'I suppose so, for a time.'
'You'll not like that, my lad.'
'I'll have to take what comes, like other folk,' was the simple answer.
How pretty Meenie was on this last evening! She did not say much; and she hardly ever looked at him; but her presence, then as ever, seemed to bring with it an atmosphere of gentleness and sweetness; and when, by chance, she did happen to regard him, there was a kind of magic wonder in her eyes that for the moment rather bedazzled him and made his answers to these good people's inquiries somewhat inconsecutive. For they were curious to know about his plans and schemes; and showed much interest in his welfare; while all the time he sate thinking of how strange Glasgow would be without the chance of catching a glimpse of Meenie anywhere; and wondering whether his dream-sweetheart—the imaginary Meenie whom he courted and wooed and won in these idle verses of his—would be nearer to him there, or would fade gradually away and finally disappear.
'In any case, Ronald,' said Mrs. Douglas—and she thus addressed him for the first time, 'you have a good friend in his lordship.'
'I know that.'
'I suppose I am breaking no confidence,' continued the little dame, in her grand way, 'in saying that he plainly intimated to us his willingness, supposing that you were not as successful as we all hope you may be—I say, his lordship plainly intimated to us that he would always have a place open for you somewhere.'
'Yes, I think he would do that,' Ronald said; 'but when a man has once put his hand to the plough he must not go back.'
And perhaps, for one feeble moment of indecision, he asked himself what had ever tempted him to put his hand to the plough, and to go away from this quiet security and friendliness and peace. But it was only for a moment. Of course, all that had been argued out before. The step had been taken; forwards, and not backwards, he must go. Still, to be sitting in this quiet little room—with the strange consciousness that Meenie was so near—watching the nimble, small fingers busy with her knitting—and wondering when she would raise those beautiful, deep, tender, clear eyes; and to think that on the morrow hour after hour would be placing a greater and greater distance between him and the possibility of any such another evening—nay, that it was not only miles but years, and perhaps a whole lifetime, that he was placing between her and him—that was no joyful kind of a fancy. If it had been Meenie who was going away, that would have been easier to bear.
'Call her back, Clebrig; Mudal, call;