“O God! Not that! Not that!” he cried aloud, pausing in his walk with clenched hands, pale and wild-eyed.
Jean looked up from her work in startled alarm. “Gilbert!” she cried. “What is it?”
With a little mirthless laugh, he told her of the vision he had had, told of his fears for the safety of his home and the welfare of his loved ones.
She listened with a feeling of shame at her heart and a flush of angry humiliation mantling her pale cheek.
“’Fore Heaven, it makes me feel like cursing even the memory of my father,” she exclaimed bitterly with a flash of her old-time imperiousness. “But be not alarmed, Gilbert,” she continued with an encouraging smile. “Your mother is a match even for my father, and I’ll warrant she’ll not let him set his foot inside the threshold till you return.” His face brightened.
“I had indeed forgot my mother’s independent, courageous spirit,” he replied with a sigh of relief and hopefulness.
The depressing gloom thus lifted, they soon drifted into a friendly, earnest conversation, and the minutes sped by without, however, the looked-for interruption of the overdue postman.
Outside, the mist had long since been dispersed by the warm rays of the noonday sun, which was now shining brilliantly. A soft moisture glittered on every tiny leaf of the wild rose bushes which clustered beneath the window of the little cot, and on every blade of grass. The penetrating and delicious odor of sweet violets and blue-bells scented each puff of wind, and now and then the call of the meadow lark pierced the air with a subdued far-off shrillness. Suddenly the peaceful stillness was broken in upon by the sound of footsteps crunching slowly along the garden path on their way to the door of the cottage.
The Duke of Gordon and his daughter had arrived in Dumfries the night before, and, after a night’s rest, they took the coach to Ellisland and put up at the little old Inn. There they made inquiries for the whereabouts of the home of the poet of the little old man who was boastfully describing the splendors of MacDougall House, none other than our old friend Souter, once more in his breeches, having asserted his authority, much to his wife’s secret satisfaction, for “she did so love a masterful man.” Whereupon Souter condescendingly offered to conduct them to the place they sought. And now, as they looked at the poor clay biggin and the evidences of poverty and neglect which surrounded them on all sides, their hearts sank within them.
“I suppose we will find Mr. Burns greatly changed?” said Nancy interrogatively with a little shudder of dread.