It was a sweet, laughing face that looked up at him from the frame, demure yet arch, shy yet roguish—a face to look at and a face to love.
As he looked a wintry smile, wholly tender, half tearful, stole over the little man's face.
“Lassie,” he whispered, and his voice was infinitely soft, “it's lang sin' I've daured look at ye. But it's no that ye're forgotten, dearie.”
Then he covered his eyes with his hand as though he were blinded.
“Dinna look at me sae, lass!” he cried, and fell on his knees, kissing the picture, hugging it to him and sobbing passionately.
Red Wull came up and pushed his face compassionately into his master's; but the little man shoved him roughly away, and the dog retreated into a corner, abashed and reproachful.
Memories swarmed back on the little man.
It was more than a decade ago now, and yet he dared barely think of that last evening when she had lain so white and still in the little room above.
“Pit the bairn on the bed, Adam man,” she had said in low tones. “I'll be gaein' in a wee while noo. It's the lang good-by to you—and him.”
He had done her bidding and lifted David up. The tiny boy lay still a moment, looking at this white-faced mother whom he hardly recognized.