"Why," said he, "has this chapel been allowed to fall to pieces?"
"Because," said Mrs. Nevis, "there's never been the money to mend it."
"I wonder," he mused, "if The McTavish would let me do it? After all,
I'm not an utter stranger; I'm a distant cousin—after all."
"Not so distant, sir," said Mrs. Nevis, "as may appear, if what you say is true. Colland McTavish, your great-grandfather, and The McTavish's great-grandfather, were brothers—and the poor bereft mother that put up this tablet was your great-great-grandmother, and hers."
"Surely then," said he, "The McTavish would let me put a roof on the chapel. I'd like to," he said, and the red came strongly into his cheeks. "I'll ask her. Surely she wouldn't refuse to see me on such a matter."
"You can never tell," Mrs. Nevis said. "She's a woman that won't bear forcing."
He looked at her for the first time in some minutes. "Why," said he, "you're ill; you're white as a sheet!"
"It's the long walk uphill. It takes me in the heart, somehow."
"I'm sorry," said McTavish simply. "I'm mighty sorry. It's all my fault."
"Why, so it is," said she, with the flicker of a smile.