Her sister flushed crimson.
“Oh, lassie,” she cried, “ye will drive me mad with your whims and foolish speeches; what matters who saw him first? Ye ken well that ye are not fit to be——”
“She is fit to be my wife,” I said, for I thought that this had gone far enough; “she is fit to be my wife, and my wife she shall surely be if she will have me!”
With a little joyful cry Jean Gemmell’s arms went about my neck, and her wet face was hidden in my breast. It lay there quiet a moment; then she lifted it and looked with a proud, still defiance at her sister.
Alexander-Jonita lifted up her hands in hopeless protest.
She seemed about to say more, but all suddenly she changed her mind.
“So be it,” she said. “After all, ’tis none of my business!”
And with that she turned and went out through the door of the kitchen.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE ANGER OF ALEXANDER-JONITA.
(Comment and Addition by Hob MacClellan.)
I met my lass Jonita that night by the sheep-fold on the hill. It was not yet sundown, but the spaces of the heavens had slowly grown large and vague. The wind also had gradually died away to a breathing stillness. The scent of the bog-myrtle was in our nostrils, as if the plant itself leaned against our faces.