Lad o’ the Wilderness.
Rebecca watched her go, and all her strength to endure grew tough and sinewy. They were few and lonely, here at Logie, now the feud was up; and Nita Langrish was a dismaying power about the land, with her beauty that put men in leading strings.
“That’s meant for Logie’s funeral song,” she muttered, as they watched the retreating figure. “Well, shepherd, we’re neither killed nor buried yet.”
Nita, half down the steep bend of the road that led to Logie Brigg, saw Causleen come through the wicket-gate and out into the highway.
“Looking for the Master?” she asked gently.
Causleen knew little of the basket-weaver, except that she was an old love of Hardcastle’s, and read no guile in the question, in the innocent, soft eyes.
“Yes. He has ridden for the doctor. My father is—is worse.”
“It’s as well, maybe.” Nita’s jealousy noted the quiver in the other’s voice, but did not spare her sorrow. “He may never need hear about the woodmen’s hut.”
Causleen stood very still for a moment, looking at Nita Langrish. The blow was so sudden, the pain of it so like a knife-thrust driven home, that she was dizzy and bewildered. Then the quick, Highland fire leaped to her face, showing a wild beauty that angered Nita all afresh.
“He knows and understands,” she said—“as you could not.”