The Tender Glory
“No, Jim, that’s finished. I’ve practically put it out of my mind. It’s no use crying over spilt milk.”
He drank his tea standing before the fire.
“Robin ought to come back,” he said truculently.
“I’ve written to him.”
“Did you ask him to come home?”
“Not exactly. Not in so many words. I think it’s up to him.” “Maybe I could have his address?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t be quite sure what Jim meant to do. “I’ll give it to you next time I come to Wick.”
He had to accept her decision, and presently he drove off. He hadn’t kissed her again and she was glad.
Kirsty was no better in the morning, but at least Neil rose early and got on with the milking while she was busy about the house.
“I’ll go out wi’ the van,” he offered, “but the byre won’t get finished. Not till after dinner time.”
“Well, feed the cows and I’ll cope.”
“What about the butter? I’ve skimmed the milk.”
“It’ll have to wait, Neillie,” Her voice had sharpened.
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