"No, no—I didn't mean—" she gasped, with half-sobs of excitement and fear. "O, father, I wouldn't ha' left you—if—if—"
"Poor Ailie!" he strove to say, and his helpless hand tried to reach out towards her. "Who'll take care o' ye now, I wonder?"
"Father, don't go an' die," sobbed Ailie. "Mother's gone, too, and I'll have nobody—"
Jem Carter gave a heavy groan.
"Ah! Me—I little thought ever wife o' mine 'ud be a thief,—locked up in jail!" And a sob burst from the very heart of the dying man. "I'll never see her again. Ailie, mind ye tell her from me—"
The labouring voice ceased, and they listened in vain. The old woman had retired a few paces, but Esther Forsyth stood close beside the flock-bed, for Ailie was there, and her grasp on Esther's tattered gown was that of a vice.
"Tell her what?" asked Esther, after a minute of silence.
No reply came, and Ailie spoke timidly—
"Father, won't ye take a bit o' bread?"
"He's past eatin', child," said the old woman. "Let him die in peace, an' don't ye go to disturb him, if he'll do it quiet."