e
kitchen, and wondered if a cigarette had ever been smoked in that
house before, and whether the ghost of Aleck Douglas was somewhere
near, struggling vainly against the inevitable. It certainly was
unbelievable that a Lorrigan should be there, master--in effect, at
least--of the Douglas household, wearing the shoddy garments of Aleck
Douglas, and finding them at least three sizes too small.

They were an unconscionably long time out there,--those two women who
meant so much to him. He glanced in at Mother Douglas, in bed now and
looking terribly shrunken and old. The doctor was with her, sitting
close to the bed and leaning forward a little, watching her eyes while
he talked soothingly. Lance was not wanted there, either. He returned
to the kitchen and put more wood in the stove, and felt tentatively
his drying clothes.

Belle came in, holding Mary Hope by the hand. The eyes of both were
moist, shining, blue as the sky outside.

"Lance, honey, I'm glad," she whispered, kissing him on the cheek.
"Hope told me. And don't you two kids worry about me. I'll win my way
somehow. I always have--and I guess maybe you've got it in you, too,
Lance. It sure took something more than Lorrigan nerve to win Mary
Hope--though I'll admit Lorrigan nerve won me. No, I won't go in there
now. Don't tell her I'm here, we'll wait awhile."

It was dusk, and the lamp had not yet been lighted. Through the
unshaded window Mother Douglas could look out at the first pale stars.
The doctor had gone. The house was very quiet, the snapping of the
kitchen fire, the steady _tick_-tock, _tick_-tock of the old-fashioned
clock blending with, rather than breaking, the silence.

Mother Douglas closed her eyes. Her groping left hand ceased its
aimless plucking at a yarn knot in the patchwork comforter. Her breath
came evenly--Mary Hope wondered if she slept. A hand fell on Mary
Hope's shoulder, though she had not heard a footfall. She seemed
prepared, seemed to know what she must do. She slipped out of the
chair, and Belle slipped into it. Mother Douglas opened her eyes,
turned them that way; infinite weariness marked the glance. Her left
hand resumed again its vague groping, the work-worn fingers plucking
at the coverlet.

Sitting there in the dusk, her fingers faintly outlined in the old
wooden armchair in which Aleck Douglas had been wont to sit and brood
somberly over his work and his wrongs, Belle began softly to sing:

"Ye banks and braes