"I think I will make some fresh, if you will let me, Kirsty--in the way I make it for the minister, you know."

Kirsty, by this time, had completely surrendered to Mrs. Murray's guidance, and producing the oatmeal, allowed her to have her way; so that when Macdonald awoke he found Mrs. Murray standing beside him with a bowl of the nicest gruel and a slice of thin dry toast.

He greeted the minister's wife with grave courtesy, drank the gruel, and then lay down again to sleep.

"Will you look at that now?" said Kirsty, amazed at Macdonald Dubh's forbearance. "He would not like to be offending you."

Then Mrs. Murray besought Kirsty to go and lie down for an hour, which Kirsty very unwillingly agreed to do.

It was not long before Macdonald began to toss and mutter in his sleep, breaking forth now and then into wild cries and curses. He was fighting once more his great fight in the Glengarry line, and beating back LeNoir.

"Back, ye devil! Would ye? Take that, then. Come back, Mack!" Then followed a cry so wild that Ranald awoke and came into the room.

"Bring in some snow, Ranald," said the minister's wife; "we will lay some on his head."

She bathed the hot face and hands with ice-cold water, and then laid a snow compress on the sick man's head, speaking to him in quiet, gentle tones, till he was soothed again to sleep.

When the gray light of the morning came in through the little window, Macdonald woke sane and quiet.

"You are better," said Mrs. Murray to him.

"Yes," he said, "I am very well, thank you, except for the pain here."

He pointed to his chest.

"You have been badly hurt, Ranald tells me. How did it happen?"

"Well," said Macdonald, slowly, "it is very hard to say."

"Did the tree fall on you?" asked Mrs. Murray.

Macdonald glanced at her quickly, and then answered: "It is very dangerous work with the trees. It is wonderful how quick they will fall."

"Your face and breast seem very badly bruised and cut."

"Aye, yes," said Macdonald. "The breast is bad whatever."

"I think you had better send for Doctor Grant," Mrs. Murray said. "There may be some internal injury."

"No, no," said Macdonald, decidedly. "I will have no doctor at me, and I will soon be round again, if the Lord will. When will the minister be home?"

But Mrs. Murray, ignoring his attempt to escape the subject, went on: "Yes, but, Mr. Macdonald, I am anxious to have Doctor Grant see you, and I wish you would send for him to-morrow."

"Ah, well," said Macdonald, not committing himself, "we will be seeing about that. But the doctor has not been in this house for many a day."

Then, after a pause, he added, in a low voice, "Not since the day she was taken from me."

"Was she ill long?"

"Indeed, no. It was just one night. There was no doctor, and the women could not help her, and she was very bad--and when it came it was a girl--and it was dead--and then the doctor arrived, but he was too late." Macdonald Dubh finished with a great sigh, and the minister's wife said gently to him:

"That was a very sad day, and a great loss to you and Ranald."

"Aye, you may say it; she was a bonnie woman whatever, and grand at the spinning and the butter. And, oich-hone, it was a sad day for us."

The minister's wife sat silent, knowing that such grief cannot be comforted, and pitying from her heart the lonely man. After a time she said gently, "She is better off."

A look of doubt and pain and fear came into Macdonald's eyes.

"She never came forward," he said, hesitatingly. "She was afraid to come."

"I have heard of her often, Mr. Macdonald, and I have heard that she was a good and gentle woman."

"Aye, she was that."

"And kind to the sick."

"You may believe it."

"And she loved the house of God."

"Aye, and neither rain nor snow nor mud would be keeping her from it, but she would be going every Sabbath day, bringing her stockings with her."

"Her stockings?"

"Aye, to change her feet in the church. What else? Her stockings would be wet with the snow and water."

Mrs. Murray nodded. "And she loved her Saviour, Mr. Macdonald."

"Indeed, I believe it well, but she was afraid she would not be having 'the marks.'"

"Never you fear, Mr. Macdonald," said Mrs. Murray. "If she loved her Saviour she is with him now."

He turned around to her and lifted himself eagerly on his elbow. "And do you really think that?" he said, in a voice subdued and anxious.

"Indeed I do," said Mrs. Murray, in a tone of certain conviction.

Macdonald sank back on his pillow, and after a moment's silence, said, in a voice of pain: "Oh, but it is a peety she did not know! It is a peety she did not know. For many's the time before--before--her hour came on her, she would be afraid."

"But she was not afraid at the last, Mr. Macdonald?"

"Indeed, no. I wondered at her. She was like a babe in its mother's arms. There was a light on her face, and I mind well what she said."

Macdonald paused. There was a stir in the kitchen, and Mrs. Murray, glancing behind her, saw Ranald standing near the door intently listening. Then Macdonald went on. "I mind well the words, as if it was yesterday. 'Hugh, my man,' she said, 'am no feared' (she was from the Lowlands, but she was a fine woman); 'I haena the marks, but 'm no feared but He'll ken me. Ye'll tak' care o' Ranald, for, oh, Hugh! I ha'

gi'en him to the Lord. The Lord help you to mak' a guid man o' him.'"

Macdonald's voice faltered into silence, then, after a few moments, he cried, "And oh! Mistress Murra', I cannot tell you the often these words do keep coming to me; and it is myself that has not kept the promise I made to her, and may the Lord forgive me."

The look of misery in the dark eyes touched Mrs. Murray to the heart.

She laid her hand on Macdonald's arm, but she could not find words to speak. Suddenly Macdonald recalled himself.

"You will forgive me," he said; "and you will not be telling any one."