“Never, Jamie!” she said. “Never for one moment.”
“And whatever happens,” he went on, drawing her closer, “whatever happens, you are sure you never will be sorry?”
“Quite sure, Jamie!”
He kissed her again and again, until she laughed at his lover-like vehemence.
“Any one would suppose we were about to be separated for years,” she said, playfully.
He laughed, too, but his face and voice were serious, as he said, firmly:
“Nothing shall separate us but death, lassie!”
... When Dixon left his house the next morning it was still intensely cold, but the wind had gone down, and the clumps of evergreens and shrubbery on the lawn were motionless as if painted there.
He stood a moment on the lower step drawing on his fur mittens, and, nodding at the child-face smiling at him from the window, then started to go. But at the first step his foot struck against some object which gave out a metallic sound, and stooping quickly, he raised from the snow a small pistol. One glance showed him that it was in perfect order, and every barrel loaded.