"You are lookin' a wee better the nicht, Matthew," said Mrs. Maitland after a long thoughtful pause, as she drew in her chair beside his.
"Ay, I'm feelin' no' sae bad," he answered feebly. Then, as if having made up his mind about something, he went on, as he looked into the glowing fire, "Do you ken, wife, I hae been thinkin' a lot aboot oor Mysie a' day. I wonder what'll be the cause o't? But a' day she has been in my mind, an' I only hope naething has come to her."
"I dinna ken, Matthew," she said; for this was the first time he had spoken about their missing daughter since the day they had learned of her disappearance. He had always remained silent when she had given expression to her thoughts regarding Mysie; but thinking this an encouragement, she spoke about her, and he too, in a way that made her wonder; for he was never talkative at any time, and it seemed as if his heart was hungering to talk of their bairn.
"I wonder what wad hae come owre her, that nae spierin's o' her could be got. Puir Mysie! I liket that wean, wife—liket her maybe owre weel; an' my heart has been sair for her mony a time, wonderin' what has come o' her!"
Mrs. Maitland lifted a corner of her rough apron and wiped her eyes, as she cried softly at hearing her husband thus speak of their missing daughter.
"Do you think she'll be living, Matthew?" she asked looking through her tears at her husband anxiously.
"That's hard to say, wife," he replied, a break in his voice. "Sometimes I think she maun be deid, or she wad hae come back to us in some way. I think we liket her weel enough, an' she kent it, and she was ay a guid lassie at a' times."
"Ay, she was," replied the mother, "a guid bairn, an' a clever yin aboot the hoose; an' I never had an angry word frae her a' my days. Oh, Matthew," she cried out, again bursting into tears, and sobbing pitifully, "what is't we hae done to be tried like this? Mysie gane, an' guid kens where she is, an' John ta'en awa' jist when oor battle was beginnin' to get easier. Noo you hae been laid aside yoursel', an' God kens hoo we are to do, for hinna a penny left in the hoose! Oh, dear, but it's a hard lot we hae to suffer!" and she sobbed in silence, while her husband stroked her pale, thin, toil-worn hands that hid her weeping eyes.
"Wheesht, lassie!" he said brokenly. "Dinna you break doon noo, for you hae been the mainstay o' us a', when we wad hae lost heart often. I used to think that oor lot couldna be harder, when the bairns were a' wee, an' we were struggling frae haun' to mooth, to see them fed an' cled. But wi' a' the hardships, thae days were happy. We were baith young, an' I was aye fairly healthy an' when we locked the door at nicht, we were satisfied that a' that belanged to us were inside, an' in safety, even though their wee stomachs maybe werena' ower fu'. But noo we canna do that, wife. Some hae gane to where want an' poverty canna hurt them, an' that is a consolation; but where will oor lassie be, that never gi'ed us a wrang word a' her days? Is she in want this nicht, the same as we are oorsels? Will she be hungry an' homeless, ill clad, an' oot in the storm? If she is, then God peety her. If only we had her aside us, hunger wad be easier tholed for us a'," and Matthew, unable to control himself longer, completely broke down and wept, mingling his tears with those of his wife, because of their misery and poverty and suffering.
The girl outside could hardly restrain herself at thus hearing her parents speak. She sobbed and held on to the window ledge, her eyes fixed greedily upon the open chink in the shutter, listening to, and looking at her parents in their misery, as they sat and talked so kindly and anxiously about her—talked so that every word was a stab at her heart; for she had never heard them open their hearts like this before.