“They may have fallen into the river,” said Mrs Milvaine.
“Well, I don’t deny that people have fallen into rivers before now, but the probability is, they haven’t,” replied the farmer-laird. (A farmer who owns the acres he tills.)
“They may have lost themselves in the forest, and may wander in it till they die.”
“Nonsense, my love.”
“Harry may have climbed a tree, fallen down and been killed, and Miss Campbell may even now—”
“Stop, stop, dear! what an imagination you have, to be sure?”
“They may both be gored to death by that fearful bull, their mangled bodies may—”
Mr Milvaine put his fingers in his ears.
But when eleven o’clock rang out from the stable tower, and still the lost ones did not appear, then even the laird himself got fidgety. He threw down his newspaper.
But he did not permit his wife to notice his uneasiness. He quietly lit his pipe.