As they were separating, Hughie whispered to Ranald, “Come home with me, Ranald. I want you.” And Ranald, looking down into the little white face, went. It would be many a day before he would get rid of the picture of the white face, with the staring black eyes, floating on the dark brown water beside him, and that was why he went.
When they reached the path to the manse clearing Ranald and Hughie were alone. For some minutes Hughie followed Ranald in silence on a dog-trot, through the brule, dodging round stumps and roots and climbing over fallen trees, till they came to the pasture-field.
“Hold on, Ranald,” panted Hughie, putting on a spurt and coming up even with his leader.
“Are you warm enough?” asked Ranald, looking down at the little flushed face.
“You bet!”
“Are you dry?”
“Huh, huh.”
“Indeed, you are not too dry,” said Ranald, feeling his wet shirt and trousers, “and your mother will be wondering.”
“I'll tell her,” said Hughie, in a tone of exulting anticipation.
“What!” Ranald stood dead still.