Mona's breath seemed to be suddenly arrested. "Will Ewan be there?" she asked.
"Yes—isn't it the day of his week-day service at the chapel—Wednesday—isn't it?"
"And Dan?" she said.
"Dan? Why Dan? Well, woman, perhaps Dan too—who knows?"
The Bishop had sent across to the old Ballamona to say that he wished to see his son in the library after service on the following morning.
At twelve next day, Dan, who had been plowing, turned in at Bishop's Court in his long boots and rough red shirt, and there in the library he found Mona and the Deemster seated. Mona did not speak when Dan spoke to her. Her voice seemed to fail; but the Deemster answered in a jaunty word or two; and then the Bishop, looking very thoughtful, came in with Ewan, whose eyes were brighter than they had been for many a day, and behind them walked the stranger whom Mona had seen at Ballamona the day before.
"Why, and how's this?" said Ewan, on perceiving that so many of them were gathered there.
The Bishop closed the door, and then answered, with averted face, "We have a painful interview before us, Ewan—be seated."
It was a dark day; the clouds hung low, and the dull rumble of the sea came through the dead air. A fire of logs and peat burned on the hearth, and the Deemster rose and stood with his back to it, his hands interlaced behind him. The Bishop sat on his brass-clamped chair at the table, and rested his pale cheek on his hand. There was a pause, and then without lifting his eyes the Bishop said, "Ewan, do you know that it is contrary to the customs of the Church for a minister to stand security for a debtor?"
Ewan was standing by the table, fumbling the covers of a book that he had lifted. "I know it," he said, quietly.