“Are you?” he demanded, ignoring the interruption.
With her head low down, while she struck the chords of the hymn they had just sung, she said, hesitatingly, “I am not sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” said Harry.
“Oh, nothing,” said Maimie, lightly.
“Nobody is, if he has got any sense.”
Then Mrs. Murray came in. “Won't you stay for supper, Ranald? You must be hungry.”
“No, thank you,” said Ranald. “I must go now.”
He shook hands with an ease and freedom that the minister had never seen in him, and went out.
“That young man is coming on,” said the minister. “I never saw any one change and develop as he has in the last few months. Let me see. He is only eighteen, isn't he, and he might be twenty-one.” The minister spoke as if he were not too well pleased with this precocity in Ranald.
But little did Ranald care. That young man was striding homeward through the night, his head striking the stars. His path lay through the woods, and when he came to the “sugar camp” road, he stood still, and let the memories of the night when he had snatched Maimie from the fire troop through his mind. Suddenly he thought of Aleck McRae, and laughed aloud.