“Yes, Peterkin, dear.”
“Wouldn’t you be liking to kiss Ian?”
Eilidh laughed low, a faint flush coming and going upon her face.
“For why, boykin?”
“Oh, I know that whenever you have tears in your eyes Ian can chase them away. I have seen him kiss you when you are tired.”
At this Ian Mor rose and lifted Peterkin in his arms.
“Eilidh is thinking of something sad, Peterkin; that is all. See, she is smiling now, and laughing too by the same token.” The boy tossed his curls, and with a roguish smile added:
“Ah, that is just because I said she wanted to kiss you.”
“You’re much too wise, Peterkin. But there, down with you! Now run to the door, and tell me if it is still raining.”
Peterkin never could go straight anywhere, for his progress was ever like that of a kid or lambkin, a series of jumps and little sudden runs. No sooner was he gone, than Ian turned to Eilidh, and took her in his arms.