"Would you have me Peter's father?" he asked uncertainly. "This way—an outlaw—ragged—dirty—a beggar——"
There was an almost tragic note of hopefulness in his voice.
"Yes," she cried, her voice breaking in excited entreaty from her lips. "If you are Peter's father, tell me. We have waited. And I have told him you would come. Oh, I have promised him that, and have asked God every night to make it come true. Are you——" Her hands were reaching out to him.
"Yes, I am Peter's father."
There was no flash of joy or pride in his acknowledgment of the truth. His head sank upon his breast as if a sudden weariness had overcome him, and a moan of protest was in his voice. And then a thing happened which swept the bitterness and grief from Donald McRae's heart. He caught a glimpse of Mona's face, gloriously flushed in this moment of her answered prayer; and then her arms were about him, her soft cheek against his rough stubble of beard, and for an instant he felt the swift pressure of her lips against his.
He raised his hand and touched her hair. "Child," he cried brokenly, "dear child——"
She sprang up from him, half laughing and half sobbing, and ran out from under the mountain ash tree and stood in the edge of the clearing. With her hands in the form of a megaphone she called: "Peter! Peter! Oh, Peter!"
With a protesting cry he climbed to his feet and went to her. She saw the white, almost frightened look in his face and eyes. "Don't do that!" he exclaimed. "For God's sake—don't! Peter must not know I am here."
In her amazement her hands fell slowly from her face to her side. "Why?" she demanded.
"Because——" He stopped, listening to a voice that came faintly from out of the forest.