'You know all, Allan,' said she, anxiously.
'Yes, mother,' said I, and flinging myself into a chair, I pressed my hands upon my temples, and then we relapsed into moody silence.
My mother sighed deeply.
What need was there for words to express our anxious thoughts? From time to time I gazed earnestly at my only parent—my only living relative. Age had traced deep lines upon her pale sad face; but care had planted furrows deeper still. We sat long silent; at last she said in a trembling voice—
'The evil day is coming, Allan, when the fire on this hearth—so long boasted as the highest in Scotland—will be quenched at last.'
I bit my lips till the blood came. Poverty had made me as powerless as if a wall of adamant enclosed me, and I could see no means of extrication from our present difficulties.
'Even money if we had it would not satisfy them, mother,' said I.
'Why?'
'Because Sir Horace is resolved on having this house pulled down, and a new shooting-box built in its stead.'
'A little time, Allan—dear Allan—would have made me least independent of this poor dwelling, unless indeed the curse that was laid on Lachlan Mhor——'