“Yes,” said Hamish; “we can do more than that—we can trust and pray. And we will not fear for the mother, Shenac. She will be better, now that there is a reason for Allister’s stay.—And, Cousin Shenac, you must take hope for your brother. No wonder he was downcast thinking of being left. You must tell your father that there is no call to give up hope for Evan.”
“O Hamish, my father loved Evan dearly, though he was hard on him. He has grown an old man since he went away; and to-day,—oh, I think to-day his heart is broken.”
“The broken and contrite heart He will not despise,” murmured Hamish. “We have all need of comfort, Shenac, and we’ll get it if we seek it.”
And the two girls were startled first, and then soothed, as the voice of Hamish rose in prayer. It was no vague, formal utterance addressed to a God far away and incomprehensible. He was pleading with a Brother close at hand—a dear and loving elder Brother—for their brothers far away. He did not plead as one who feared denial, but trustfully, joyfully, seeking first that God’s will might be done in them and theirs. Hamish was not afraid; nothing could be plainer than that. So the two Shenacs took a little comfort, and waited and trusted still.
Chapter Thirteen.
And so they waited. For a few days it did not seem impossible to Shenac that Allister might come; and she watched each hour of the day and night, starting and trembling at every sound. But he did not come, and in a little while Hamish broke the tidings to his mother, how they had heard that Allister was to have sailed on a certain day, but his Cousin Evan having been taken ill, they were to wait for another ship; but they would be sure to come soon.
Happily, the mother’s mind rested more on having heard that her son was well, and was coming some time, than on his being delayed; and she was better after that. She fell back for a little time into her old ways, moving about the house, and even betaking herself to the neglected flax-spinning. But she was very feeble, going to bed early, and rising late, and requiring many an affectionate stratagem on the part of her children to keep her from falling into invalid ways.
It was a sad and weary waiting to them all, but to none more than to Angus Dhu. If he had heard of his son’s death, it would not have been so terrible to him as the suspense which he often told himself need not be suspense. There was no hope, there could be none, after the words written by his son’s trembling hands. He grew an old, feeble man in the short space between the harvest and the new year. The grief which had fallen on all the family when Evan’s letter came gave way before the anxiety with which they all saw the change in him. His wife was a quiet, gentle woman, saying little at any time, perhaps feeling less than her stern husband. They all sorrowed, but it was on the father that the blight fell heaviest.