ed loose to pick up some food in the
frost-stiffened grass; incredulous of the neglect they haunted the
farm-house, the pigs lively and protestant, the cows solemn and pathetic
and patient. Marcella had taken her piece of oatcake and cheese at
supper-time out to the door. But it was no use to the beasts. The little
black pig gobbled it in a mouthful and squealed for more. In her agony
of pity something dawned on her.

"I suppose," she said to herself, as she stood shivering, looking over
rimed Lashnagar, "that Jesus was as sorry for His disciples as I am for
these poor beasts. He knew they'd be so hungry when He had gone away
from them. So He gave them His body and blood--it was all He had to
give."

She got into bed, but the thought stayed with her. It was to come back
again many years afterwards, illuminating.

That night she heard steps about the house--her father's heavy
steps--but she felt tired, and fell asleep. It was midnight when her
father opened her door and came into the room.

"Marcella, are you asleep?" he said in his beautiful voice that always
made her wish he would let her love him.

"No," she said, starting to wakefulness.

"You've no mother now, Marcella," he said, and turned away. She heard
him stalk heavily up the passage.

When she ran along after him Aunt Janet was holding a hand-mirror over
her mother's mouth and looking at it carefully. She had red-rimmed eyes.
Marcella stood still, staring, and thought how white her mother's ear
was against the faded blue of her old flannel jacket over which her
long black hair lay in two long plaits. Then her father came in and sent
her down to the village for the old woman who attended to the births and
deaths of people. She went over the croft, among the hungry cows that
stared at her, one after one as she passed. Later, when the woman had
gone, and the two servant women were crying in the kitchen while they
drank scalding tea and spilt it down their aprons from trembling hands,
Andrew Lashcairn and Aunt Janet sat in the book-room with all Rose
Lashcairn's papers spread out before them. Marcella sat for a while
watching.

There were letters, smelling of the lavender and rue that lay among
them. They were tied in little bundles with lavender ribbons. There were
little thin books of poetry, a few pressed flowers, a few ribbons that
had decked Baby Marcella, a tiny shirt of hers, a little shoe, a
Confirmation book. All these they threw into the fire,