“Oh! yes! Poor Will!” he mumbled. “But Graeme, what ails you, that you look at me with a face like that?”
“Miss Elliott,” entreated Charlie, “leave him to us, you can do nothing with him to-night.”
She went up-stairs before them carrying the light, and held firmly the handle of Will’s door till they passed. She stood there in the darkness till they came out again and went down-stairs. Poor Harry lay muttering and mumbling, entreating Graeme to come and see him before she went to bed. When she heard the door close she went down again, not into the parlour where a light still burned, but into the darkness of the room beyond.
“Oh Harry! Harry! Harry!” she cried, as she sank on her knees and covered her face.
It was a dark hour. Her hope, her faith, her trust in God—all that had been her strength and song, from day to day was forgotten. The bitter waters of fear and grief passed over her, and she was well nigh overwhelmed.
“Oh papa! mamma! Oh Harry! Oh! my little brothers.”
“Miss Elliott,” said a voice that made her heart stand still, “Graeme, you must let me help you now.”
She rose and turned toward him.
“Mr Ruthven! I was not aware—” said she, moving toward the door through which light came from the parlour.
“Miss Elliott, forgive me. I did not mean to intrude. I met your brother and mine by chance, and I came with them. You must not think that I—”