The smaller girl looked up timidly.
'Ronald is going away too, Meenie.'
Perhaps there was a touch of reproach in the tone; at all events Meenie said, after a moment's embarrassment—
'Of course I should be very glad if he happened to be in the house—and—and had the time to spare; but I think he will understand that, Maggie, without your saying as much to him.'
'He gave plenty of his time to the American young lady,' said Maggie, rather proudly.
'But I thought you and she were great friends,' Meenie said, in some surprise.
'It takes a longer time than that to make friends,' the girl said; and by and by she left.
Then Meenie went up to her room again, and sate down in front of the dull, smouldering peat-fire, with its heavy lumps of shadow, and its keen edges of crimson, and its occasional flare of flame and shower of sparks. There were many pictures there—of distant things; of the coming spring-time, with all the new wonder and gladness somehow gone out of it; and of the long long shining summer days, and Inver-Mudal grown lonely: and of the busy autumn time, with the English people come from the south, and no Ronald there, to manage everything for them. For her heart was very affectionate; and she had but few friends; and Glasgow was a great distance away. There were some other fancies too, and self-questionings and perhaps even self-reproaches, that need not be mentioned here. When, by and by, she rose and went to the piano, which was still open, it was not to resume her seat. She stood absently staring at the keys—for these strange pictures followed her; and indeed that one half-unconscious trial of 'I am asleep, do not waken me' had been quite enough for her in her present mood.
CHAPTER IV.
'AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS.'