She stopped, her voice utterly choked with agonizing sobs, but the man before her did not move or speak. She threw herself down and clasped her arms about him.
"Sandy! husband!" she cried. "Do what ye please with me—drive me away—kill me, but remember this—I did love ye true an' faithful—say ye believe that!"
The man freed himself roughly from her arms.
"I do believe ye," he answered.
There was something horrible in his fierce repulsion of her touch, in the harsh coldness of his voice, and the woman shrank back and crouched at his feet, and neither spoke nor moved again until with the first twitter of the birds, the baby's voice mingling, the mother rose instinctively to answer the feeble summons. She was chilled to the marrow, and her hair and garments were wet with the heavy dew. Sandy sat with averted head buried in his hands. She longed to go to him, but she dared not, and she went in to the child. Weak and unnerved as she was, the heat of the room overcame her, and sitting there with the baby on her lap she fell into a deep, death-like slumber. She returned to consciousness to find herself lying upon the bed with the child by her side. Some one had laid her there, and drawn the green shade close to shut out the bright light. She started up and listened; there was no sound but the whir of insects and the warbling of birds. She arose, stiff and bewildered, and staggered to the door. Sandy was gone.
The day dragged its mournful length along and as night fell steps were heard approaching. Molly's heart gave a great leap, but it was not her husband's step—it was that of Bob, her brother, who came slowly up the path, a serious expression on his boyish face. She would have flown to meet him, but she could not stir. Her eyes fastened themselves upon him with a look that demanded everything.
The young fellow came close up to his sister before speaking.
"How d'ye, Molly, how d'ye?" he said, seating himself beside her and glancing curiously at her white, desperate face.