For on the morrow she learned that the Nighean Donn had been run down in the mist, a mile south of Ithona, by an unknown steamer. The great vessel came out of the darkness, unheeding; unheeding she passed into the darkness again. Perhaps the officer in command thought that his vessel had run into some floating wreckage; for there was no cry heard, and no lights had been seen. Later, only one body was found—that of the boy Uille Ban.
When heartbreaking sorrow comes, there is no room for words. Mary Macleod said little; what, indeed, was there to say? The islanders gave what kindly comfort they could. The old minister, when next he came to Innisròn, spoke of the will of God and the Life Eternal.
Mary bowed her head. What had been, was not: could any words, could any solace, better that?
"You are young, Mary," said Mr. Macdonald, when he had prayed with her. "God will not leave you desolate."
She turned upon him her white face, with her great, brooding, dusky eyes:
"Will He give me back Angus?" she said, in her low, still voice, that had the hush in it of lonely places.
He could not tell her so.
"It was to be," she said, breaking the long silence that had fallen between them.
"Ay," the minister answered.
She looked at him, and then took his hand. "I am thanking you, Mr. Macdonald, for the good words you have put upon my sorrow. But I am not wishing that any more be said to me. I must go now, for I have to see to the milking, an' I hear the poor beasts lowing on the hillside. The old folk too are weary, and I must be getting them their porridge."