When Father Albanel had gone he climbed up the ladder to his bed of blankets close under the sweet-smelling cedar roof and undressed. The sun was low in the west and the afternoon song of the mill had ceased. The robins were chirping their evening notes. It was supper time, and Simon McQuarrie was late. Half an hour passed before Peter heard him enter the cabin. He came directly to the ladder and climbed up. In the twilight he bent over Peter.
"Feeling sick, Peter?"
"No, sir."
Simon knelt upon the edge of the blankets.
"I've heard about the fight," he said, in a voice which trembled a little in its unaccustomed softness. "Mona told me, and then Adette, and after that I went down to the tug to have it out with Izaak Curry—and his boy. But—Peter—lad, when I saw Aleck I had no heart to speak harshly to his father. I'm proud of you!"
In the silence he bent his face nearer to Peter's.
"Want something to eat, lad?"
"I can't eat," explained Peter huskily. "My mouth is swollen shut."
It was then Simon McQuarrie's hard lips touched Peter's cheek—the first kiss he had given in many years.
"Good night," he whispered. "You're Donald McRae's son—every inch of you!" And Peter listened to his heavy feet as he slowly descended the ladder.