“Dunnet say that, Joey.”
The old woman threw her apron over her head and sobbed.
Garth looked at her, with never a tear in his wide eyes.
“Mother,” said the poor fellow again in his weak, cracked voice,—“mother, did you ever pray?”
Mrs. Garth uncovered her head. Her furrowed face was wet. She rocked herself and moaned.
“Ey, lad, I mind that I did when I was a wee bit of a girl. I had rosy cheeks then, and my own auld mother wad kiss me then. Ey, it's true. We went to church on a Sunday mornin' and all the bells ringin'. Ey, I mind that, but it's a wa', wa' off, my lad, it's a wa', wa' off.”
The day was gaunt and dreary. Toward nightfall the wind arose, and sometimes its dismal wail seemed to run around the house. The river, too, now swollen and turbulent, that flowed beneath the neighboring bridge, added its voice of lamentation as it wandered on and on to the ocean far away.
In the blacksmith's cottage another wanderer was journeying yet faster to a more distant ocean. The darkness closed in. Garth was tossing on his bed. His mother was rocking herself at his side. All else was still.
Then a step was heard on the shingle without, and a knock came to the door. The blacksmith struggled to lift his head and listen. Mrs. Garth paused in her rocking and ceased to moan.
“Who ever is it?” whispered Garth.