CHAPTER L.
LIZZY FINDLAY.
Leaving his boat again on the dry sand that sloped steep into the harbour, Malcolm took his way homeward along the shore. Presently he spied, at some little distance in front of him, a woman sitting on the sand, with her head bowed upon her knees. She had no shawl, though the wind was cold and strong, blowing her hair about wildly. Her attitude and whole appearance were the very picture of misery. He drew near and recognized her.
“What on earth’s gane wrang wi’ ye, Lizzy?” he asked.
“Ow naething,” she murmured, without lifting her head. The brief reply was broken by a sob.
“That canna be,” persisted Malcolm, trouble of whose own had never yet rendered him indifferent to that of another. “Is ’t onything ’at a body cun stan’ by ye in?”
Another sob was the only answer.
“I’m in a peck o’ troubles mysel’,” said Malcolm. “I wad fain help a body gien I cud.”
“Naebody can help me,” returned the girl, with an agonized burst, as if the words were driven from her by a convulsion of her inner world, and therewith she gave way, weeping and sobbing aloud.—“I doobt I’ll hae to droon mysel’,” she added with a wail, as he stood in compassionate silence, until the gust should blow over; and as she said it she lifted a face tear-stained, and all white, save where five fingers had branded their shapes in red. Her eyes scarcely encountered his; again she buried her face in her hands, and rocked herself to and fro, moaning in fresh agony.
“Yer mither’s been sair upo’ ye, I doobt!” he said. “But it’ll sune blaw ower. She cuils as fest ’s she heats.”
As he spoke he set himself down on the sand beside her. But Lizzy started to her feet, crying,