“Are you doubting?” again cried the lad, determined on his answer but dreading a denial.
“It is not your bowl-money the bairns are gathering at the Cross,” said Miss Mary simply.
“True,” he acknowledged; “but she went because she must. She loves me still, I’m telling you; she has my heather at her heart!”
Miss Mary understood. She looked at her dreamer and stifled a sigh. Then she saw her brothers in the doorway, silent, and her hand went down and met his and fondled it for his assurance as on the day he first stood, the frightened stranger, on that floor, and she had sheltered his shyness in the folds of her bombazine gown.
THE END