"You have far too much imagination, Käthchen," said Mary, as she went off to her own room.
And then again, that same night, Käthchen was at one of the windows, looking out. She could not distinguish anything, for it was quite dark; she could only hear the wind howling in from the sea.
"Do you know where you should be at this moment, Mamie?" she said. "You ought to be going up the grand staircase of some great opera-house—your cloak of crimson velvet, white-furred—the diamonds in your hair shining through your lace hood—and you should have at least three gentlemen to escort you to your box, carrying opera-glasses, and flowers. That's more like you. And yet here you banish yourself away to this out-of-the-world place—you seek for no amusement—you busy yourself all day about peats, and drains, and seed-potatoes—and the highest reward you set before yourself is to get a half-hearted 'Thank you' from a sulky crofter——"
"Käthchen," said Mary, "I would advise you to read the third chapter of the General Epistle of James."
"Ah, well," said Käthchen—and she was not deeply offended by that hint about the bridling of the tongue—"wait till your brother and Mr. Frank Meredyth come up—and you'll find them saying the same thing. Philanthropy is all very well; but you need not make yourself a white slave." And then she turned to the black window again, and to her visions. "There's one thing, Mamie: I wish Mr. Ross could see you going up that grand staircase."
CHAPTER IV.
HER GUEST.
"It will be all different now," said Käthchen, one evening, when they were come to within a week of the arrival of Mary's brother and his friend Frank Meredyth. "And you deserve some little rest, Mamie, and some little amusement, after all your hard work. And I want you to be considerate—towards Mr. Meredyth, I mean. It isn't merely grouse and grilse that are bringing him here. You know what your brother says—that there is no one in such request for shooting parties; he could just have his pick of invitations, all over Scotland, every autumn; so you may be sure it isn't merely for the grouse and the salmon-fishing he is coming to a little place like Lochgarra. Oh, you need not pretend to deny it, Mamie! And all I want is that you should be a little considerate. He may be very anxious to have you, and yet not quite so anxious to take over your hobby as well. He may not even be interested in the price of home-knitted stockings."
Mary Stanley did not answer just at once. The two girls were slowly walking up and down the stone terrace outside the house. It was ten o'clock at night; but it was not yet dark, nor anything approaching to dark. All the world was of a pale, clear, wan lilac colour: and in this coldly luminous twilight any white object—the front of a cottage, for example, or the little Free Church building across the bay—appeared startlingly distinct. There was an absolute silence; the sea was still; two hours ago the sun had gone down behind what seemed a vast and motionless lake of molten copper; and now there was a far-reaching expanse of pearly grey, with the long headlands and Eilean Heimra gathering shadows around them. The heavens were cloudless and serene; over the sombre hills in the east a star throbbed here and there, but it had to be sought for. There appeared to be neither lamp nor candle down in the village—there was no need of them on these magical summer nights.
"I do not see that it will be so different," said Mary, presently. "Fred will have to look after Mr. Meredyth. No doubt there will be something of a commotion in so quiet a place—the dogs, and keepers, and ponies; by the way, there will be gillies wanted for the fishing as well as for the shooting later on——"