“Yes, I thought you might be going to die. I dinna think I would have come but for that. I was sorry for you, and I had done wrong too, in that I hadna withstood you. But I wished to be at peace with you, and I thought that you might be glad that we should forgive one another at the last.”
“Forgive—at the last! There’s sma’ comfort in that, I’m thinking,” and not another word was spoken between them that day. And not many were spoken for a good many days after that.
But one morning, when Allison had been detained among her “auld wives” a little longer than usual, she came softly into the room, to find, not Dickson, but an old man with clear, keen eyes and soft white hair sitting beside the bed. His hands were clasped together on the top of his staff, and his face, benign and grave, was turned toward the sick man.
“He seems to be asleep,” said Allison softly, as she drew near.
“Yes, he seems to be asleep,” said the old man; “but I have a message to him from the Master, and I can wait till he wakens. And who may you be? One who comes on an errand of mercy, or I am greatly mistaken.”
“I am a nurse here. And—I am—this man’s wife.”
She said it in a whisper, having had no thought a moment before of ever uttering the words.
“Ay! ay!” said the old man, in tones which expressed many things—surprise, interest, awakened remembrance. And then Allison turned and met the eyes of her husband.
“It is the minister come to see you,” said she, drawing back from his outstretched hand.
“Stay where you are,” said he, taking hold of her gown. “Bide still where you are.”