“The friend, yes, but you'll allow not exactly the companion——”
“If he is simple, it is the simplicity of a nature too large for little things.”
“The dear fellow! He's not a bit jealous of you, Philip.”
“Such feelings are far below him, Auntie.”
“He's your first cousin after all, Philip. There's no denying that. As he says, the blood of the Christians is in him.”
The conversation took a turn. Auntie Nan fell to talking of the other Peter, uncle Peter Christian of Ballawhaine. This was the day of the big man's humiliation. The son he had doted on was disgraced. She tried, but could not help it; she struggled, but could not resist the impulse—in her secret heart the tender little soul rejoiced.
“Such a pity,” she sighed. “So touching when a father—no matter how selfish—is wrecked by love of a thankless son. I'm sorry, indeed I am. But I warned him six years ago. Didn't I, now?”
Philip was far away. He was seeing visions of Pete going home, the deserted house, the empty cradle, the desolate man alone and heart-broken.
They rose from the table and went into the little parlour, Auntie Nan on Philip's arm, proud and happy. She fluttered down to the piano and sang, to cheer him up a little, an old song in a quavering old voice.
“Of the wandering falcon
The cuckoo complains,
He has torn her warm nest,
He has scattered her young.”