Mary nodded her head at him in wise-like fashion, just as if he were a spoilt child.
"I daresay you did!" she said, smiling. "And what's the end of it all, eh?"
He looked at her, and in the brightness of her smile, smiled also.
"Well, the end of it all is that I've come back to you in exactly the same condition in which I went away," he said. "No richer,—no poorer! I've got nothing to do. Nobody wants old people on their hands nowadays. It's a rough time of the world!"
"You'll always find the world rough on you if you turn your back on those that love you!" she said.
He lifted his head and gazed at her with such a pained and piteous appeal, that her heart smote her. He looked so very ill, and his worn face with the snow-white hair ruffled about it, was so pallid and thin.
"God forbid that I should do that!" he murmured tremulously. "God forbid! Mary, you don't think I would ever do that?"
"No—of course not!" she answered soothingly. "Because you see, you've come back again. But if you had gone away altogether——"
"You'd have thought me an ungrateful, worthless old rascal, wouldn't you?" And the smile again sparkled in his dim eyes. "And you and Angus Reay would have said—'Well, never mind him! He served one useful purpose at any rate—he brought us together!'"
"Now, David!" said Mary, holding up a warning finger, "You know we shouldn't have talked in such a way of you at all! Even if you had never come back, we should always have thought of you kindly—and I should have always loved you and prayed for you!"