"Little you know of my breed," she said sadly.
Dr. McDermott took the chair opposite her, thrust out his chin and forced her to look at him.
"Do you remember the stable lad ye whipped because he'd not let you ride the young Spitfire?" he said. "Don't you remember the lad that twenty-five years ago your father sent away to college in Glasgow?"
Her eyes grew wide and bright as she stared at him as though she saw him for the first time. Color touched her cheeks, she looked like a girl again. For a moment she could not speak, but only stare at him. Out of the mists of memory she was seeing again the barefooted boy she had stolen away many a time to play with; it was incredible that he and this rugged Scotch doctor, who had forced his friendship upon her out in the wilds of Canada, should be one and the same.
"Are you really that boy?"
And then, with a catch in her voice:
"Why, I must have been blind." A little sob of delight at this miraculous encounter rose in her throat.
"Then you are—Angus. That was your name, wasn't it. Oh, I have been blind!"
"Twenty-five years is a long time, my lady."