It had never been Rebecca’s habit to think that ten thousand such lean swine as the Garsykes Men could have their will of Logie; but a dark cloud of doubt lay between her and the further vision. There was thunder-weather brewing, and it must break before ever Logie came to safety and its own.
The teasing doubt stayed with her, till Jonah came in, a full-grown rat in his mouth, and layed it down before her—in propitiation, as it were.
“Now, bless you, lad,” she cackled. “If I did dust you with a besom, it was for your good. Thwack the male sort, say I—thwack ’em true and often—and they thrive the better for it.”
Jonah played with the half-dead rat for a while, then came purring and bridling against the woman’s skirt.
“Oh, aye, you’ve done well, lad. There never was such a rat for bigness.”
The more she praised him the thicker grew Jonah’s fur, till Rebecca began to laugh shrilly at his antics. She was in a mood to read omens into little matters, and her spirits had risen with a bound. The Garsykes Men were rats, and Jonah had just brought in the first fruits of some coming slaughter.
The rat began to stir fitfully, and Jonah, with a sudden, growling spring, was clawing him to bits when a shadow darkened the kitchen.
Rebecca glanced up to see a little figure standing in the porch, and her whole body stiffened, as a dog’s might. Danger had passed by Logie through the night; but every instinct told her it was on the threshold now.
“I want no baskets, Nita—leastways, none of your weaving.”
“Do not be always scolding little Nita,” pleaded the girl. “She has no baskets to sell this morning—but she has news to give.”