A girl—a fair-haired girl—detached herself from the little gathering about the gate and went towards her.
"Oh, there you are, Mrs. Cameron, dear," she said. "I was waiting to help you put Bess in!"
Davey knew her voice. It was Jessie Ross. His heart gave a throb of gratitude.
The young parson came out and slammed the church door behind him.
Davey's glance flew to the paddock. He could see his mother's grey-clad figure moving about among the vehicles and the horses.
"The old man's not with her. She's harnessing up herself," he thought. "Where is he, I wonder? She wouldn't have come down alone."
He saw the heavy buggy, his mother sitting erect in it, go out along the road. He followed at a little distance.
The buggy halted before the Black Bull.
A dozen horses, dogs lying limp and silent at their heels, were tethered to the posts before it. The bar was open and noisy with men drinking. They were gathered about its narrow benches like flies. From the gaping doors a garish light fell. But it was out of range of the light that Mary Cameron had drawn up her horse. She sat very still. The outlines of the vehicle were ruled black against the starlight which rested wanly on her figure and on the sturdy, grey horse.
"What on earth is she waiting for?" Davey asked himself.