Then there was a long pause. Saunners sat looking into the fire, sighing now and then, and clearing his throat as if he were ready to begin again. When he turned toward her, Allison took to her stocking-darning. She longed to ask him a question—but she dared not do it, even if she could have uttered the words. Saunners went on:
“I thocht it queer-like of the man, but I would hardly have heeded it but for that which followed. When his back was fairly turned there came a wee wifie out o’ the corner, where she had been watchin’, and shook her neive (fist) at him and ca’ed him ill names. It was like a curse upon him. And she bade him go hame to his fine house, where he would have to live his leefu’ lane a’ his days as a punishment for his wickedness. I had a few words with her after that. She was unco curious to hear about my Eppie, and how I came to lay her there. We gaed through among the stanes thegither, and she had plenty to say about ane and anither; and whiles she was sensible enough, and whiles I had my doubts about it. Many a strange thing she told me gin I could only mind.”
Then Saunners sat silent again, thinking. Allison turned her face away from the light.
Was the terrible old man saying all this with a purpose? Did he know more than he told, and did he mean it for a warning? For it must have been in the parish of Kilgower where he had laid down the body of his wife. And it must have been Brownrig whom the “wee bowed wifie” had cursed. She grew sick at the thought of what might be coming upon her; but she put force upon herself, and spoke quietly about other matters. Then the old man rose to go.
“I thocht maybe I might see John Beaton the nicht. Is he at hame, think ye?” Allison shook her head.
“I havena heard of his being here, but he may have come for all that.”
“Ye would be likely to ken,” said Saunners, and then he went away.
Allison listened till the sound of his footsteps died in the distance, then she rose and did what was still to be done in the house. She barred the door, and covered the fire, and put out the lights, and went softly up-stairs to the little room where Marjorie slumbered peacefully. Then she sat down to think of all that she had heard.
It was not much. Crombie had seen two names on a headstone in the kirkyard of Kilgower. That they were the names of her father and mother she did not doubt. She had been greatly startled by all she had heard, but she had not betrayed herself; and after all, had she not more cause to be glad and thankful than to be afraid? Willie had put up that stone! Was not that enough to make it sure that he had been at home, and that all had been well with him? He might be at home yet, on his own land. Or he might be on the sea—on his way to a new country which was to give a home to them both. Glad tears came to Allison’s eyes as she knelt down and laid her face on Marjorie’s pillow.
“I am glad and thankful,” she said, “and I will not vex myself thinking about what the old man said. It might just be by chance that he spoke with no thought about me, except that the name was the same. I will be thankful and have patience and wait. I am sure he would not wish to harm me. Only if he were to speak of all that in the hearing of other folk it might end in my having to go away again.”