ountenance had trouble in it--so much trouble
that Dowie left her work quickly.

"I was oot o' the moor and I heard a lamb cryin'," he said uncertainly.
"I thought it had lost its mither. It was cryin' pitifu'. I searched an'
couldna find it. But the cryin' went on. It was waur than a lamb's
cry--It was waur--" he spoke in reluctant jerks. "I followed until I
cam' to it. There was a cluster o' young rowans with broom and gorse
thick under them. The cryin' was there. It was na a lamb cryin'. It was
the young leddy--lyin' twisted on the heather. I daurna speak to her. It
was no place for a man body. I cam' awa' to ye, Mistress Dowson. You an'
Maggy maun go to her. I'll follow an' help to carry her back, if ye need
me."

Dowie's colour left her.

"I thought she was asleep on her bed," she said. "Sometimes she slips
away alone and wanders about a bit. But not far and I always follow her.
To-day I didn't know."

* * * * *

The sound like a lost lamb's crying had ceased when they reached her.
The worst was over but she lay on the heather shut in by the little
thicket of gorse and broom--white and with heavily closed lids. She had
not wandered far and had plainly crept into the enclosing growth for
utter seclusion. Finding it she had lost hold and been overwhelmed. That
was all. But as Jock Macaur carried her back to Darreuch, Dowie followed
with slow heavy feet and heart. They took her to the Tower room and laid
her on her sofa because she had faintly whispered.

"Please let me lie by the window," as they mounted the stone stairs.

"Open it wide," she whispered again when Macaur had left them alone.

"Are you--are you short of breath, my dear?" Dowie asked opening the
window very wide indeed.

"No," still in a whisper and with closed eyes. "But--when I am not so
tired--I want to--look--"

She was silent for a few moments and Dowie stood by her side and watched
her.

"--At the end of the heather," the faint voice ended its sentence after
a pause. "I feel as if--something is there." She opened her eyes,
"Something--I don't know what. 'Something.' Dowie!" frightened, "Are
you--crying?"

Dowie frankly and helplessly took out a handkerchief and sat down beside
her. She had never done such a thing before.

"You cry yourself, my lamb," she said. "Let Dowie cry a bit."

CHAPTER XXVII

And the next morning came the "waking up" for which Dowie had so long
waited and prayed. But