Rachel’s mouth opened, but she was dumb. As if frozen she stood there by the table, a plate of cut bread in her hand.
“Aye,” he went on heavily, “and I’ll take my oath it was no accident, for the place where the fire started—”
With a strangled cry the woman tottered and fell crashing across the table.
Ghastly, Corrie sprang to her assistance. Stumblingly he carried her to his chair by the hearth. She was not unconscious; her collapse had been mainly physical. Blood was dropping from a gash in her wrist.
“Dinna heed me,” she murmured; “I’ll be all right in a minute, John.”
He fetched water and cloths, knelt, washed the wound and bandaged it awkwardly yet with some tenderness. Slow tears ran down her cheeks.
“Am I hurting ye, Rachel?” he asked.
He spoke again. “I shouldna ha’ told ye so quick about the insurance. Dinna keep thinking on it.” Then with obviously a great effort—“Ye’ve been a good sister to me, Rachel. I—I wish I had been a better brother.”
His words left her speechless. What had come to him?