She was needed at home during the day; but all the time that Hamish was away she shared with Shenac Bhan the task of soothing the weary, wakeful nights of the mother. She sat one night in the usual way, speaking softly, and singing now and then, till the poor weary mother had dropped asleep. Rising quietly and going to the door, she found Shenac Bhan sitting on the step, with her head on her hands.
“Shenac,” she said, “why did you not go to bed, as I bade you? I’ll need to begin on you, now that aunt is settled for the night. You are tired, Shenac. Why don’t you go to bed?”
Her cousin moved and made room for her on the step beside her. The children were in bed, and Dan had gone away with one of Angus Dhu’s men to a preaching that was going on in a new kirk several miles away. It was moonlight—so bright that they could see the shadows of the trees far over the fields, and only a star was visible here and there in the blue to which, for a time, the faces of both were upturned.
“You’re tired, Shenac Bhan,” said her cousin again; “more tired than usual, I mean.”
“No, not more tired than you are. Do you know, Shenac, your eyes look twice as big as they used to do, and twice as black?”
“Do they? Well, so do yours. But no wonder that you are growing thin and pale; for I do believe, you foolish Shenac Bhan, that it sometimes comes into your mind that Allister may never come home. Now confess.”
“I often think it,” said Shenac, in an awed voice.
“Toch! I knew it by your face. You are as bad as my aunt.”
“Do you never think so?” asked our Shenac.
“Think it!” said Shenac Dhu scornfully. “I trow not. Why should I think it? I will not think it! He’ll come and bring Evan. Oh, I’m sure he’ll come.”