“Ah, there you are,” cried the little man in triumph, “now I know you remember. And it's twenty-four years to-morrow, Elsie, darlin', since—” He suddenly dropped his violin on some meal bags at his side and sprang toward her.
“Go away with you.” She closed the door quickly behind her. “Whisht now! Be quate now, I'm sayin'. You're just as foolish as ever you were.”
“Foolish? No mother, not foolish, but wise yon time, although it's foolish enough I've been often since. And,” he added with a sigh, “it's not much luck I've brought you, except for the boys. They'll do, perhaps, what I've not done.”
“Whisht now, lad,” said his wife, patting his shoulder gently, for a great tenderness flowed over her eloquent face. “What has come to you to-day? Go away now to your work,” she added in her former tone, “there's the hay waiting, you know well. Go now and I'll watch the grist.”
“And why would you watch the grist, mother?” said a voice from the mill door, as a young man of eighteen years stepped inside. He was his mother's son. The same swarthy, rugged face, the same deep-set, sombre eyes, the same suggestion of strength in every line of his body, of power in every move he made and of passion in every glance. “Indeed, you will do no such thing. Dad'll watch the grist and I'll slash down the hay in no time. And do you know, mother,” he continued in a tone of suppressed excitement, “have you heard the big news?” His mother waited. “He's coming home to-day. He's coming with the Murrays, and Alec will bring him to the raising.”
A throb of light swept across the mother's face, but she only said in a voice calm and steady, “Well, you'd better get that hay down. It'll be late enough before it is in.”
“Listen to her, Barney,” cried her husband scornfully. “And she'll not be going to the raising today, either. The boy'll be home by one in the morning, and sure that's time enough.”
Barney stood looking at his mother with a quiet smile on his face. “We will have dinner early,” he said, “and I'll just take a turn at the hay.”
She turned and entered the house without a word, while he took down the scythe from its peg, removed the blade from the snath and handed it to his father.
“Give it a turn or two,” he said; “you're better than me at this.”