“Naething to fright ye, Miss Mirry,” he said, reassuringly, “but come wi’ me and I’ll show ye,” leading the way out through the porch into the garden. “I hae but just found her, the poor, lone creature, and I want you to tell me what shall be done wi’ her.”
“Who, Sandy? Of whom are you talking?” queried Miriam, following, and with difficulty keeping close to him, as he passed with hurried steps around the house and down the path that led to the barn-yard and the fields beyond.
“I’ll show ye in a minute, Miss Mirry. I dinna ken who she is, an’ I much doot if ye’re ony wiser than mysel’ on that point, but she’s in an awfu’ condition, and canna be lang for this warld.”
In another moment he had halted beside a haystack, at the foot of which lay a woman clothed in filthy rags, pale, dishevelled, unconscious, lying with closed eyes, but moaning feebly as if in pain.
“Poor, poor creature!” cried Miriam, leaning over her and dropping hot tears on the pallid face. “Oh, Sandy, who can she be? and what has brought her to this? She doesn’t look like a gypsy, I don’t think she is a foreigner; but, oh, what she must have suffered! What can we do for her?”
“Not much, I fear, my dear young leddy,” answered McAllister. “She’s dyin’, I think, and I dinna ken whether she could be moved without hastenin’ the end that canna be far off.”
“The doctor must be sent for at once,” said Miriam, with decision.
“I’ve started Peter off for him already,” returned McAllister, “and na doot he’ll be here afore lang.”
“Could we give her anything in the mean time?—food or medicine?” Miriam asked. “She looks famished.”
“She does that, Miss Mirry.”