but he did not use to call me Katherine—he just said Kate and his face would be as red as anything. Fancy him going down with all hands! My heart is sore for him,” and the maid there and then transferred her devotion from the misty lad of her own imagination to Charles Maclean of Oronsay.
“You'll help me to write him a letter back to-night,” she said.
“Yes, indeed, I'll love to,” said the child, wearily. But by the time the night came on, and Wanton Wully rang his curfew bell, and the rooks came clanging home to the tall trees of the forest, she was beyond all interest in life or love.