The hour for her meeting with Staples had arrived, and Molly came out and closed the cabin door behind her—but here her feet faltered, and she paused. With her hands pressed tightly on her heart she stood there for a moment with the bright August sunshine falling over her; then she turned and re-entered the cabin, went noiselessly into the bedroom and knelt down by the sleeping child. One warm, languid little hand drooped over the cradle's edge. As her eyes fell upon it a quiver passed over the woman's white face, and she laid her cheek softly against it, her lips moving the while.
Then she arose and went away. Down the dusty road, with rapid, unfaltering steps and eyes that looked straight before her, she passed and disappeared in the shadow of the forest.
When Sandy came home at night he found his wife standing in the door-way, her dark braids falling over her shoulders, her cheeks burning, her eyes full of a fire which kindled his own slow, but ardent, nature. He had never seen her looking so beautiful, and he came on toward her with quickened steps and a glad look in his face.
"Here, Molly," said he, holding up to her face a bunch of dazzling cardinal-flowers, "I pulled these fur ye, down in the gorge."
She shrank from the vivid, blood-red blossoms as if he had struck her, and her face turned ashy white.
"In the gorge!" she repeated hoarsely—"in the gorge! Throw them away! throw them away!" and she cowered down upon the door-stone, hiding her face upon her knees. Her husband stared at her a moment, hurt and bewildered; then, throwing the flowers far down the slope, he went past her into the house.
"Molly's gittin on her spells ag'in," he muttered. "Lord, Lord, I war in hopes ez she war over 'em fur good!"
Experience having taught him to leave her to herself at such times, he said nothing now, but sat with the child upon his lap, looking at her from time to time with a patient, wistful look. At last the gloom and silence were more than he could bear.
"Molly," said he softly, "what ails ye?"