"Yes, all well."
"Then dear grandmother has recovered from her illness; I'm glad to know that."
"And you have not heard, Donald? You do not know that grandmother has been dead these five months. But there, cousin," putting a comforting arm about me, "don't grieve for her; she went joyously, her one regret being that she could not see you once more on earth."
"And mother has stood it bravely?"
"Yes, and is if anything, kinder than before, but she grieves all the time about you. The only thing that keeps her in heart is your father's confidence in your coming. He looks for you every day, or for good news of you."
"And does little Jean believe that I am dead?"
"Oh, no; she agrees stoutly with Uncle William, and watches the road for you, each evening."
"She is almost grown now?"
"Quite grown up, and the prettiest, sweetest lass in the valley—now Ellen's gone," and Thomas sighed deeply and fixed his eyes upon the hills again.
"Ellen gone? What mean you, Thomas? Where would she go? I thought she had no other relatives."