She caught the rough, strong hand in hers and held it against her face.
“Mac,” she whispered, “I’ll try even harder than I have been doing.”
He patted her cheek and made to rise, but she held him.
“And Mac,” she said, a catch in her voice, “you mus’n’t worry about me, or about anything, and you must show Boy that it is useless to worry about losing this bushland. Nobody can steal it, Mac, believe me; I know.”
“O’ course you know, ma.” He arose and hastily left the house.
Widow Ross, in white apron and bare arms, was dissecting one of the golden pumpkins on a block of wood outside.
“Ander’ll likely have a fine day for his loggin’ to-morrow,” she remarked as McTavish passed.
“There’ll be quite a crowd there, I bet,” returned the man. “I’ve sort of led ’em all to expect a good feed of custard, widder.”
“Oh, you go along, you blarney,” cried Mrs. Ross. But she cut into the pumpkin with renewed vigor and started to sing:
“Oh, we’ll cross the river of Jordan,