Scarcely a word was spoken in Ella’s boat during the return. Her brothers began to revive their recollections of Angus, of what he had taught them, and how he played with them, and of whatever he said and did; but observing that Ella, instead of joining in their conversation, drew her plaid over her head and fixed her eyes on the waters, they kept a respectful silence, and even refrained from asking a single question on the important subject of her traffic with the master of the Mary. The wind still rose and increased the difficulty of rowing so much, that the lads would soon have been disposed to leave off talking, if no restraint had been upon them. At last, Ella observed poor Fergus wiping his brows, though the gale was chill.
“Fergus, give me the oar. I have been very thoughtless,—or, rather, over full of thought,—or you should not have toiled for me all this time. Take my plaid, for this breeze is wintry.”
She threw her plaid round him and gave him a slight caress as she passed to take his place.
“Sing, Fergus,” said his brother, “it lightens the way.”
As soon as he had recovered his breath, Fergus sang an air which Angus used to love to time for them with his oar where he took them out to sea for pleasure, before their days of toil began. Ella joined her voice, perhaps for the purpose of checking the tears which began to flow faster than at any time since the night of her parent’s death. Apparently unconscious of them, she plied her toil and her song more vigorously when the boat neared the cove where they were to take in Archie. They looked out for him, hoping that the song might bring him down to the boat and prevent any loss of time in getting home. Nobody appeared, however, but one of Murdoch’s girls, standing stock still on the ridge of the rock. Ella signed and beckoned, and her brothers shouted for Archie; to all which the lass made no other answer than shaking her head like a weathercock.
“Give me my plaid,” said Ella, who instantly stepped on shore and mounted to the farm. She could see nobody for some time, and when she did, it was only the girl who had watched her landing.
“Where are all the family, Meg?”
“All gone, except Archie; he’s back again. Father and others are gone to the moor for peat, and mother is milking the cows a great way off.”
“And Archie? Call him, for we must be going.”
“He can’t get out,” said Meg, grinning, and pointing to Mr. Callum’s apartment, the shutters of which were closed. “He’s all in the dark, and he has been flogged for stealing the laird’s birds, and I don’t know how many eggs and feathers.”