Or if she sighed;
Or if forecasting grief and care,
Unconscious solace then she drew,
And lulled her babe, and unaware
Lulled sorrow too.
Jean Ingelow.
All the winter Fay remained quietly at the old Manse, tenderly watched over by her kind old friend and faithful Jean.
For many weeks, indeed months, her want of strength and weary listlessness caused Mrs. Duncan great anxiety. She used to shake her head and talk vaguely to Jean of young folk who had gone into a waste with naught but fretting, and had been in their graves before their friends realized that they were ill; to which Jean would reply, “’Deed and it is the truth, mistress; and I am thinking it is time that Mrs. St. Clair had her few ‘broth.’” For all Jean’s sympathy found expression in deeds, not words.
Jean seldom dealt largely in soft words; she was somewhat brisk and sharp of tongue—a bit biting, like her moorland breezes in winter time. In spite of her reverential tenderness for Fay, she would chide her quite roughly for what she called her fretting ways. She almost snatched the baby away from her one day when Fay was crying over him.
“Ah, my bonny man,” she said, indignantly, “would your mither rain tears down on your sweet face, and make you sair-hearted before your time? Whisht, then, my bairn, and Jean will catch the sunshine for you;” and Jean danced him vigorously before the window, while Fay penitently dried her eyes.