ly, "we will go back. If it is trouble, we
may be able to help. I never ignore presentiments; they are sent to us
all from time to time, and if we are faithful we obey them, like a
summons. One came to me years ago. It was late at night, and I was
just off to bed, when suddenly it came--the remembrance of a friend far
off; the insistent remembrance; the certainty that he needed me, and
that I must hasten to help. By all the laws of common sense I should
have shrugged my shoulders and gone to sleep; but what are we, to judge
by our own poor knowledge the great unknown forces of God? I went out
there and then, caught a midnight train, and was at his house by seven
in the morning. His wife met me on the stair and said, `How did you
know?' ... He lay dying in his bed, and all that night he had been
calling for me. There was something I could do for him, better than any
one else. He wished to place it in my hands before he went, and God had
mercifully provided the opportunity. Never say that anything is
impossible in this world, little girl! According to your faith so shall
it be unto you."

Margot did not answer except by a faint, strained smile. Her eyes were
fixed upon the doorway of the inn, waiting for the reappearance of the
messenger, but he did not come, and the delay lent weight to her
apprehension.

They spoke no more, but walked silently side by side, until they drew
near to the inn, when suddenly the silence of the Glen was broken by a
strange, unaccustomed sound. What was it? Whence did it come? From
some animal surely; some animal in pain or fear, piteously making known
its needs! It could not be the moan of human woe! Yet even as she
passionately denied the thought, Margot recognised in her heart that it
was true, and darting quickly forward made her way into the inn parlour.
The messenger still stood outside the door, waiting in stolid patience
for instructions, and by his side was Mrs McNab, wiping floury hands in
her apron, in evident perturbation of spirit.

On the plush-bedecked sofa in the corner of the parlour the half-
inanimate form of Mrs Macalister swayed helplessly to and fro, while on
either side stood two men--her husband and George Elgood--looking on in
helpless, masculine fashion. Her cap had fallen back from her head, her
ruddy face was bleached to a livid grey, from her lips came from time to
time that pitiful, hopeless wail. At first it seemed to have no
definite sound