“There’s great goings-on in there,” said Donal, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the farmhouse. “Morrison’s son has been and engaged to a young lady. Happen that ye may have seen the young man when ye were here afore.”
Norah looked at Donal straight in the eyes and he felt that she was seeing through him into a world far beyond. The man looked at Jean; their glances met and a message flashed between them.
“Him!” said the woman.
“The feckless rascal!” exclaimed the man.
He threw another lump of coal into the fire, kicked the others into a riotous blaze, shook up the straw in the corner and spread out the blankets and bags.
“Bed, lassie,” he said to Norah, pointing at the straw.
“But where’ll yerselves sleep?” asked the girl.
“Jean, where’ll we doss?”
“By the fire,” answered the woman.
“But it’ll be wrong of me,” said Norah; then stopped and left the words that rose to her tongue unuttered. Sleep was stealing over her; she shut her eyes. A gentle arm was laid on her shoulders; she rose, because a voice suggested that she should rise, and afterwards found herself lying on the bed of straw.