"'And which way went she?' said he.

"'She stood up on her feet, and looked about her like one dazed, and then somebody spoke to her from ower the wall. And in a wee while I cam' round and said a word, but she never answered me.'

"'And wha was the man? Or was it a man?'

"'Oh! ay. It was a man. It was the minister's son wha has come lately frae America. But I heard na a word he said.'

"'Hadden?' he said. 'I'll hae a word wi' him.' And he gaed off in a hurry, and I was glad enow. Then I cried after him: 'Take ye're dog wi'

ye, and the next time ye come leave him at hame.' But he never heeded, but hurried awa'."

"And what happened then?" asked Saunners, trying to hide the interest he took in the story, lest she should suspect that he had a reason for it.

"Doubtless Mr Hadden told him the truth. There was little to tell.

But naething came o' it, nor of a' the search which he has keepit up since then near and far. It gaes me lauch when I think about it. He was mad wi' the love of her, and the last time he touched her hand was when he put the ring upon it in the kirk. Her lips he never touched-- that I'll daur to swear. And a' this time he has been livin' in the house that he made sae grand and fine for her. And doesna he hate it waur than pain or sin by this time? Ay! that does he," said she with her shrill laughter. "He has had a hard year o' it. He gaes here and there; and when a new-comer is to be seen among us, his een is upon him to mak' sure that he mayna hae something to say to the folk that bides in Gra.s.sie--that's the Bains' farm. And gin he thocht one had a word to say about Allie, he would gar his black dog rive him in bits but he would get it out o' him."

Then a change came over the old woman's face.

"And how did she get awa' at last?" asked Crombie, growing uneasy under her eye.

"Oh! she won awa' easy eneuch in a while. She was far frae weel then, and I'm thinkin' that she's maybe dead and a' her troubles ower by this time."

"And her name was Allie Bain, was it?"

"Ay, ay! her name was Allie Bain."

"Weel, I need to be goin' now. I thank ye for yer story. And if ever I happen to see her, I'se tell her that I saw a frien' o' hers wha spak'

weel o' her. And what may ye're ain name be?"

"My name's neither this nor that, that ye should seek to ken it. And, man! gin ye're een should ever licht on ane that ca's hersel' Allie Bain, gae by her, as gin she wasna there. It's better that neither man nor woman should ken where she has made her refuge, lest ane should speak her name by chance, and the birds o' the air should carry the sound o' it to her enemy ower yonder. Na, na! The least said is soonest mended, though I doubt I have been sayin' mair than was wise mysel'. But ye seem a decent-like bodie, and ye were in sair trouble, and I thocht I micht hearten ye with friendly words ere ye gaed awa'.

But hae ye naething to say about Allison Bain neither to man nor woman, for ill would be sure to come o' it."

She was evidently vexed and troubled, for she rose up and sat down, and glanced sidewise at him in silence for a while. Then she said:

"I daursay ye're thinkin' me a queer-like crater. I'm auld, and I'm crooket, and whiles my head's no richt, and there are folk that dinna like to anger me, for fear that I micht wish an ill wish on them. I read my Bible, and say my prayers like ither folk. But I'm no sayin'

that I haena seen uncanny things happen to folk that hae gaen against me. There's Brownrig himsel' for instance.

"I'm no' sayin' to ye to do the la.s.s nae ill. Ye seem a decent man, and hae nae cause to mean her ill. But never ye name her name. That's gude advice--though I havena ta'en it mysel'. Gude-day to ye. And haste ye awa'. Dinna let Brownrig's evil een licht on ye, or he'll hae out o' ye a' ye ken and mair, ere ye can turn roond. Gude-day to ye."

"Gude-day to you," said Saunners, rising. He watched her till she pa.s.sed round the hill, and then he went away.

But the repentant wee wifie did not lose sight of him till he had gone many miles on his homeward way. She followed him in the distance, and only turned back when she caught sight of Brownrig on his black horse, with his face turned toward his home.

Though Saunners would not have owned that the woman's words had hastened his departure, he lost no time in setting out. It was not impossible that, should Brownrig fall in with him later, he might seek to find out whether he had ever seen or heard of Allison Bain, since that seemed to be his way with strangers. That he should wile out of him any information that he chose to keep to himself, Saunners thought little likely. But he might ask a direct question; and the old man told himself he could hold up his face and lie to no man, even to save Allison Bain.

So he hastened away, and the weariness of his homeward road was doubtless beguiled by the thoughts which he had about the story he had heard, and about his duty concerning it. His wisdom would be to forget it altogether, he told himself. But he could not do so. He came to the manse that night with the intention of telling Allison all he had heard, and of getting the truth from her. But when he saw her sitting there so safe, and out of harm's way, he could not do it.

And yet he could not put it altogether out of his thoughts. He would not harm a hair of the la.s.sie's head. A good woman she must be, for she had been doing her duty in the manse for nearly a year now, and never a word to be spoken against her. And who knew to what straits she might be driven if she were obliged to go away and seek another shelter?

There were few chances that she would find another home like the manse.

No, he would utter not another word to startle her, or to try to win her secret.

"But there is John Beaton to be considered. I would fain hae a word wi'

John. He's a lad that maybe thinks ower-weel o' himself, and carries his head ower-high. But the root o' the matter's in him. Yes, I hae little doubt o' that. And if I'm nae sair mista'en there's a rough bittie o' road before him. But he is in gude hands, and he'll win through. I'll speak to him, and I'll tak' him at unawares. I'll ken by the first look o' his face whether his heart is set on her or no."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"Love will venture in where it daurna weel be seen."

But John had been taken by surprise before Crombie's turn came to speak.

Some one else had spoken.

It was Sat.u.r.day night. The work of the week was over Marjorie was safe asleep, and restless with the thoughts which always came with leisure, Allison threw a shawl over her head and went out into the lane. It was dark there, where the hedge was high, and the branches hung low from the trees in the manse garden; but beyond the lane, the fields and the faraway hills lay clear in the moonlight. With lingering steps she turned toward the green, along the path which skirted the cottage gardens. When she came to the last of them she heard her name called softly.

It was John Beaton's voice. She could not see him where he stood, but he saw her clearly. He saw on her face, as she drew near, the shadow which told of the old sadness and gloom; and he saw it pa.s.s, like the mist before the sunshine, as she stood still to listen. In a moment he had leaped the dike, and stood by her side.

"Allison!" said he eagerly, as he took her hand.

John was young, and he had had but small experience of woman and her ways, or he never would have mistaken the look on Allison's face for the look of love which he longed to see. He never would have clasped and kissed her without a word.

In the extremity of her surprise and dismay, Allison lay for a moment in his embrace. Then she struggled to get free.

"Allison, forgive me--because I love you. Allison, say that you will be my wife."

A low cry of anguish came from her white lips.

"Oh! may G.o.d pity me. I have been sorely wrong, or this would not have come to be my punishment."

She drew herself away from him, but she made no movement to leave him.

John hung his head before her.

"Allison, forgive my presumption, and give me a chance to win your love.

Allison, I love you dearly."

"Hush!" she whispered. "Come with me. I must speak to you. I have done wrong, but how could I ever have dreamed that you would give a thought to me?"

She laid her hand upon his arm.

"I am in sore trouble. Come with me somewhere--to your mother--for I must speak to you."

"Not to my mother, if you have anything to say which will grieve her,"

said John huskily.

"It might grieve her, but she would understand. She might be angry for a moment; but she is kind and good, and she would not think evil of me."

They stood in silence for a minute or two. Then she said:

"Come into the manse. No one will be there till I have time to say what I must say."