“It would be Kate clumping across the kitchen floor in the Gaelic language,” said Mr. Dyce, pushing his specs up on his brow.
“Nothing but the wind,” said Bell. “What did you say was trump?”—for that was the kind of player she was.
“It was not the wind, it was a cry; I'm sure I heard a cry. I hope there's nothing wrong with the little one,” said Ailie, with a throbbing heart, and she threw her cards on the table and went out. She came back in a moment, her face betraying her excitement, her voice demanding silence.
“Of all the wonders!” said she. “Just step this way, people, to the pantry.”
They rose and followed her. The pantry was all darkness. Through its partly open door that led into the kitchen they saw their child in the crescent of the candles, though she could not see them, as no more could Kate, whose chair was turned the other way. They stood in silence watching the strange performance, each with different feelings, but all with eeriness, silent people of the placid, old, half-rustic world that lives forever with realities and seldom sees the passions counterfeited.
Bud had risen, her dark hair looking unnaturally black above her brow, and, her dancing done, she was facing the dog and the servant, the only audience of whose presence she was aware.
“Toots!” said the maid, relieved that all seemed over, “that's nothing in the way of dancing; you should see them dancing Gillie-Callum over-bye in Colonsay! There's a dancer so strong there that he breaks the very boards.”
Bud looked at her, and yet not wholly at her—through her—with burning eyes.
“Hush!” she said, trembling. “Do you not hear something?” and at that moment, high over the town went the “honk, honk” of the wild geese.
“Devil the thing but geeses!” said the maid, whose blood had curdled for a second. The rain swept like a broom along the street, the gutters bubbled, the shutters rapped, far above the dwelling went the sound of the flying geese.