“I've come to beg your pardon, Kate,” said she, hurriedly. “I'm sorry I—I—pulled your leg about that letter you thought was from Charles.”
“Toots! Ye needn't bother about my leg or the letter, either,” said Kate, most cheerfully, with another letter open in her hand, and Mr. Dyce's evening mail piled on the table before her; “letters are like herring now, they're comin' in in shoals. I might have kent yon one never came from Oronsay, for it hadn't the smell of peats. I have a real one now that's new come in from Charles, and it's just a beauty! He got his leg broken on the boats a month ago, and Dr. Macphee's attending him. Oh, I'm that glad to think that Charles's leg is in the hands of a kent face!”
“Why, that's funny,” said Bud. “And we were just going to write—oh, you mean the other Charles?”
“I mean Charles Maclean,” said Kate, with some confusion. “I—I—was only lettin' on about the other Charles; he was only a diversion.”
“But you sent him a letter?” cried Bud.
“Not me!” said Kate, composedly. “I kept it, and I sent it on to Charles out in Oronsay when you were poorly; it did fine! He says he's glad to hear about my education and doesn't think much of gentlemen that dances, but that he's always glad to get the scrape of a pen from me, because—because—well, just because he loves me still the same, yours respectfully, Charles Maclean. And oh, my stars, look at what a lot of crosses!”
Bud scrutinized them with amazement. “Well, he's a pansy!” said she.