_ CHAPTER FORTY ONE.
September was nearly over; there were tokens of the coming Autumn on the hills and valleys of Merleville, but the day was like a day in the prime of summer, and the air that came in through the open windows of the south room fell on Mrs Snow's pale cheeks as mild and balmy as a breeze of June. The wood-covered hills were unfaded still, and beautiful, though here and there a crimson banner waved, or a pillar of gold rose up amid the greenness. Over among the valleys, were sudden, shifting sparkles from half-hidden brooks, and the pond gleamed in the sunshine without a cloud to dim its brightness. In the broken fields that sloped towards it, and in the narrow meadows that skirted that part of the Merle river which could be seen, there were tokens of life and busy labour--dark stretches of newly-turned mould alternating with the green of the pastures, or the bleached stubble of the recent harvest. There were glimpses of the white houses of the village through the trees, and, now and then, a traveller passed slowly along the winding road, but there was nothing far or near to disturb the sweet quiet of the scene now so familiar and so dear, and Mrs Snow gazed out upon it with a sense of peace and rest at her heart which showed in her quiet face and in her folded hands.
It showed in Mr Snow's face, too, as he glanced now and then over the edge of the newspaper he was holding in his hand. He was reading, and she was supposed to be listening, to one of the excellent articles which weekly enriched the columns of
The Puritan, but the look that was coming and going on his wife's face was not just the look with which she was wont to listen to the doings of the County Association of ministers, Mr Snow thought, and, in a little, he let the paper drop from his hand.
"Well, and how did they come on with their discussions?" said Mrs Snow, her attention recalled by the silence.
Mr Snow smiled.
"Oh! pretty much so. Their discussions will keep a spell, I guess," said he, taking off his spectacles, and changing his seat so as to look out of the window.
"It is a bonny day," said Mrs Snow, softly.
"Yes, it is kind of pleasant."
There was nothing more said for a long time. Many words were not needed between these two by this time. They had been passing through weeks of sore trial; the shadow of death had seemed to be darkening over them, and, worse to bear even than the prospect of death, had been the suffering which had brought it near. Worse for her, for she had drawn very near to the unseen world--so near that the glory had been visible, and it had cost her a struggle to be willing to come back again; and worse for him, too, whose heart had grown sick at the sight of the slow, wearing pain, growing sharper every day.
But that was past now. Very slowly, but still surely, health was coming back to the invalid, and the rest from long pain, and the consciousness of returning strength, were making the bright day and the fair scene more beautiful to her. As for him, he could only look at her with thankful joy.
"I never saw this bonny place bonnier than it is to-day, and so sweet, and quiet, and homelike. We live in a fair world, and, on a day like this, one is ready to forget that there is sin or trouble in it."
"It is good to see you sitting there," said Mr Snow, for answer.
"Well, I am content to be sitting here. I doubt I shall do little else for the rest of my life. I must be a useless body, I'm afraid," added she, with a sigh.
Mr Snow smiled.
"You know better than that," said he. "I don't suppose it seems much to you to get back again; but it is a great deal for the rest of us to have you, if it is only to look at."
"I am content to bide my time, useless or useful, as God wills," said his wife, gravely:
"I was willing you should go--yes, I do think I was willing you should go. It was the seeing you suffer that seemed to take the strength out of me," said he, with a shudder. "It makes me kind of sick to think about it," added he, rising and moving about. "I believe I was willing, but I am dreadful glad to see you sitting there."
"I am glad to be here, since it is God's will. It is a wonderful thing to stand on the very brink of the river of death, and then to turn back again. I think the world can never look quite the same to eyes that have looked beyond it to the other side. But I am content to be here, and to serve Him, whether it be by working or by waiting."
"On the very brink," repeated Mr Snow, musingly. "Well, it
did look like that, one while. I wonder if I was really willing to have you go. It don't seem now as if I could have been--being so glad as I am that you did not go, and so thankful."
"I don't think the gladness contradicts the willingness; and knowing you as I do, and myself as well, I wonder less at the willingness than at the gladness."
This needed further consideration, it seemed, for Mr Snow did not answer, but sat musing, with his eyes fixed on the distant hills, till Mrs Snow spoke again.
"I thought at first, when the worst was over, it was only a respite from pain before the end; but, to-day, I feel as if my life was really coming back to me, and I am more glad to live than I have been any day yet."
Mr Snow cleared his throat, and nodded his head a great many times. It was not easy for him to speak at the moment.
"If it were only May, now, instead of September! You always did find our winters hard; and it is pretty tough being hived up so many months of the year. I do dread the winter for you."
"Maybe it winna be so hard on me. We must make the best of it anyway. I am thankful for ease from pain. That is much."
"Yes," said Mr Snow, with the shudder that always came with the remembrance of his wife's sufferings, "thank God for that. I ain't a going to fret nor worry about the winter, if I can help it. I am going to live, if I can, from hour to hour, and from day to day, by the grace that is given me; but if I
could fix it so that Graeme would see it best to stop here a spell longer, I should find it considerable easier, I expect."
"But she has said nothing about going away yet," said Mrs Snow, smiling at his way of putting it. "You must take the grace of her presence, day by day, as you do the rest, at least till she shows signs of departure."
"We never can tell how things are going to turn," said Mr Snow, musingly. "There is that good come out of your sickness. They are both here, and, as far as I see, they are content to be here. If we could prevail on Will to see it his duty to look toward this field of labour, now, I don't doubt but we could fix it so that they should make their home, here always--right here in this house, I mean--only it would be 'most too good a thing to have in this world, I'm afraid."
"We must wait for the leadings of Providence," said his wife. "This field, as you call it, is no' at Will's taking yet. What would your friend, Mr Perry, think if he heard you? And as for the others, we must not be over-anxious to keep them beyond what their brothers would like. But, as you say, they seem content; and it is a pleasure to have them here, greater than I can put in words; and I know you are as pleased as I am, and that doubles the pleasure to me," added Mrs Snow, looking gratefully toward her husband. "It might have been so different."
"Oh! come, now. It ain't worth while, to put it in that way at this time of day. I don't know as you'd allow it exactly; but I do think they are about as nigh to me as they are to you. I really do."
"That's saying much, but I'll no' gainsay it," said Mrs Snow, smiling. "They are good bairns, and a blessing wherever they may go. But I doubt we canna hope to keep them very long with us."
"It is amazing to me. I can't seem to understand it, or reconcile it to--."
Mr Snow paused and looked at his wife in the deprecating manner he was wont to assume when he was not quite sure whether or not she would like what he was going to say, and then added:
"However, she don't worry about it. She is just as contented as can be, and no mistake; and I rather seem to remember that you used to worry a little about her when they were here last."
"About Miss Graeme, was it?" said Mrs Snow, with a smile; "maybe I did. I was as good at that as at most things. Yes, she is content with life, now. God's peace is in her heart, and in her life, too. I need not have been afraid."
"Rosie's sobered down some, don't you think?" said Mr Snow, with some hesitation. "She used to be as lively as a cricket. Maybe it is only my notion, but she seems different."
"She's older and wiser, and she'll be none the worse to take a soberer view of life than she used to do," said Mrs Snow. "I have seen nothing beyond what was to be looked for in the circumstances. But I have been so full of myself, and my own troubles of late, I may not have taken notice. Her sister is not anxious about her; I would have seen that. The bairn is gathering sense--that is all, I think."
"Well! yes. It will be all right. I don't suppose it will be more than a passing cloud, and I might have known better than to vex you with it."
"Indeed, you have not vexed me, and I am not going to vex myself with any such thought. It will all come right, as you say. I have seen her sister in deeper water than any that can be about her, and she is on dry land now. 'And hath set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings,'" added Mrs Snow, softly. "That is the way with my bairn, I believe. Thank God. And they'll both be the better for this quiet time, and we'll take the good of it without wishing for more than is wise, or setting our hearts on what may fail. See, they are coming down the brae together. It is good to see them."
The first weeks of their stay in Merleville had been weeks of great anxiety. Long after a very difficult and painful operation had been successfully performed, Mrs Snow remained in great danger, and the two girls gave themselves up to the duty of nursing and caring for her, to the exclusion of all other thoughts and interests. To Mr Snow it seemed that his wife had been won back to life by their devotion, and Janet herself, when her long swoon of exhaustion and weakness was over, remembered that, even at the worst time of all, a dim consciousness of the presence of her darlings had been with her, and a wish to stay, for their sakes, had held her here, when her soul seemed floating away to unseen worlds.
By a change, so gradual as scarcely to be perceptible, from day to day, she came back to a knowledge of their loving care, and took up the burden of her life again. Not joyfully, perhaps, having been so near to the attaining of heavenly joy, but still with patience and content, willing to abide God's time.
After that the days followed one another quietly and happily, with little to break the pleasant monotony beyond the occasional visits of the neighbours from the village, or the coming of letters from home. To Graeme it was a very peaceful time. Watching her from day to day, her old friend could not but see that she was content with her life and its work, now; that whatever the shadow had been which had fallen on her earlier days, it had passed away, leaving around her, not the brightness of her youth, but a milder and more enduring radiance. Graeme was, in Janet's eyes, just what the daughter of her father and mother ought to be. If she could have wished anything changed, it would have been in her circumstances, not in herself. She was not satisfied that to her should be denied the higher happiness of being in a home of her own--the first and dearest to some one worthy of her love.
"And yet who knows?" said she to herself. "One can never tell in which road true happiness lies; and it is not for me, who can see only a little way, to wish for anything that God has not given her. 'A contented mind is a continual feast,' says the Book. She has that. And 'Blessed are the meek, and the merciful, and the pure in heart.' What would I have? I'll make no plans, and I'll make no wishes. It is all in good hands, and there is nothing to fear for her, I am sure of that. As for her sister--. Well, I suppose there will ay be something in the lot of those we love, to make us mindful that they need better help than ours. And it is too far on in the day for me to doubt that good guidance will come to her as to the rest."
Still, after her husband's words, Mrs Snow regarded Rose's movements with an earnestness that she was not quite willing to acknowledge even to herself. It was rather unreasonable of him, she thought at first, to be otherwise than content with the young girl in her new sedateness. She was not quite so merry and idle as during her last visit; but that was not surprising, seeing she was older and wiser, and more sensible of the responsibilities that life brings to all. It was natural that it should be so, and well that it should be so. It was matter for thankfulness that the years were bringing her wisdom, and that, looking on life with serious eyes, she would not expect too much from it, nor be so bitterly disappointed at its inevitable failures. She was quieter and graver, but surely no fault was to be found with that, seeing there had been sickness and anxiety in the house.
She was cheerful and busy too, Mrs Snow saw, accomplishing wonderful things in the way of learning to do housework, and dairy work, under the direction of Hannah, and comporting herself generally in a way that was winning the good opinion of that experienced and rather exacting housekeeper. She took great interest in out-of-door affairs, going daily with the deacon to the high sheep pasture, or to the clearing beyond the swamp, or wherever else his oversight of farming matters led him, which ought to have contented Mr Snow, his wife thought, and which might have done so if he had been quite sure that her heart was in it all.
By and by Mrs Snow wearied a little for the mirthfulness and laughter that had sometimes needed to be gently checked during her former visit. More than once, too, she fancied she saw a wistful look in Graeme's eyes as they followed her sister's movements, and she had much ado to keep from troubling herself about them both.
They were sitting one day together in the south room which looked out over the garden and the orchard and the pond beyond. Rose was in the garden, walking listlessly up and down the long paths between the flower-beds, and Mrs Snow, as she watched her, wondered within herself whether this would be a good time to speak to Graeme about her sister. Before she had time to decide, however, they were startled by Hannah's voice coming round the corner--
"Rose," it said, "hadn't you just as leives do your walking right straight ahead? 'Cause, if you had, you might take a pitcher and go over to Emily's and borrow some yeast. I don't calculate, as a general thing, to get out of yeast, or any thing else, but the cat's been and keeled the jug right down, and spilled the last drop, and I want a little to set some more to rising."
"Hannah," said Rose, with a penitent face, "I am afraid it was my fault. I left the jug on the corner of the shelf, instead of putting it away as I ought. I am very sorry."
"Well, I thought pretty likely it might be you, seeing it wasn't me," said Hannah, grimly. "That jug has held the yeast in this house since Grandma Snow's time, and now it's broke to forty pieces."
"Oh, I am so sorry!" said Rose.
"Well, I guess it don't matter a great sight. Nobody will worry about it, if I don't, and it's no use crying over spilt milk. But I guess you'd better tell Emily how it happened. I'd a little rather what borrowing there is between the two houses should be on t'other side. I wouldn't have asked you, only I thought you'd rather go than not. That walking up and down is about as shiftless a business as ever you undertook. But don't you go if you don't want to."
Rose shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh! I'll go, and I'll tell Mrs Nasmyth how it happened, and that it was my fault and the cat's. Mrs Snow," said she, presenting herself at the window, "did you hear what Hannah has been saying? I have broken Grandma Snow's yeast jug into forty pieces, and I am to go and confess to Emily, and get some yeast."
"I thought it was the cat that did it; though, doubtless, it was your fault not putting it in its place. However, there is no great harm done, so that you get more yeast to Hannah."
"And let Emily know that it is my fault and not Hannah's that more yeast is needed. Graeme, will you come and have a walk this bonny day?"
"You can go and do Hannah's errand, now, and I will stay with Mrs Snow, and we will walk together later," said Graeme.
"And you might bring wee Rosie home with you, if her mother will spare her, and if she wants to come. But there is no doubt of her wishing to come with you."
"Is anything the matter with your sister, that you follow her with such troubled e'en?" asked Mrs Snow, after a moment's silence.
"Troubled e'en!" repeated Graeme. "No, I don't think there is anything the matter with her. Do you? Why should you think there is anything the matter with her, Janet?"
"My dear, I was only asking you; and it was because of the look that you sent after her--a look that contradicts your words--a thing that doesna often happen with you, be it said."
"Did I look troubled? I don't think there is any reason for it on Rosie's account--any that can be told. I mean I can only guess at any cause of trouble she may have. Just for a minute, now and then, I have felt a little anxious, perhaps; but it is not at all because I think there is anything seriously wrong with Rosie, or indeed anything that will not do her good rather than harm. But oh, Janet! it is sad that we cannot keep all trouble away from those we love."
"I canna agree with you, my dear. It would be ill done to keep anything from her that will do her good and not evil, as you say yourself. But well or ill, you canna do it, and it is foolish and wrong of you to vex yourself more than is needful."
"But I do not, indeed. Just now it was her restless, aimless walking up and down that vexed me. I am foolish, I suppose, but it always does."
"I daresay it may tell of an uneasy mind, whiles," said Mrs Snow, gravely. "I mind you used to be given to it yourself in the old times, when you werena at ease with yourself. But if you don't like it in your sister, you should encourage her to employ herself in a purpose-like manner."
"Hannah has done it for me this time--I am not sure, however." For Rosie was standing still at the gate looking away down the hill towards the village, "thinking her own thoughts, doubtless," Graeme said to herself.
"She's waiting for some one, maybe. I daresay Sandy has sent some one down to the village for the papers, as this is the day they mostly come."
"Miss Graeme, my dear," continued Mrs Snow, in a little, "it is time you were thinking of overtaking all the visiting you'll be expected to do, now that I am better. It will be a while, before you'll get over all the places where they will expect to see you, for nobody will like to be overlooked."
"Oh, I don't know!" said Graeme. "It is not just like last time, when we were strangers and new to the people. And we have seen almost everybody already. And I like this quiet time much best."
"But, my dear, it is too late to begin to think first of your own likes and dislikes now. And it will be good for Rosie, and you mustna tell me that you are losing interest in your Merleville friends, dear! That would be ungrateful, when they all have so warm an interest in you."
"No, indeed! I have not lost interest in my Merleville friends. There will never be any place just like Merleville to me. Our old life here always comes back to me like a happy, happy dream. I can hardly remember any troubles that came to us all those seven years, Janet--till the very end."
"My dear, you had your troubles, plenty of them, or you thought you had; but the golden gleam of youth lies on your thoughts of that time, now. There was the going away of the lads, for one thing. I mind well you thought those partings hard to bear."
"Yes, I remember," said Graeme, gravely, "but even then we hoped to meet again, and life lay before us all; and nothing had happened to make us afraid."
"My dear, nothing has happened yet that need make you afraid. If you mean for Rosie, she must have her share of the small tribulations that fall to the lot of most women, at one time or other of their lives; but she is of a cheerful nature, and not easily daunted; and dear,
you have come safely over rougher bits of road than any that are like to lie before her, and she ay will have you to guide her. And looking at you, love, and knowing that the 'great peace,' the Book speaks about, is in your heart and in your life, I have no fear for your sister, after all that has come and gone to you."
Graeme leaned back in her chair, silent for a moment, then she said, gently,--
"I am not afraid. I cannot think what I have said, Janet, to make you think I am afraid for Rosie."
"My dear, you have said nothing. It was the wistful look in your e'en that made me speak to you about her. And besides, I have noticed Rosie myself. She is not so light of heart as she used to be. It may be the anxious time you have had with me, or it may be the added years, or it may be something that it may be wiser for you and me not to seem to see. But whatever it is, I am not afraid for Rose. I am only afraid that you may vex yourself about her, when there is no need. There can be no good in that, you know well."
"But I am not vexing myself, Janet, indeed. I will tell you what I know about it. Do you mind that restless fit that was on me long ago, when you came to see us, and how it seemed to me that I must go away? Well, Rose has come to the same place in her life, and she would like to have work, real work, to do in the world, and she has got impatient of her useless life, as she calls it. It has come on her sooner than it came on me, but that is because the circumstances are different, I suppose, and I hope it may pass away. For, oh! Janet, I shrink from the struggle, and the going away from them all; and I have got to that time when one grows content with just the little things that come to one's hand to do, seeing they are sent by God, as well as nobler work. But it is not so with Rose, and even if this wears over, as it did with me, there are weary days before her; and no wonder, Janet, that I follow her with anxious eyes."
There was no more said for a moment. They were both watching Rose, who still stood at the gate, shading her eyes, and looking down the hill.
"She doesna look like one that has much the matter with her," said Mrs Snow. "Miss Graeme, my dear, do you ken what ails your sister? Why has this feverish wish to be away and at work come upon her so suddenly, if it is a question that I ought to ask?"
"Janet, I cannot tell you. I do not know. I can but guess at it myself, and I may be all wrong. And I think, perhaps, the best help we can give her, is not to seem to see, as you said a little ago. Sometimes I have thought it might all be set right, if Rose would only speak; but one can never be sure, and I think, Janet, we can only wait and see. I don't believe there is much cause for fear, if only Rose will have patience."
"Then, wherefore should you look so troubled? Nothing but wrong-doing on your sister's part should make you look like that." For there were tears in Graeme's eyes as she watched her sister, and she looked both anxious and afraid.
"Wrong-doing," repeated she, with a start. Then she rose impatiently, but sat down again in a moment. Was it "wrong-doing" in a woman to let her heart slip unawares and unasked from her own keeping? If this was indeed the thing that had happened to Rose? Or was it "wrong-doing" to come to the knowledge of one's heart too late, as Harry had once hinted might be the end of Rosie's foolish love of admiration?
"Wrong-doing," she repeated again, with a sudden stir of indignation at her heart. "No, that must never be said of Rose. It must be one of the small tribulations that sooner or later fall to the lot of most women, as you said yourself Janet, a little ago. And it won't do to discuss it, anyway. See, Rose has opened the gate for some one. Who is coming in?"
"My dear," said Mrs Snow, gravely, "it was far from my thought to wish to know about anything that I should not. It is Sandy she is opening the gate for, and wee Rosie. He has been down for the papers, it seems, and he may have gotten letters as well."
"But, Janet," said Graeme, eagerly, "you know I could not mean that I could not tell you if I were ever so willing. I do not know. I can only guess; but as for 'wrong-doing'--"
"My dear, you needna tell me that. Sandy, man, it must seem a strange-like thing to the folk in the village to see you carrying the child that way on your horse before you--you that have wagons of one kind or another, and plenty of them, at your disposal. Is it safe for the bairn, think you? Do you like that way of riding, my wee Rosie?"
"Yes, gamma, I 'ike it," lisped the two years old Rosie, smiling brightly.
"It is safe enough, mother, you may be sure of that. And as for what the village folk may think, that's a new thing for you to ask. It is the best and pleasantest way in the world for both Rosie and me." And looking at the proud, young father and the happy child sitting before him, it was not to be for a moment doubted.
"It must be delightful," said Rose, laughing. "I should like a ride myself, wee Rosie."
"And why not?" said Mrs Snow. "Sandy, man, it is a wonder to me that you havena thought about it before. Have you your habit here, my dear? Why should you no' bring young Major or Dandy over, saddled for Miss Rose? It would do her all the good in the world to get a gallop in a day like this."
"There is no reason in the world why I should not, if Miss Rose, would like it."
"I would like it very much. Not that I need the good of it especially, but I shall enjoy the pleasure of it. And will you let wee Rosie come with me."
"If grandma has no objections," said Sandy, laughing. "But it must be
old Major, if you take her."
"Did ever anybody hear such nonsense?" said Mrs Snow, impatiently. "But you'll need to haste, Sandy, man, or we shall be having visitors, and then she winna get away."
"Yes, I should not wonder. I saw Mr Perry coming up the way with a book in his hand. But I could bring young Major and Dandy too, and Miss Rose needn't be kept at home then."
Rose laughed merrily.
"Who? The minister? Oh! fie, Sandy man, you shouldna speak such nonsense. Wee Rosie, are you no' going to stay the day with Miss Graeme and me?" said Mrs Snow.
Graeme held up her arms for the little girl, but she did not offer to move.
"Will you bide with grannie, wee Rosie?" asked her father, pulling back her sun-bonnet, and letting a mass of tangled, yellow curls fall over her rosy face.
"Tum adain Grannie," said the little girl, gravely. She was too well pleased with her place to wish to leave it. Her father laughed.
"She shall come when I bring over Dandy for Miss Rose. In the meantime, I have something for some one here."
"Letters," said Graeme and Rose, in a breath.
"One a piece. Good news, I hope. I shall soon be back again, Miss Rose, with Dandy."
Graeme's letter was from Will, written after having heard of his sisters being in Merleville, before he had heard of Mrs Snow's recovery. He had thought once of coming home with Mr Millar, he said, but had changed his plans, partly because he wished to accept an invitation he had received from his uncle in the north, and partly for other reasons. He was staying at present with Mrs Millar, who was "one of a thousand," wrote Will, with enthusiasm, "and, indeed, so is, her son, Mr Ruthven, but you know Allan, of old." And then he went on to other things.
Graeme read the letter first herself, and then to Mrs Snow and Rose. In the midst of it Mr Snow came in. Rose had read hers, but held it in her hand still, even after they had ceased to discuss Will's.
"It is from Fanny," said she, at last. "You can read it to Mrs Snow, if you like, Graeme. It is all about baby and his perfections; or nearly all. I will go and put on my habit for my ride. Uncle Sampson come with me, won't you? Have you anything particular to do to-day?"
"To ride?" said Mr Snow. "I'd as lieve go as not, and a little rather--if you'll promise to take it moderate. I should like the chaise full better than the saddle, I guess, though."
Rose laughed.
"I will promise to let
you take it moderate. I am not afraid to go alone, if you don't want to ride. But I shouldn't fancy the chaise to-day. A good gallop is just what I want, I think."
She went to prepare for her ride, and Graeme read Fanny's letter. It was, as Rose had said, a record of her darling's pretty sayings and doings, and gentle regrets that his aunts could not have the happiness of being at home to watch his daily growth in wisdom and beauty. Then there were a few words at the end.
"Harry is properly indignant, as we all are, at your hint that you may see Norman and Hilda, before you see home again. Harry says it is quite absurd to speak of such a thing, but we have seen very little of him of late. I hope we may see more of him now that his friend and partner has returned. He has been quite too much taken up with his little Amy, to think of us. However, I promised Mr Millar I would say nothing of that bit of news. He must tell you about it himself. He has a great deal of Scottish news, but I should only spoil it by trying to tell it; and I think it is quite possible that Harry may fulfil his threat, and come for you himself. But I suppose he will give you fair warning," and so on.
Graeme closed the letter, saying nothing.
"It is not just very clear, I think," said Mrs Snow.
"Is it not?" said Graeme. "I did not notice. Of course, it is all nonsense about Harry coming to take us home."
"And who is little Miss Amy, that she speaks of? Is she a friend of your brother Harry? Or is she Mr Millar's friend? Mrs Arthur doesna seem to make it clear?"
"Miss Amy Roxbury," said Graeme, opening her letter again. "Does she not make it plain? Oh, well! we shall hear more about it, she says. I suppose Harry has got back to his old fancy, that we are to go and live with him if Mr Millar goes elsewhere. Indeed, I don't understand it myself; but we shall hear more soon, I daresay. Ah! here is Rosie."
"And here is Dandy," said Rose, coming in with her habit on. "And here is wee Rosie come to keep you company while I am away. And here is Mr Snow, on old Major. Don't expect us home till night. We shall have a day of it, shall we not?"
They had a very quiet day at home. Wee Rosie came and went, and told her little tales to the content of her grandmother and Graeme, who made much of the little girl, as may well be supposed. She was a bonny little creature, with her father's blue eyes and fair curls, and showing already some of the quaint, grave ways that Graeme remembered in her mother as a child.
In the afternoon, Emily came with her baby, and they were all happy and busy, and had no time for anxious or troubled thoughts. At least, they never spoke a word that had reference to anything sad. But, when Graeme read the letters again to Emily, Mrs Snow noticed that she did not read the part about their going West, or about little Amy, or about Harry's coming to take them home. But her eye lingered on the words, and her thoughts went back to some old trouble, she saw by her grave look, and by the silence that fell upon her, even in the midst of her pretty child's play with the little ones. But never a word was spoken about anything sad. And, by and by, visitors came, and Mrs Snow, being tired, went to lie down to rest for a while. But when Rose and Mr Snow came home, they found her standing at the gate, ready to receive them. _