He stood for a moment looking up into the sky through the lovely mingling of faint colours made by the swelling buds and opening leaves in the tops of the great beeches, and Jean's impulse was to come forward at once and give him welcome. But she looked at her gloves, and at her thick shoes soiled with the garden mould, and at her linsey gown too short to hide them, and she thought of her sister, and "these fastidious English folk," and the "credit of the family," and so went swiftly round the house, and in at the back door, and up to her own room.

She did not linger over her toilette, however. By the time Phemie came to announce the stranger's arrival, the stately young mistress of the house was ready in her pretty house dress of some dim purple stuff to go down and receive him. She went with more shyness than stateliness, however, being conscious of the object of his coming, and entered so quietly, that he did not move from the window out of which he was gazing, till she had come near him. He turned quickly at the sound of her voice.

"Is it--Mr Manners?" said she, offering her hand. "You expected me then?"

"Yes. Papa told _me_ you were coming."

"And you are Jean? And you will be my friend?" Jean's eyes met his frankly and very gravely for a moment, and then she said softly,--

"Yes. I think I may promise to be your friend."

If she could put any trust in the face as an index of character, she might surely promise that, she thought. She waited a moment, expecting that he would ask for her sister. He did not, but stood looking at her in a silence that must have become embarra.s.sing if it had continued long. So she offered breakfast, which he declined. Then she expressed her regret that he should have missed her father, but she would send at once to tell him of his arrival.

This was not necessary, however. Mr Dawson having heard of Mr Manners' arrival at the bank, returned home immediately; but they were already in the dining-room, before May and young Corbett appeared. They went in the back way and pa.s.sed through Beckie's kitchen.

"Eh! Miss May! What can ha'e keepit you? Miss Dawson has been muckle putten aboot. Your papa's come hame and a strange gentleman wi' him.

Na, it's naebody ye need to heed. Was't Peters they ca'ed him, Phemie?

It's luncheon and nae dinner--so you can just go ben as ye are. Ye couldna look better or bonnier though ye were to change your gown and tak' an hour to do it. And Miss Dawson was sair putten aboot."

So with no warning as to whom she was to see, flushed and laughing, and submitting to be made a crutch by the recovering and adventurous Hugh, May entered the dining-room.

"It was hardly fair upon her," her father thought, and Jean turned pale with vexation that it so should have happened. But she need not have been afraid. After the first startled glance, and rush of colour, May met her friend with a gentle dignity which left nothing to be desired in her sister's opinion. Mr Manners was to all appearance less self-possessed than she was, and his greetings were brief and grave.

All were for some time in a state of restrained excitement that made conversation not easy, till Hugh came to the rescue by referring to Mr Dawson the decision of some point which had fallen under discussion during the morning's ride, on which Miss May and he had disagreed. It had reference to a circle of stones in the neighbourhood, said to be of Druidical origin, and Hugh stated the difference of opinion clearly and fairly enough. Mr Dawson could give no light on the subject, however, and smiled at the idea of attaching any importance to the question.

"And besides," said May gently, but with an air of wishing to put an end to the matter, "I told you I did not hold any opinion with regard to them."

But Hugh, in his persistent way, refused to let it so end; and Jean, glad of any thing rather than silence, added her word, hoping that they might some time during the summer go to see the "Stanes."

"But, Miss May," continued Hugh, "though you said you did not know yourself, you gave authority for your opinion--at least as far as similar circles elsewhere are concerned. And was it not?--Yes, it was Mr Manners that you said had told you--"

Jean laughed. She could not help it. May grew red as a rose. Then Mr Manners took up the word, and there was no more uncomfortable silence after that; and Hugh heard more concerning this new subject of interest than he would be likely to hear again for many a day.

Before they rose from the table, Mr Dawson was called away by some one who wished to see him on business, and Hugh, with Jean for his crutch this time, betook herself to his room to rest and be out of the way.

May went to the parlour with Mr Manners, intending only to show him the way and then go to her own room to change her habit for her house dress; but when Jean came back again, May was in the room still, and the door was shut.

Jean stood looking at it for a moment, with the strangest mingling of emotions--joy for her sister, sorrow for herself--a feeling as if the old familiar life were come to an end, and a new life beginning; nay, as if the very foundations of things were being removed.

"We can never be the same again--never," she said, with a sharp touch of pain at her heart. "I have lost my bonny May."

It was foolish to be grieved, it was worse than foolish to be angry, at the thought of change; but she knew that if she were to look closely into her heart, she would find both grief and anger there.

"I canna help it, but I needna yield to it," she said; and then she turned resolutely toward the kitchen, where Beckie was awaiting necessary directions with regard to dinner.

She lingered over her arrangements, and by and by put her own hands to some of them, for she found it impossible to settle quietly to any thing, though she told herself that her restlessness was foolish and not to be excused. It took her out of the house at last, and down the walk past the well and through the wood, where she had many times gone during the last few months to the most sweet and peaceful spot in all the world, she thought--where her mother and her little brother and sisters lay; and here, after a while, her father found her. He was not free from restlessness either, it seemed. Jean rose as he drew near.

"Where is your sister? Should you have left her?" asked he doubtfully.

Jean shook her head and laughed.

"They shut the door upon me."

"Ay! He's in earnest, yon lad. You like him, Jean? Though it's soon to ask."

"Not too soon. I liked him the first glance I got of him. He has a good, true face. Yes; I like him."

"It doesna take you long to make up your mind," said her father laughing. But he was evidently pleased. "You dinna like his errand?

Well that was hardly to be expected. But if it hadna been him, it would have been another, and we should have lost her all the same. And it might have been worse."

"Yes, it might have been worse."

Jean was thinking what her father's feelings would have been had May's troth been plighted to Willie Calderwood. But her father was thinking that it would have been worse for him to-day had it been for Jean that the stranger had asked.

"It will be your turn next," said he with a sad attempt at jesting.

But Jean answered gravely,--

"No. I think not I'm content as I am."

Her father laughed, a short, uncertain laugh.

"Ay! that will do till the right man comes, and then--we'll see."

"But he may never come. He never came to Auntie Jean."

"Did he no'? Weel, it came to that in the end."

Mr Dawson looked up and met the question in Jean's eyes, but he did not answer it, and her lips were silent. She did not need an answer.

Though she had heard nothing, she seemed to know how it had been with her aunt. Disappointment had come to her in her youth. Whether death had brought it, or change, or misunderstanding, or something harder to bear than these, she knew not; but however it had come, it had doubtless been a part of the discipline that had wrought toward the mingled strength and sweetness of her aunt's character, so beautiful in Jean's eyes. She forgot her father in thinking about it.

And for the same reason her father forget her. There were none like his sister in his esteem. None, of all the women he had seen grow old, had lived a life so useful, or were so beloved and respected in their old age as she. Her life--except for a year or two--had never been solitary in a painful sense, he thought. It had been, and was still, full of interest--bound up with the lives and enjoyment of others, as much as the life of any married woman of them all.

"And if she were to die to-night, there are more in Portie that would miss and mourn her than for many mothers of families, and that is not more than all would acknowledge who ken what she is and what she has done in the town."

But for his daughter? No, it was not a life like her aunt's that he desired for her. His eye came back to her as the thought pa.s.sed through his mind. She was gazing straight before her, in among the trees, but it was not the brown buds nor the opening leaves that she saw, he knew well.

What could it be that brought that far-away look to her eyes. Was she looking backwards or forwards? Where were her thoughts wandering? Her look need not have vexed him. It was a little sad, but she smiled as though her thoughts were not altogether painful. He could not but be uneasy as he watched her. He loved her so dearly, she counted for so much in his life, that he longed for her confidence in all things, and he knew that there was something behind that smile which he could not see.

"Weel?" said he as she turned and met his look.

"I should go back to the house, you are thinking? Yes, I am going.

But, papa--it will not be very soon? May's going away, I mean."

"That is all before us. I can say nothing now. I doubt all that will be taken out of our hands, my la.s.sie. He is in earnest, yon lad."

"But, papa--it is surely our right to say when it is to be? And May is so young--not nineteen yet."

"Just her mother's age, when--"