“I don’t remember the story,” said James. “Such old world tales are little to be heeded.”
“I min’ naething aboot it but jist that muckle,” said his father. “And I can think o’ naething but that bonny lassie lyin there afore me naither deid nor alive! I jist won’er, Jeames, that ye’re no as concernt, and as fillt wi’ doobt and even dreid anent it as I am mysel!”
“We’re all in the hands of the God who created life and death,” returned James, in a pious tone.
The father held his peace.
“And He’ll bring licht oot o’ the vera dark o’ the grave!” said the mother.
Her faith, or at least her hope, once set agoing, went farther than her husband’s, and she had a greater power of waiting than he. James had sorely tried both her patience and her hope, and not even now had she given him up.
“Ye’ll bide and share oor watch this ae nicht, Jeames?” said Peter. “It’s an elrische kin o’ a thing to wauk up i’ the mirk mids, wi’ a deid corp aside ye!—No ’at even yet I gie her up for deid! but I canna help feelin some eerie like—no to say fleyt! Bide, man, and see the nicht oot wi’ ’s, and gie yer mither and me some hert o’ grace.”
James had little inclination to add another to the party, and began to murmur something about his housekeeper. But his mother cut him short with the indignant remark—
“Hoot, what’s she?—Naething to you or ony o’ ’s! Lat her sit up for ye, gien she likes! Lat her sit, I say, and never waste thoucht upo’ the queyn!”
James had not a word to answer. Greatly as he shrank from the ordeal, he must encounter it without show of reluctance! He dared not even propose to sit in the kitchen and smoke. With better courage than will, he consented to share their vigil. “And then,” he reflected, “if she should come to herself, there would be the advantage he had foreseen and even half desired!”