When she
turned, it seemed even to Robert as if all the light in the room
came only from her eyes. But that light had been all gathered out
of the novel she had just laid down. She held out her hand to Eric,
and her sweet voice was yet more gentle than wont, for he had been
ill. His face flushed at the tone. But although she spoke kindly,
he could hardly have fancied that she showed him special favour.
Robert stood with his violin under his arm, feeling as awkward as if
he had never handled anything more delicate than a pitchfork. But
Mysie sat down to the table, and began to pour out the tea, and he
came to himself again. Presently her father entered. His greeting
was warm and mild and sleepy. He had come from poring over
Spotiswood, in search of some Will o' the wisp or other, and had
grown stupid from want of success. But he revived after a cup of
tea, and began to talk about northern genealogies; and Ericson did
his best to listen. Robert wondered at the knowledge he displayed:
he had been tutor the foregoing summer in one of the oldest and
poorest, and therefore proudest families in Caithness. But all the
time his host talked Ericson's eyes hovered about Mysie, who sat
gazing before her with look distraught, with wide eyes and
scarce-moving eyelids, beholding something neither on sea or shore;
and Mr. Lindsay would now and then correct Ericson in some egregious
blunder; while Mysie would now and then start awake and ask Robert
or Ericson to take another cup of tea.
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