The friendship of the three was never broken. I will not say that, as she lay awake in the dark, the eyes of Alexa never renewed the tears of that autumn night on which she turned her back upon the pride of self, but her tears were never those of bitterness, of self-scorn, or of self-pity.
“If I am to be pitied,” she would say to herself, “let the Lord pity me! I am not ashamed, and will not be sorry. I have nothing to resent; no one has wronged me.”
Andrew died in middle age. His wife said the Master wanted him for something nobody else could do, or He would not have taken him from her. She wept and took comfort, for she lived in expectation.
One night when she and Alexa were sitting together at Potlurg, about a month after his burial, speaking of many things with the freedom of a long and tried love, Alexa said, after a pause of some duration:
“Were you not very angry with me then, Dawtie?”
“When, ma'am?”
“When Andrew told you.”
“Told me what, ma'am? I must be stupid to-night, for I can't think what you mean.”
“When he told you I wanted him, not knowing he was yours.”
“I ken naething o' what ye're mintin' at, mem,” persisted Dawtie, in a tone of bewilderment.