“No. Indeed, at no hand would I have thought of it! And for you—didn’t you ask me? This is not your writing?” And he held up his.
“By no means.”
“And is that really so! Then it’s somebody wanting to see us both. Perhaps we would do well to wait a little longer.”
Acting on this consideration they lingered, Elizabeth-Jane’s face being arranged to an expression of preternatural composure, and the young Scot, at every footstep in the street without, looking from under the granary to see if the passer were about to enter and declare himself their summoner. They watched individual drops of rain creeping down the thatch of the opposite rick—straw after straw—till they reached the bottom; but nobody came, and the granary roof began to drip.
“The person is not likely to be coming,” said Farfrae. “It’s a trick perhaps, and if so, it’s a great pity to waste our time like this, and so much to be done.”
“’Tis a great liberty,” said Elizabeth.
“It’s true, Miss Newson. We’ll hear news of this some day depend on’t, and who it was that did it. I wouldn’t stand for it hindering myself; but you, Miss Newson——”
“I don’t mind—much,” she replied.
“Neither do I.”
They lapsed again into silence. “You are anxious to get back to Scotland, I suppose, Mr. Farfrae?” she inquired.