And what is that, shining bright, held longer than the others, still smiling down upon it, her bosom heaving more heavily than before? He knows, he knows—it is a little brooch, so little, but of gold, given her long ago in the first glad sacrifice of love. She kisses it, and the tears fall fast upon it, the lovely face suffused. It is tenderly restored to its hiding-place, and the graceful form is full-bowed now.
He can see the white clasped hands, and the movement of the pure lips he also sees. The words he cannot catch—for God is close, and the voice is low. But the fragrance of prayer steals out to him, and the Interpreter, once called the Man of Sorrows, tells him for whom she prays. "Make me worthy, oh, God," he cries, his heart melted within him. Again he turns to the door, and this time he falters not, but knocks. In a moment it is opened.
"Guid evenin' sir," said the woman's voice. "I canna see ye for the dark; is it some one I ken?" for wayfarers often sought guidance at her door.
"No, I fear you do not know me," the man responded, "and I crave your pardon for thus disturbing you. I have travelled far."
"Will ye come in? Or is there something I can do?"
"No, thank you," said the man; "I have travelled far and am thirsty. I seek but a draught of water, and I shall go on my way."
"I'll sune gie ye that," replied the woman's cheery voice, "but what's here is mebbe raither warm. Bide ye here till I rin doon to the spring."
The sweet face gleamed in the candle-light as she turned within, picking up a light plaid shawl, so strong is habit, which she threw across her shoulders. The tall gracious form was gone a moment, one darksome moment, returning instantly, a pitcher in her hand. Down the steps she tripped, and out into the night, her white gown mingling with the darkness.
Michael Blake stealthily followed her, his heart in wild tumult again. Her pace was swift and he found it difficult to keep the path. But again he saw the flutter of white before him, and he knew that it was Janet, none other, the same whom he had held so close in other days. He ran a little, panting as he ran, his thirst a torment now—for the chase was of the soul. He is not far from her.
"Janet," he cried.