“I want to see him because I love him, and because he loves me, and because—” He paused.
“Have you anything to say to him that I could tell him afterwards? But he will be sure to come.”
“You could write and ask him, Shenac.”
“Yes; oh yes. Only Allister could do it better,” said Shenac; “but I could let him know that you are longing to see him again.”
But it was Hamish himself who wrote—two broken lines, very unlike the letters he used to take so much pains to make perfect. But the irregular, almost illegible, characters were eloquent to his friend; and in a few days there came an answer, saying that in a day or two business would bring him within fifty miles of their home, and it would go hard with him if he could not get a day for his friend. And almost as soon as his letter he himself came. He had travelled all night to accomplish it, and must travel all night again; but in the meantime there was a long summer day before them.
A long, happy day it was, and long to be remembered. They had it mostly to themselves. All the morning Mr Stewart sat beside the low couch of Hamish, and spoke or was silent as he had strength to listen or reply. On the other side sat Shenac, never speaking, never moving, except when her brother needed her care.
Once, when Hamish slumbered, Mr Stewart, touching her bowed head with his hand, whispered,—
“Is it well?” And Shenac answered, “It is well. I would not have it otherwise.”
“And afterwards?” said her friend.
“I cannot look beyond,” she murmured.