‘A strange terror seized us. Instinctively the men closed up in front of the body, and stood in silence. Nearer and nearer came the clear, sweet voice, ringing like a silver bell up the steep—
“Sweet the lav’rock’s note and lang,
Liltin’ wildly up the glen,
But aye tae me he sings ae sang,
Will ye no’ come back again?”
‘Before the verse was finished “Old Ricketts” had dropped on his knees, sobbing out brokenly, “O God! O God! have pity, have pity, have pity!”—and every man took off his hat. And still the voice came nearer, singing so brightly the refrain,
‘“Will ye no’ come back again?’
‘It became unbearable. “Old Ricketts” sprang suddenly to his feet, and, gripping me by the arm, said piteously, “Oh, go to her! for Heaven’s sake, go to her!” I next remember standing in her path and seeing her holding out her hands full of red lilies, crying out, “Are they not lovely? Lewis is so fond of them!” With the promise of much finer ones I turned her down a path toward the river, talking I know not what folly, till her great eyes grew grave, then anxious, and my tongue stammered and became silent. Then, laying her hand upon my arm, she said with gentle sweetness, “Tell me your trouble, Mr. Craig,” and I knew my agony had come, and I burst out, “Oh, if it were only mine!” She turned quite white, and with her deep eyes—you’ve noticed her eyes—drawing the truth out of mine, she said, “Is it mine, Mr. Craig, and my baby’s?” I waited, thinking with what words to begin. She put one hand to her heart, and with the other caught a little poplar-tree that shivered under her grasp, and said with white lips, but even more gently, “Tell me.” I wondered at my voice being so steady as I said, “Mrs. Mavor, God will help you and your baby. There has been an accident—and it is all over.”
‘She was a miner’s wife, and there was no need for more. I could see the pattern of the sunlight falling through the trees upon the grass. I could hear the murmur of the river, and the cry of the cat-bird in the bushes, but we seemed to be in a strange and unreal world. Suddenly she stretched out her hands to me, and with a little moan said, “Take me to him.”
‘“Sit down for a moment or two,” I entreated.
‘“No, no! I am quite ready. See,” she added quietly, “I am quite strong.”
‘I set off by a short cut leading to her home, hoping the men would be there before us; but, passing me, she walked swiftly through the trees, and I followed in fear. As we came near the main path I heard the sound of feet, and I tried to stop her, but she, too, had heard and knew. “Oh, let me go!” she said piteously; “you need not fear.” And I had not the heart to stop her. In a little opening among the pines we met the bearers. When the men saw her, they laid their burden gently down upon the carpet of yellow pine-needles, and then, for they had the hearts of true men in them, they went away into the bushes and left her alone with her dead. She went swiftly to his side, making no cry, but kneeling beside him she stroked his face and hands, and touched his curls with her fingers, murmuring all the time soft words of love. “O my darling, my bonnie, bonnie darling, speak to me! Will ye not speak to me just one little word? O my love, my love, my heart’s love! Listen, my darling!” And she put her lips to his ear, whispering, and then the awful stillness. Suddenly she lifted her head and scanned his face, and then, glancing round with a wild surprise in her eyes, she cried, “He will not speak to me! Oh, he will not speak to me!” I signed to the men, and as they came forward I went to her and took her hands.
‘“Oh,” she said with a wail in her voice; “he will not speak to me.” The men were sobbing aloud. She looked at them with wide-open eyes of wonder. “Why are they weeping? Will he never speak to me again? Tell me,” she insisted gently. The words were running through my head—