“Papa,” cried Moira passionately, answering his look, “do you think what he is saying? I know my brother Allan clean through to the heart. He is wild at times, and might rage perhaps and—and—break things, but he will not lie nor cheat. He will die first, and that I warrant you.”
Still her father stood gazing upon her as she stood proudly erect, her pale face alight with lofty faith in her brother and scorn of his traducer. “My child, my child,” he said, huskily, “how like you are to your mother! Thank God! Indeed it may be you're right! God grant it!” He drew her closely to him.
“Papa, Papa,” she whispered, clinging to him, while her voice broke in a sob, “you know Allan will not lie. You know it, don't you, Papa?”
“I hope not, dear child, I hope not,” he replied, still holding her to him.
“Papa,” she cried wildly, “say you believe me.”
“Yes, yes, I do believe you. Thank God, I do believe you. The boy is straight.”
At that word she let him go. That her father should not believe in Allan was to her loyal heart an intolerable pain. Now Allan would have someone to stand for him against “that lawyer” and all others who might seek to do him harm. At the House door she stood watching her father drive down through the ragged firs to the highroad, and long after he had passed out of sight she still stood gazing. Upon the church tower rising out of its birches and its firs her eyes were resting, but her heart was with the little mound at the tower's foot, and as she gazed, the tears gathered and fell.
“Oh, Mother!” she whispered. “Mother, Mother! You know Allan would not lie!”
A sudden storm was gathering. In a brief moment the world and the Glen had changed. But half an hour ago and the Cuagh Oir was lying glorious with its flowing gold. Now, from the Cuagh as from her world, the flowing gold was gone.