“Why, how young and glad he looks! He’s even nobler than he was when he rode away from me last night, and I’d never seen him so dignified and grand as he was then. It’s––it’s as if he had done with everything is hard, like worries, and evil, and loneliness, and––all.”
“Ay, lassie; he has done with all––that you or I know aught about; and every inch a man he seems as he sits there in the majesty of death.”
By then the child’s tears had begun to flow, and she caught up Pedro’s hand with an outburst of grief and love.
“Poor, poor Pedro! To have been here all alone when it came! What shall I do without him who was always so good, so good to me? Oh, I can’t have it so, John! I can’t, I can’t!”
He was wise enough to attempt no consolation, knowing well how small a part of her life the venerable Indian had been and how easily youth accustoms itself to such a loss. But, after he had allowed her to sob for a time, he gently touched her shoulder, and said:
“Come. Pedro has finished his work and has passed it on to us. Those poor sheep must be cared for, and somebody must ride home at once; or, rather, should ride at once to Marion to make the necessary arrangements. I wish–––” And he paused in perplexity, regarding her as if in doubt what was best to be done.
They left the cottage with that quiet tread which seems natural in the presence of those whom no sound can trouble, and, hand in hand, walked sadly to the fold, where the penned sheep greeted them with eager cries and restless movements.
“Pedro used to say they talked and he knew what they said. I begin to believe he did, for, listen! This sound isn’t like that other first one, which told us they were hungry. This says: ‘I’m glad you’ve come!’ Doesn’t it?”
“So it sounds to me, lassie; and I, too, am glad we came. It’s queer, though, how set you were on it, even against the mistress’ wish that you should wait.”