She was thinking, and wondering, and hoping, as, perhaps, only a mother can hope. And so engrossed was she that she did not observe the approach of Father José, who came from the Indian camp amongst the straight-limbed pine woods. It was only when the little man spoke that she bestirred herself.
"A swell pair, ma'am," he said, pausing beside the doorway, his keen face smiling as his eyes followed the rapid gait of the girl striving to keep pace with her companion's long strides.
"You mean the men?"
There was no self-consciousness in Ailsa Mowbray. The priest shook his head.
"Jessie and Kars."
The woman's steady eyes regarded the priest for a moment.
"I—wonder what you're—guessing."
The priest's smile deepened.
"That you'd sooner it was he than—Murray McTavish."
The woman watched the departing figures as they passed out of view, vanishing behind the cutting where the trees stopped short.