"Now I have two brothers, and which of them I love best; I'm sure I
canna say."
So George and Jean set out on their travels next day, and Miss Jean and
her visitor were left to entertain one another, and they did not find it
a difficult thing to do. Miss Jean had lived too much alone, to care
even for pleasant company continually, and Marion had friends and
engagements enough to call her away, so as to leave her to her solitude
for a while each day. And whether she was out with her friends, or at
home with Miss Jean, she was happy as the day was long.
They had many quiet hours together, when the wisdom which had come to
the elder woman out of her sore troubles and solitary days which God had
blessed, and out of willing service given to the needy and the suffering
for His sake, was spoken for the good of the girl who had all her
troubles and her solitary days before her. These were the hours that
afterwards Marion liked best to remember.
It seemed a very happy world to her in those days. Nothing evil or sad
seemed possible to her in her young strength and hopefulness. And even
trouble itself, sickness or pain or disappointment, if it brought to her
what had come through all these to Miss Jean--a heart at peace, a
heavenly hope, surely even of these things she need not be afraid. When
she said something like this to Miss Jean, her old friend smiled and
answered,--
"Surely not. Even when you feel the pain you needna fear the evil. And
when the pain hurts most--is worst to bear, I mean--it doesna really
harm. Why should I fear for you?"
"And do you fear for me more than for the rest?" said Marion gravely.
"I ought to fear less for you than for some, because I hope ye're one
who winna lose the good which is meant to come out of all trouble. But
ye're young and bonny and winsome, and whiles troubles come to such that
pass others by; and a heart both strong and tender, such troubles hurt
sore. But the sorer the pain the deeper and sweeter the peace, if it
sends you to the feet of the Master," added Miss Jean cheerfully.
There was silence for a little while, and Miss Jean looked up with
surprise at Marion's first words.
"Am I bonny, Miss Jean? As bonny as our Elsie was?"
Miss Jean looked at her a moment without speaking. Elsie Calderwood had
indeed been a bonny lassie, but looking at her sister, Miss Jean could
not but acknowledge that she was far more than that. She was like her
sister. She had the same sweet eyes and lovely colour, the same wealth
of shining hair. But in the face before her Miss Jean's discerning eye
saw a beauty beyond that of mere form and colouring. It might have come
to Elsie too, with cultivation, and a higher intelligence, and the
wisdom that experience brings. But Miss Jean, remembering well the girl
who was dead, saw in her living sister's face a beauty that had never
been in Elsie's.
"Does your mother think ye're like your sister?" said she, evading the
question.
"My mother hardly ever speaks about my sister. But once--some one
said--that I minded him of her."
As she spoke, a feint, sweet colour overspread her face. Her eyes did
not fall before the grave eyes of her old friend, but there came into
them a soft, bright gleam, "like a glint o' sunshine on the sea," Miss
Jean told herself as she gazed.
"Ay, ye're like her. I think them that mind her weel would say that
ye're like her."
Marion's head drooped and rested on her hand.
"Whiles I wonder how it would have seemed if Elsie hadna died."
"It was a mysterious Providence indeed, her early death. The living
should lay it to heart," said Miss Jean; and then she took up the book
that lay at her hand--a sign that no more was to be said at that time.