“A day will suffice, I suppose?” her paternal parent was wandering on amiably. “A man should always investigate such matters for himself. I can see enough to satisfy me between now and the time for the return train.”
“I cannot,” whispered Langley to Cathie: “a century would not suffice. If the sun would but stand still!”
The lad Seth was late for dinner that day, and when he entered the house Bess turned from her dish-washing to give him a sharp, troubled look, “Art tha' ill again?” she asked.
“Nay,” he answered, “nobbut a bit tired an heavy-loike.”
He sat down upon the door-step with wearily-clasped hands, and eyes wandering toward the mountain, whose pine-crowned summit towered above him. He had not even yet outlived the awe of its majesty, but he had learned to love it and draw comfort from its beauty and strength.
“Does tha' want thy dinner?” asked Bess.
“No, thank yo',” he said; “I couldna eat.”
The dish-washing was deserted incontinently, and Bess came to the door, towel in hand, her expression at once softened and shaded with discontent. “Summat's hurt yo',” she said. “What is it? Summat's hurt yo' sore.”
The labor-roughened hands moved with their old nervous habit, and the answer came in an odd, jerky, half-connected way: “I dunnot know why it should ha' done. I mun be mad, or summat. I nivver had no hope nor nothin': theer nivver wur no reason why I should ha' had. Ay, I mun be wrong somehow, or it wouldna stick to me i' this road. I conna get rid on it, an' I conna feel as if I want to. What's up wi' me? What's takken howd on me?” his voice breaking and the words ending in a sharp hysterical gasp like a sob.
Bess wrung her towel with a desperate strength which spoke of no small degree of tempestuous feeling. Her brow knit itself and her lips were compressed. “What's happened?” she demanded after a pause. “I conna mak' thee out.”