“I thought he would go away and that I should never see him again!” she replied, a little pitifully, with the quavering thrill of unshed tears in her voice. “And you did this knowing--what you know!” said Jonita again, sternly. “I saw him first,” said Jean, a little obstinately, looking down the while. Her sister flushed crimson. “Oh, lassie,” she cried, “ye will drive me mad with your whims and foolish speeches; what matters who saw him first? Ye ken well that ye are not fit to be----” “She is fit to be my wife,” I said, for I thought that this had gone far enough; “she is fit to be my wife, and my wife she shall surely be if she will have me!” With a little joyful cry Jean Gemmell’s arms went about my neck, and her wet face was hidden in my breast. It lay there quiet a moment; then she lifted it and looked with a proud, still defiance at her sister. Alexander-Jonita lifted up her hands in hopeless protest. She seemed about to say more, but all suddenly she changed her mind. “So be it,” she said. “After all, ’tis none of my business!” And with that she turned and went out through the door of the kitchen. CHAPTER XXII. THE ANGER OF ALEXANDER-JONITA. (_Comment and Addition by Hob MacClellan._) I met my lass Jonita that night by the sheep-fold on the hill. It was not yet sundown, but the spaces of the heavens had slowly grown large and vague. The wind also had gradually died away to a breathing stillness. The scent of the bog-myrtle was in our nostrils, as if the plant itself leaned against our faces. I had been waiting a long time ere I heard her come, lissomly springing from tuft to tuft of grass and whistling that bonny dance tune, “The Broom o’ the Cowdenknowes.” But even before I looked up I caught the trouble in her tones. She whistled more shrilly than usual, and the liquid fluting of her notes, mellow mostly like those of the blackbird, had now an angry ring. “What is the matter, Alexander-Jonita?” I cried, e’er I had so much as set eyes on her. The whistling ceased at my question. She came near, and leaning her elbows on the dyke, she regarded me sternly. “Then you know something about it?” she said, looking at me between the eyes, her own narrowed till they glinted wintry and keen as the gimlet-tool wherewith the joiner bores his holes. “Has your father married the dairymaid, or Meg the pony cast a shoe?” I asked of her, with a lightness I did not feel. “Tut,” she cried, “’tis the matter of your brother, as well you know.” “What of my brother?” “Why, our silly Jean has made eyes at him, and let the salt water fall on the breast of his black minister’s coat. And now the calf declares that he loves her!” I stood up in sharp surprise. “He no more loves her than--than----” “Than you love me,” said Alexander-Jonita; “I know--drive on!” I did not notice her evil-conditioned jibe. “Why, Jonita, he has all his life been in love with the Lady Mary--the Bull of Earlstoun’s daughter.”