“He lies deep in Cobblers’ Gully, safe from crows and foxes.”
“Poor Storm,” she said, and was silent. Then, “Did you send a prayer with him?” she asked.
“What do I know of praying? He’s gone, and part of me went with him, somehow.”
They said no more as they went down together through the midnight of Drumly Ghyll—its high walls closing round them like another cave of dread—and out into the moonlit lowlands. It was only when they came near to Logie Bridge and all its memories that Causleen broke down again, remembering Storm.
“He lies so lonely, Dick, up there.”
“Storm hadn’t much of a life on this side. He was glad to go, maybe.”
So then Causleen knew that a prayer had gone with the dead dog into Cobblers’ Gully.
They went together up the steep, winding road to Logie—its guardian beeches comely in their winter’s nakedness—and at the bend they encountered Rebecca—the brindled cat snarling on her shoulder.
“Is it your ghost, Master?” she quavered.
“A fairly solid ghost, Rebecca.”