He gloomed at her, and hissed between his teeth a Skye pibroch. For a time he would have her believe he was paying no attention, but ever and anon he would let slip a glance of inquiry from the corner of his eyes. He was not too intent upon his own grievances to see that she was troubled with hers, but he knew her well enough to know that she must introduce them herself if they were to be introduced at all.
He changed his tune, let a little more affability come into his face, and it was an old air of her childhood on the Jean he had at his lips. As he whistled it he saw a little moisture at her eyes; she was recalling the lost old happiness of the days when she had gone about with that song at her lips. But he knew her better than to show that he perceived it.
“Have you heard that father’s going away, Duncan?” she asked in a little.
“I have been hearing that for five years,” said he shortly. He had not thought her worries would have been his own like this.
“Yes, but this time he goes.”
“So they’re telling me,” said Black Duncan.
He busied himself more closely than ever with his occupation.
“Do you think he should be taking me?” she asked in a little.
He stopped his work immediately, and looked up startled.
“The worst curse!” said he in Gaelic. “He could not be doing that. He goes to the Gold Coast. Do I not know it—the white man’s grave?”