There were but two rooms downstairs in the little log house, and the mother and Flora slept in the one in which they had been sitting. So when Hamish came back from looking whether the gates and barn-doors were safely shut, he found Shenac, who had much to say to him, waiting for him outside.
“Hamish,” she said eagerly, “what ails you? Why did you not speak to my mother and tell her what we ought to do? Hamish,” she added, putting out her hand to detain him as he tried to pass her—“Hamish, speak to me. What ails you to-night, Hamish?”
“What right have I to tell my mother—I, who can do nothing?”
He shook off her detaining hand as if he was angry; but there was a sound of tears in his voice, and Shenac’s momentary feeling of offence was gone. She would not be shaken off, and putting her arms round his neck she held him fast. He did not try to free himself after the first moment, but he turned away his face.
“Hamish,” she repeated, “what is it? Don’t you think we can manage to keep together till Allister comes home? Is it that, Hamish? Tell me what you think it is right for us to do.”
“It is not that, Shenac; and I have no right to say anything—I, who can do nothing.”
“Hamish!” exclaimed his sister, in a tone in which surprise and pain were mingled.
“If I were like the rest,” continued Hamish—“I, who am the eldest; but even Dan can do more than I can. You must not think of me, Shenac, in your plans.”
For a moment Shenac was silent from astonishment; this was so unlike the cheerful spirit of Hamish. Then she said,—
“Hamish, the work is not all. What could Dan or any of us do without you to plan for us? We are the hands, you are the head.”