“Is the pony come?” she asked.
“Indeed, it is the slouch I am,” said Ranald, and he hurried off to the stable, returning in a very short time with the pony saddled.
“You would not care to go with your uncle, Maimie?” said Mrs. Murray, as Lambert drove up Black in the buggy.
“No, auntie, I think not,” said Maimie. “I will take care of Hughie and the baby.”
“Good by, then, my dear,” said Mrs. Murray, kissing her.
“Good by, Ranald,” said Maimie, as he turned away to get his colt.
“Good by,” he said, awkwardly. He felt like lifting his cap, but hesitated to do anything so extremely unnatural. With the boys in that country such an act of courtesy was regarded as a sign of “pride,” if not of weakness.
Their way lay along the concession line for a mile, and then through the woods by the bridle-path to Peter McGregor's clearing. The green grass ran everywhere—along the roadside, round the great stump roots, over the rough pasture-fields, softening and smoothing wherever it went. The woods were flushing purple, with just a tinge of green from the bursting buds. The balsams and spruces still stood dark in the swamps, but the tamaracks were shyly decking themselves in their exquisite robes of spring, and through all the bush the air was filled with soft sounds and scents. In earth and air, in field and forest, life, the new spring life, ran riot. How strangely impertinent death appeared, and how unlovely in such a world of life!
As they left the concession road and were about to strike into the woods, Mrs. Murray checked her pony, and looking upon the loveliness about her, said, softly, “How beautiful it all is!”
There was no response from Ranald, and Mrs. Murray, glancing at his gloomy face, knew that his heart was sore at the thought of the pain they were bearing with them. She hesitated a few moments, and then said, gently: “And I saw a new heaven and a new earth. And there shall be no more death.”