“No blessing? There is some mystery here, Catharine.”
“That is what I say, Miss Crystal, but reason or not, the poor young master was half-crazed with the disappointment; he was for setting aside everything, and going on reckless-like, but Miss Margaret she was like a rock—she could not and would not marry him; and in his anger against her, and because he did not care what became of him, he went down to Daintree and settled the matter with Miss Mordaunt, and that is all I know, Miss Crystal.”
“One—two—three—four,” counted the girl with a bitter smile, “four broken hearts, four mutilated lives, and the sun shines, and the birds sing—one hungers, thirsts, sleeps, and wakes again, and a benignant Creator suffers it; but hush! there are footsteps Catharine, hide me, quick.”
“My dearie, don’t look so scared like, it is only Mr. Raby—he passed an hour ago with the parson; but there is only wee Johnnie with him now.”
“Is he coming in? I am sure I heard him lift the latch of the gate; you will keep your faith with me, Catharine?”
“Yes—yes, have I ever failed you; bide quiet a bit, he can not see you. He is only standing in the porch, for a sup of milk. I’ll fetch it from the dairy, and he’ll drink it and go.”
“If only Johnnie were not there,” murmured the girl, anxiously.
“No, no, he has sent him on most likely to the vicarage.”
“My good Catharine,” observed a quiet voice from the porch, “how long am I to wait for my glass of milk?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Raby, I am indeed,” answered Catharine’s cheery tones in the distance.