"But—but," stammered the boy, astonished, "I hae thae parcels to deliver."
"Then deliver them on your road down!" said the Hempie. And her right hand touched the boy's left for an instant.
"A' richt, mem!" he nodded, and was off.
"Don't trouble, Alec. Nance, bide where you are—I have three calls to make on the way up. Good-morning!"
And the Hempie was off. We watched her through the little oriel window, Nance nestling against my coat sleeve pleasantly, and, in the shadow of the red stuff curtain, even surreptitiously kissing my shoulder—a thing I had often warned her against doing in public. So I reproved her.
"Nance, mind what you are about, for heaven's sake! Suppose anyone were to see you. It is enough to ruin my professional reputation to have you do that on a market day in your own front window."
"Well, please may I hold your hand?" (Then, piteously, and, if I might call it so, "Nancefully") "You know I shall not see you all day."
"The Hempie would not do a thing like that!" I answer, severely.
Nance watches the supple swing of her sister's figure, from the stout-soled practical boots to the small erect head, with its short black curls and smart brown felt hat with the silver buckle at the side.
"No," she said, "she wouldn't." Then, after a sigh, she added, "Poor Hempie!"