"Nothing—nothing—it is but a scratch. The man almost missed me altogether."
"Beloved, what have you done with your hair?"
"I cut it off, that I might the better deceive them!"
"Elspeth—you must go back! This is no place for you!"
"I will not go back home. I will die first!"
"But, Elspeth, think if any one saw you—what would they say?"
"That I came to help you—to nurse you! I do not care what they would say."
"My dear—my dear, you cannot bide here. I would to God you could; but you cannot. I must think how to get you away. I must think—I must think!"
The minister, sick unto death, stood with his hand still pressed to his brow. At sight of him, and because, after all she had gone through for him, he had given her neither welcome nor kiss, a swift spasm of anger flashed up into Elspeth's eyes.
"You are ashamed of me, Allan Syme—let me go. I will never see you more. You do not love me! I will not trouble you. Open the door!"