“But I cannot—for a while—because I am going to lose myself, and if I were with Willie I would be found again. But you will tell him that I will ay have him in my heart—and sometime I will come to him, maybe. I’ll ay have that hope before me.”
“But, Allison—where are you going?—I hope—”
“I must tell no one where I am going. Somebody might ask you about me, and it is better that you should not ken even if I could tell you. Even Willie mustna ken—for a while.”
There was time for no more words. A little bowed old woman with a great mutch on her head, and a faded plaid upon her shoulders, came creeping through among the graves.
“Allie, my woman,” she whispered, “ye’ll need to lose no time. I hae seen the factor riding round the hill by the ither road. He lookit unco angry-like, and his big dog was wi’ him. Lie laich for a whilie till he’s weel by, and then tak aff ye’re hose and shoon and step into the burn and gae doon beyont the steppin’-stanes till ye get in to the hallow and ye’ll bide safe in my bit hoosie till the first sough be past.”
Allison took a bundle of papers from beneath her shawl.
“They are for the minister. It is about the keepin’ o’ the place till Willie comes home,” said she.
But the little old woman interposed:
“You maun gie them to me. The minister maun hae nae questions to answer about them, but just to say that auld Janet Mair gie’d them to him, and he can send the factor to me.”
She took the papers and put them in her pocket and went her way. Allison looked after her for a moment, then drew nearer to the wall.