“Aunt Libby’s been here, Wully, talking to Chirstie about Flora till she’s having a great cry. You needn’t be frightened. She’s lying on the bed, but there’s nothing wrong with her.”
Then, as Wully started hastily for the house, she drew close to her husband. He had begun to unhitch his horses. She said;
“John!”
At the sound of her voice he turned startled towards her. “What ails you?” he had begun to ask, but she was saying;
“Yon’s no child of Wully’s!”
His hands fell from the horse’s side.
“I kent it all the time!” she cried triumphantly.
“No child of Wully’s?” he repeated.
“He never done it. I said so all the time! Now she’s told me herself!”
He peered at her through the blue half-darkness that rose from the snow.
“Not his! God be thankit! Whosever is it?”
“It’s Peter Keith’s. Whose would it be, and her in Libby’s house half the winter? And Peter running away the very day they were married! Libby’s that slack, thinking him such an angel!”
“Did she tell you that?”
“She did not. But I kent it! Did I not say Wully never did so ill a thing?”
“You did not!”
“It was a grand thing for him to do. But I can’t think what possessed him ever to take all that blame on us!”
“Can you not?” meditated her husband.
“She says he doesn’t want folks to know it isn’t his.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“Why wouldn’t he, indeed? Would he be wanting to disgrace us all?”
“He wouldn’t want folks to know Peter had her. That’s but natural.”
“It’s but natural I shouldn’t want folks to think he’d shamed Jeannie’s Chirstie.”
“So it is,” he agreed. “The thing looked well to the Lord, I’m thinking,” he added.
“I wish it looked better to the neighbors,” she retorted. “This is a strange thing, John.” She gave a sore sigh. “Libby grieving herself daft about that gomeral a’ready, so that we won’t can say a word to anybody till he’s found. Any more sorrow’d kill her. But when he comes back, I’ll have her tell the whole thing. She says she’s been wanting to clear Wully! She’s a good girl, John. But we’ll have just to bide our time. I’m glad I’ve no son like that lad Peter!”
She had had to forget how he had sacrificed her pride for that girl. She had to idealize her son again. She could see that he had done a generous thing. And she would see that the world saw that. She could run to meet Jeannie, now, across the floor of heaven, unashamed. Her husband stood enjoying her face. He said;
“It’s early for boasting, woman. You’d best wait twenty years!”
“Little I fear twenty years!” she retorted. A light shone down the path from the house. Wully had opened the door, and shut it, and was coming towards them. She wished she could take him up in her arms and cuddle him against her neck, kissing him as she had done in her youth. She said quietly to him;
“You needn’t worry. It’s only Auntie Libby that’s upset her. There’s nothing ails her.”
He said anxiously;
“Honestly, mother?”
Wonder welled up within her as she looked at him. There he stood before her, demanding honesty of her, while for months he had been lying great fundamental lies about her very life, which was his honor. “Honestly?” indeed! But there he was before her, beautiful and unrealized, risen to new life in her great expectations for him. She said only;
“Honestly! There’s nothing wrang!”
X
Barbara McNair had watched Wully and Chirstie driving away towards Wully’s home that afternoon after her arrival at the sty in the slough. It was raining then, and it rained for nearly six weeks. She stood looking after them till they were out of sight. Then she went to the other little window. There she shut her lips tightly—regarded what her eyes discovered, two bony cows, shivering, it seemed to her, in the blown rain, trying to find shelter from the wind by huddling against the haystack that was one side of the barn. The rain was gray and sullen, the prairies sodden and brown; the cows had trampled the ground between the house and the barn into mud, into which they sank knee deep. She stood contemplating. The rain continued blowing about in imprisoning drab veils. Finally she turned away, and sat down weakly. From where she sat, she saw the dripping cows shivering. She sat huddled down. She seemed trying to cuddle up against herself. Her hands, folded in her lap, seemed the only sight not terrifying that her eyes might consider.
Presently the silence of the room was broken with a little sob. She looked up. Chirstie’s little sister, standing near the window, was just turning away from it. She had been trying to see something of Chirstie. She felt deserted. Big tears were running slowly down her face. She looked like a neglected, ragged, little heartbroken waif.
Barbara started from her chair. That moment her face showed she had forgotten the surrounding desolations. She ran and gathered the child into her arms. She sat down with her in her lap. The little Jeannie, finding herself caressed, began crying lustily. The new mother kissed her. She caressed her. She soothed her, coaxing her into quietness. She told her little stories. She sang little songs, examining thoughtfully the poor little garments she wore. Dusk came upon them as they sat consoling one another. Barbara demanded help then of the child. Jeannie must show her where all the things were kept which were needed for the supper. They would make some little cakes together. Jeannie grew important and happy.
Dod’s eyes fairly bulged with amazement when he saw that supper table. Nothing of the sort had been set before him in that kitchen. His new mother made no apologies. She had been thinking to herself that it had been food of the most primitive sort that had been set before her by Chirstie on the three occasions upon which they
