“But ye mind it came from Katherine first, marryin’ wi’ Larry Kildene an’ rinnin’ awa’ wi’ him,” replied Jean.
“It was Larry huntit her oot whaur she had been brought for safety.”
They both sat in silence while Ellen read the letter to the very end. At last, with a long, indrawn sigh, she spoke.
“It’s no like a lad that could write sic a letter, to perjure his soul. No won’er ye greet, Jean. He’s gi’en ye everything he possesses, wi’ one o’ the twa pictures in the Salon! Think o’t! An’ a’ he got fra’ the ones he sold, except enough to take him to America. Ye canna’ tak’ it.”
“No. I ha’e gi’en them to the Englishman wha’ has his room. I could na’ tak them.” Jean continued to sway back and forth with her apron over her head.
“Ye ha’e gi’en them awa’! All they pictures pented by yer ain niece’s son! An’ twa’ acceptit by the Salon! Child, child! I’d no think it o’ ye.” Ellen leaned forward in her chair reprovingly, with the letter crushed in her lap.
“I told him to keep them safe, as he was doin’, an’ if he got no word fra’ me after sax months,––he was to bide in the room wi’ them––they were his.”
“Weel, ye’re wiser than I thought ye.”
For a long time they sat in silence, until at last Ellen took up the letter to read it again, and began with the date at the head.