“Dead!” echoed the old man. “Big Mack! God help me.”
“And they will be wanting a team,” continued Ranald, “to go to Cornwall to-morrow.”
The old man stood for a few moments, looking stupidly at Ranald. Then, lifting his hat from his gray head, he said, brokenly: “My poor girl! Would God I had died for him.”
Ranald turned away and stood looking down the lane, shrinking from the sight of the old man's agony. Then, turning back to him, he said: “The minister's wife is coming yonder with Bella.”
The old man started, and with a mighty effort commanding himself, said, “Now may God help me!” and went to meet his daughter.
Through the gloom of the falling night Ranald could see the frightened white face and the staring, tearless eyes. They came quite near before Bella caught sight of her father. For a moment she hesitated, till the old man, without a word, beckoned her to him. With a quick little run she was in his arms, where she lay moaning, as if in sore bodily pain. Her father held her close to him, murmuring over her fond Gaelic words, while Ranald and Mrs. Murray went over to the horses and stood waiting there.
“I will go now to Donald Ross,” Ranald said, in a low voice, to the minister's wife. He mounted the colt and was riding off, when Peter called him back.
“The boys will take the wagon to-morrow,” he said.
“They will meet at the Sixteenth at daylight,” replied Ranald; and then to Mrs. Murray he said, “I will come back this way for you. It will soon be dark.”
But Bella, hearing him, cried to her: “Oh, you will not go?”