Thereafter she too was silent, and Robert thought she was offended.
Possibly he felt a change in the touch of her fingers.
'Mem, I wad like to tell ye,' he said, 'but I daurna.'
'Oh! never mind,' she returned kindly.
'Wad ye promise nae to tell naebody?'
'I don't want to know,' she answered, confirmed in her suspicion,
and at the same time ashamed of the alteration of feeling which the
discovery had occasioned.
An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by Robert.
'Gin ye binna pleased wi' me, mem,' he said, 'I canna bide ye to
gang on wi' siccan a job 's that.'
How Miss St. John could have understood him, I cannot think; but she
did.
'Oh! very well,' she answered, smiling. 'Just as you please.
Perhaps you had better take this piece of plaster to Betty, and ask
her to finish the dressing for you.'
Robert took the plaster mechanically, and, sick at heart and
speechless, rose to go, forgetting even his bonny leddy in his
grief.
'You had better take your violin with you,' said Miss St. John,
urged to the cruel experiment by a strong desire to see what the
strange boy would do.
He turned. The tears were streaming down his odd face. They went
to her heart, and she was bitterly ashamed of herself.
'Come along. Do sit down again. I only wanted to see what you
would do. I am very sorry,' she said, in a tone of kindness such as
Robert had never imagined.
He sat down instantly, saying,
'Eh, mem! it's sair to bide;' meaning, no doubt, the conflict
between his inclination to tell her all, and his duty to be silent.
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