s in his
voice was not good to be hearing. We were silent until we came in
sight of the white stone below the house on the moor on the road to the
three lonely ones, and then I cried, pointing--

"She is waiting."

"I see her," said he, "and the boy with her," and I looked at the
far-seeing sailor eyes with the little wrinkles at the corners that
seamen and hillmen have, and he left me. When I reached the stone they
were there, the son comforting the mother, and the little boy Hamish
standing a little way off, affrighted.

"Take me," he cried, his arms out, "Hamish is feared of the great black
man," and I would have taken him, but Bryde was before me.

"Come, little dear," said he, and smiled, and the boy came to him
slowly, the mother watching, and then Bryde swung his little brother on
his shoulder.

"We will be doing finely now," said he; "and you kent I was coming,"
said he to the mother, smiling at her.

"I saw her sailing in the Firth, your black schooner, the neatness of
her, and the pride, and I said, 'It is my son's ship you are'; and when
she was at an anchor in the calm water I was watching for the little
boat to be coming to the shore, but the darkness was down and your
father took me away. Morning and evening," said she, "rain or fine, I
would be looking for you since Angus McKinnon came home."

"What--is he home then? I forgathered with him, I mind. I was mate on
the _Spray_," said Bryde. "Well, he would be telling you I was lucky.
I have word that I can be sailing a King's ship if I will be going
back."

At the door of the place that was old McCurdy's hut, Dan McBride was
standing. The white was streaking in the redness of his face, and he
was shaking. Bryde put the boy in his mother's arms, and it is droll,
but Belle went to the side of her man.

"Dan," said she, "I have brought you your son," and she looked from one
to the other, her lips quivering. Bryde opened his mouth to speak,
looking at his father--a long level look.

"You are a fine man," said he, "my father."

At the words Dan took a great gulp of a breath and his eyes were
filling.

"I will have a great son," said he, and cried aloud on his Maker. "My
son, oh, my son, can you be forgiving your father?"

"There is no ill in my heart for you," said the son, "only pity and a
strange love since the day that Hamish put your gift to me into my
hand. I will have been carving my own name with that sword, and it is
kindness