“The place was a country place—far south from this; the time was seventeen years ago; the way was—” Mrs. Catherine paused again. “To what purpose is this questioning, child? It is a matter that concerns you not.”
“The way was—?” repeated Anne, clasping her hand eagerly.
“The way was—he was killed,” said Mrs. Catherine, in abrupt haste. “Shot, as men shoot beasts. Anne Ross, I brought the bairn Alison to my house, because she was an innocent bairn that I wanted to do a kindness to, and not because of her parentage.”
Anne heard the words, but did not discern their meaning, and sat, in the blind, fainting sickness that possessed her, repeating them to herself, unconsciously.
“Child, child!” said Mrs. Catherine, in alarm. “What ails you? What have you heard? I am meaning, why have you come to me with such a question?”
“One other—only one,” said Anne, recollecting herself. “Mrs. Catherine, who was it—who was the murderer?”
Mrs. Catherine made an appealing motion with her hand, and did not answer.
But Anne was perfectly self-possessed again.
“Was it Norman?”
Mrs. Catherine did not speak; it was not necessary. The answer was far too legibly written in the long, steadfast look of grief and sympathy which she fixed upon her companion’s face.