armer. Trenholme put in
the child, who was now sleeping, and helped in the women, one by one.
Their white skirts were wet and soiled; he felt this as he aided them to
dispose them on the straw which had been put in for warmth. The farmer,
an Englishman, made some wise, and not uncivil, observations upon the
expediency of remaining at home at dead of night as compared with
ascending hills in white frocks. He was a kind man, but his words made
Winifred's tears flow afresh. She shrank behind the rest. Trenholme
kissed her little cold hand when he had put her in. Then, last of all,
he helped Sophia.

She had no words ready now to offer him by which to make amends. "You
have hurt your foot?" she said.

He told her briefly that his foot had twisted under him, so that at
first he had not been able to come on for the sprain, and he clasped her
hand as he bade the waggon drive on.

Feeling the lack of apology on her own part she thought he had shown
himself the greater, in that he had evidently pardoned her without it.

He did not feel himself to be great.

The cart jolted away. Trenholme stood in the farmyard. The light of a
lantern made a little flare about the stable door. The black, huge
barns, around seemed to his weary sense oppressive in their nearness.
The waggon disappeared down the dark lane. The farmer talked more
roughly, now that kindness no longer restrained him, of the night's
event. Trenholme leaned against a white-washed wall, silent but not
listening. He almost wondered he did not faint with the pain in his
ankle; the long strain he had put upon the hurt muscle rendered it
almost agonising, but faintness did not come: it seldom does to those
who sigh for it, as for the wings of a dove, that they may go far away
with it and be at rest. The farmer shut the stable door, put out the
light, and Trenholme limped out the house with him to wait for his
brother.

CHAPTER XXIV.

All this time Alec was walking, like a sentry, up and down beside the
old man's corpse. He was not alone. When the others had gone he found
that the young American had remained with him. He came back from the
lower trees whence he had watched the party disappear.

"Come to think of it," he said, "I'll keep you company."

Something in his manner convinced Alec that this was no second thought;
he had had no intention of leaving. He was a slight fellow, and,
apparently too tired now to wish to stand or walk longer, he looked
abou