“You have no member of your family ill, I believe?” commenced Lotte, with a beating heart, for she knew there was another ear beside her own who would greedily drink in all his replies.
“No—no,” he returned, unsuspiciously. “No; I don’t often see the governor, for he is much engaged; and when he is not, he is something like a porcupine—not to be too closely approached. As for ma, I never knew her to be ill. It is undignified, so she don’t condescend to have an ailment; and my sister Margaret thinks as she does—ha! ha! No, they are well enough,” he concluded.
“But,” said Lotte, pursuing her point, “you have other sisters.”
“Ah! yes—oh, ay!” he responded; “there is little Eva. Upon my honour, I had forgotten her, really—how droll! Well, she is not, I think, in good health—she is white-faced; she frets a great deal—goes into corners, and cries; walks into the garden, and cries; wanders over the house, and cries. She’s a regular little pump—a fountain’s nothing to her—ha! ha!”
“Why does she fret?” inquired Lotte, with hesitation.
A slight colour came into Malcolm’s face.
“I can’t tell,” he returned; “nobody can tell. I hardly think she knows herself, excepting that she has lost a pet and favourite, and she is mourning for that. Stupid, isn’t it?”
“There was, I think, an elder sister to those you have named.”
Malcolm coughed, and grew red in the face.
“You have not mentioned Miss Helen Grahame—what of her?”