Part 2 (1/2)

”Willie Calderwood goes as her first mate. That's a rise for him. I hope he may show discretion. He's no' an ill laddie.”

”And he's on a fair way to be a captain now,” said May. ”So he told me--in awhile.”

”Ay, in a while,” said her aunt dryly. ”But he has a long and dangerous voyage before him, and it's no' likely that all who sail awa' the day will ever come hame again.”

The eldest sister was standing with her face touching the window.

”The sea looks fearsome over yonder,” said she.

”Ay. But they'll ha'e room enough when once they are outside the harbour bar, and then the wind will drive them off the rocks and out to sea; and they are in G.o.d's hands.”

”Auntie Jean,” said the girl turning a pale face toward her, ”why do you say the like of that to-day?”

”It's true the day as it's true ilka day. Why should I no' say it? My dear, the thought of it is a consolation to many a puir body in Portie the day.”

”But it sounds almost like a prophecy of evil to--to the 'John Seaton,'

as you said it. And the sea is fearsome,” repeated she, turning her face to the window again.

”La.s.sie, come in by to the fire. Ye're trembling with cold, and I dare say ye're feet are no' so dry as they should be. Come in by and put them to the fire.”

”But we havena long to bide.”

However she came at her aunt's bidding, and sat down on a stool, shading her face with a paper that she took from the table.

”Auntie Jean,” said May, ”I have seen just such a picture in a book, as you would make if you were painted just as you are, with your hands folded on your lap, and your stocking and your ball of worsted beside you, and your gla.s.ses lying on the open book. Look, Jeannie, look at auntie. Is she not like a picture as she sits now?”

”What's the la.s.sie at now, with her picturing and her nonsense?” said her aunt, not sure whether she should be pleased with all this. ”I'm just as usual, and so is the room. No more like a picture than on other days.”

She was in full dress--according to her ideas of full dress--and she was that every day of the year. She had on a gown of some soft black stuff, the skirt of which was partly covered by a wide black silk ap.r.o.n. A snowy kerchief was pinned across her breast, and fastened at her neck with a plain gold brooch, showing a braid of hair of mingled black and grey. Her cap was made in the fas.h.i.+on worn by the humblest of her countrywomen, but it was made of the finest and clearest lawn, and the full ”set up” borders were edged with the daintiest of ”thread” lace, and so were the wide strings tied beneath her chin. Not a spot nor a speck was visible upon it, or upon any part of her dress, nor indeed on any article which the room contained. She and her room together would have made a picture homely and commonplace enough, but it would have been a pleasing picture, with a certain quaint beauty of its own.

”It is that you are so peaceful in here always, and untroubled. That is what May means when she says it is like a picture in a book. And after the wind, and the sleet, and the stormy sea, it is quieting and restful to look in upon you.”

”Weel, maybe. But it is the same picture ilka day o' the year, and I weary of it whiles. And the oftener you look in upon it, the better it will be for me. What ails the la.s.sie? Canna ye bide still by the fire?”

For Jean had risen from her low seat, and was over at the window again.

”The clouds are breaking away. It is going to be fair, I think. We'll need to be going, May, or we may be late. I'll come over to-morrow, auntie, and good-bye for to-day.”

”But, la.s.sie, what's a' your haste? Your father will be sure to come for you. Bide still where you are.”

”I think I'll bide still, anyway,” said May. ”I am no' going, Jeannie.

I'm no' caring to go.”

”Yes, you are coming with me,” said her sister sharply. ”You must come.

I want to speak to you--and--yes, come away.”

May pouted and protested, but she followed her sister to the kitchen where they had left their cloaks, and they went away together. They kept for a while in the shelter of the houses nearest the sea, but they did not speak till they were beyond these. The wind was still high, but neither rain nor sleet was falling, and they paused a minute to take breath before they turned to meet it again.

”The 'John Seaton' sails the day,” said May, turning her laughing face toward her sister. Jean did not laugh. ”As though that werena the very thing that brought us both out as well as papa, though we said nothing about it before we came. To the high rocks? But it would be more sensible like to go to the pier head, and then we might get a chance to shake his hand and say G.o.d bless him. And it's not too late yet.”