But that place did not seem deserted as these. At any time when she looked she could picture the slowly-moving beam of the huge engine, and the feathery plume of grey smoke which floated away on the western breeze. There was a bright look about the place, and always associated with it she seemed to see Duncan Leslie, now looking appealingly in her eyes, now bitter and stern as he looked on her that night when Harry beat him down and they fled, leaving him insensible upon the floor.
What might have been!
That was the theme upon which her busy brain toiled in spite of her efforts to divert the current of thought into another channel. And when in despair she conversed with father or uncle for a few minutes, and silence once more reigned, there still was Duncan Leslie’s home, and its owner gazing at her reproachfully.
“Impossible!” she always said to herself; and as often as she said this she felt that there would be a terrible battle with self, for imperceptibly there had grown to be a subtle advocate for Duncan Leslie in her heart.
“But it is impossible,” she always said, and emphasised it. “We are disgraced. With such a shadow over our house that could never be; and he doubted, he spoke so cruelly, his eyes flashed such jealous hatred. If he had loved me, he would have trusted, no matter what befell.”
But as she said all this to herself, the advocate was busy, and she felt the weakness of her case, but grew more determinedly obstinate all the same.
And the train glided on over the tall scaffold-like bridges, the tree-tops glistened in the silvery moonlight, and there was a restful feeling of calm in her spirit that she had not known for days.
“No place like home,” said Uncle Luke, breaking a long silence as they glided away from the last station.
“No place like home,” echoed his brother, as he sought for and took his child’s hand. “You will stop with us to-night, Luke?”
“Hear him, Louie?” said the old man. “Now is it likely?”