The Twa Miss Dawsons. Margaret M. Robertson

      “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 God’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.

      “Lassie, 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 glasses lying on the open book. Look, Jeannie, look at auntie. Is she not like a picture as she sits now?”

      “What’s the lassie 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 apron. 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 fashion 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 lassie? 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, lassie, 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 God bless him. And it’s not too late yet.”

      “No, I’m no’ going. It would do no good and it would anger my father.”

      But May persisted.

      “Why shouldna we be there as well as half the town? Papa mightna like it, but he couldna help it, if we were once there. And ye ken ye never said good-bye to Willie Calderwood.”

      “May,” said her sister, “when did you see Willie? I mean, when did he tell you that he was to be first mate of the ‘John Seaton,’ and maybe captain by and by?”

      “Oh! I heard that long ago, and I saw him last night. He came a bit of the way home with me. He would have come all the way to say good-bye to you, but he had something to do, that couldna be put off. And I’m sure he’ll expect to see you at the pier to-day.”

      “But I canna go.”

      And then she added—“Well, and what more did he say?”

      “Oh! what should he say? He said many a thing. He told me if I would stand on the high rocks above the Tangle Stanes and wave my scarlet scarf when the ‘John Seaton’ was sailing by, he would take it as a sign of good luck, and that he would come safe home again, and get his heart’s wish.”

      “And we are going there.”

      “Oh! I dinna ken. It’s cold, and the ship mayna sail, and we might have to wait. I’m not going.”

      “Did he say that to you? Yes, you are going. Do you mean that you would let him be disappointed at the very last, and him taking it for a sign?”

      “But the mist is rising, and it’s all nonsense—and he winna see.”

      “Where is your scarlet shawl? Did you no’ bring it?”

      “Oh! yes. I brought it fast enough,” said May, laughing and lifting her dress, under which the shawl was fastened. “As we were going to Auntie Jean’s I thought it as well to keep it out of sight. But, Jean, it is wet and cold, and he was only half in earnest.”

      “How could he speak out all that he wanted to say, kenning my father! But you must go.”

      “Go yourself. He’ll never ken the difference.”

      “No, he’ll never ken the difference. But when he comes home—what will you say to him then? And besides it was your being there that was to be the sign of his safe coming home—and—his getting his heart’s wish. You are coming.”

      They turned their steps northward, in the direction of a high ledge of rocks, that half a mile above the harbour jutted out into the sea. It was this point both had been thinking of when they left home, for they well knew that the young ladies from Saughleas could not, on such a day, go to loiter on the pier with all the town, just to see a whaling ship set sail for northern seas. If the day had been fine, they might have gone with a chance companion or two to see what was to be seen, and to while away an hour. Even in the wind and sleet Jean might have gone with her father, if the ship had not been the “John Seaton,” or if Willie Calderwood had not been on board. But as it was, she could not even name such a thing to her father. He would have been angry, and it would have done no good.

      So it was to the rocks above the Tangle Stanes they must go. If the day had been fine, there would have been other folk there, and many a signal would have been given as the ship went by. But they had the high desolate rocks to themselves when they had clambered up at last, and it was all they could do to keep their footing upon it, for the wind which had met them so fiercely even on the level, raged here with tenfold violence.

      And there was no sign of the ship. There was nothing but great wild waves