Johnnie, bowing a response, gradually drew near the window. You will begin to think there is something very simply pretty and graceful in this little figure standing here within shadow of the curtain, the evening sun just missing it as it steals timidly into the shade. And this brown hair, so silky soft, has slidden down at last upon July’s shoulder, and the breath comes something fast on July’s small full nether lip, and a little changeful flush of colour hovers about, coming and going upon July’s face. Listen--for now a sweet little timid voice, fragrant with the low-spoken Border-speech, softened out of all its harshness, steals upon Johnnie Lithgow’s ear. He knows what the words are, for he draws very near to listen--but we, a little farther off, hear nothing but the voice--a very unassured, shy, girlish voice; and July casts a furtive look around her, to see if it is not possible to get Menie Laurie to whisper her answer to; but when she does trust the air with these few words of hers, July feels less afraid. Johnnie Lithgow!--no doubt it is the same Johnnie Lithgow who carried her through the wood, half a mile about, to see the sunset from the Resting Stane--but whether this can be the Mr Lythgoe who is very clever and a great writer, July is puzzled to know. For he begins to ask so kindly about the old homely Kirkland people--he “minds” every nook and corner so well, and has such a joyous recollection of all the Hogmanays and Hallowe’ens--the boyish pranks and frolics, the boyish friends. July, simple and perplexed, thinks within herself that Randall never did so, and doubts whether Johnnie Lithgow can be clever, after all. CHAPTER XIX. “And July, little girl--you are glad to see Menie Laurie again?” But July makes a long pause--July is always timid of speaking to her brother. “Menie is not Menie now,” said July thoughtfully. “She never looks like what she used to look at Burnside.” “What has changed her?” At last Randall began to look interested. Another long pause, and then July startled him with a burst of tears. “She never looks like what she used to look at Burnside,” repeated Menie’s little friend, with timid sobs, “but aye thinks, thinks, and has trouble in her face night and day.” The brother and sister were in the room alone. Randall turned round with impatience. “What a foolish little creature you are, July. Menie does not cry like you for every little matter; Menie has nothing to trouble her.” “It’s no me, Randall,” said little July, meekly. “If I cry, I just canna help it, and it’s nae matter; but, oh, I wish you would speak to Menie--for something’s vexing _her_.” “I am sure you will excuse me for leaving you so long,” said the sprightly voice of Miss Annie Laurie, entering the room. “What! crying, July darling? Have we not used her well, Mr Home?--but my poor friend Mrs Laurie has just got a very unpleasant letter, and I have been sitting with her to comfort her.”