Part 11 (1/2)

He shook the plaid and his bonnet, and folded the former under the porch for Kooran to lie on. Then he opened the latch and entered.

All was dark. Not a blink of fire was on the hearth, and long white lines across the floor showed him where the snow had been sifting in through the holes that did duty as windows. Kenneth's heart suddenly felt as cold and heavy as lead.

”Nancy,” he cried, ”Nancy, oh! Nancy.”

There was a feeble answer from the bed in the corner.

He advanced towards it. There were two s.h.i.+ning lights there, the cat's eyes. Poor p.u.s.s.y was on the bed watching by her dying mistress.

He felt on the coverlet and found Nancy's hand there. It was cold, almost hard. ”Nancy,” he said, ”it is Kennie, your own boy Kennie; don't be afraid.”

It did not take long for Kenneth to light a roaring fire on the hearth.

As soon as it burned up he held the iron lamp over it to melt the frozen oil; then he hung it up. The water in a bucket was frozen, and even some milk that stood on a little table near Nancy's bed was solid.

The inside of that cot was dreary in the extreme, but Kenneth soon made it more cheerful.

Poor old Nancy smiled her thanks and held out her hand to her boy, as she always called Kennie. He chafed it while he entreated her to tell him how she felt.

”Happy! happy! happy!” she replied, ”but, poor boy, you are shaking.”

Kenneth was, and he felt his heart so full that tears would have been a relief, but he wisely restrained himself.

He melted and warmed the milk, and made her drink some. Then, at her own request, he raised her up in the bed.

”Dinna be sorry,” she said, ”when poor auld Nancy's in the mools. It is the gate we have a' to gang. But oh! dear boy, it's the gate to glory for poor Nancy. And so it will be for you, laddie, if you never forget to pray. Prayer has been the mainstay and comfort o' my life; G.o.d has always been near me, and He's near me now, and will see me safe through the dark waters o' death. Here's a little Bible,” she said. ”It was Nancy's when young. Keep it for her sake, and oh! never forget to read it.

”Now, laddie, can you find your way to Dugald's? Send him here. There is an aulder head on his shoulders than on yours, and I have that to say a man should hear and remember.”

”I'll go at once,” said Kenneth, ”and come back soon, and bring the doctor too, Nancy. I won't say good-night, I'll be back so soon.”

Kenneth gulped down his tears, patted her hand, and rushed away.

”Come on, Kooran,” he cried. ”Oh! Kooran, let us run; my heart feels breaking.”

He took his way across the moor in a different direction from that in which he had come. The storm had abated somewhat. The wind had gone down, and the moon shone out now and then from a rift in the clouds.

He determined to take the shortest cut to Dugald's house, though there would be the stream to ford, and it must be big and swollen. Never mind; he would try it.

He soon reached a scattered kind of wood of stunted trees; there was no pathway through it, but he guided himself by the moon and kept going downhill. He would thus strike the river, and keeping on by its banks, ford wherever he could.

Nothing could be easier. So he said to himself, and on he went. It was very cold; and though the wind was not so fierce, it moaned and sighed most mournfully through the trees in this wood. Even Kooran started sometimes, as a spruce or Scottish fir tree would suddenly free itself from its burden of snow as if it were a living thing, free itself with a rus.h.i.+ng, crackling sort of sound, and stand forth among its fellows dark and spectre-like.

Kenneth had gone quite a long way, but still no stream came in sight.

He listened for the sound of running water over and over again, and just as often he seemed to hear it, and went in that direction, but found it must be only wind after all.

He grew tired all at once, tired, weak, and faint, and sat down on a tree stump, and Kooran came and licked his cheek with his soft warm tongue. He placed one hand in the dog's mane, as if to steady himself, for his head began to swim.

”I must go on, though,” he muttered to himself. ”Poor old Nancy. The doctor. I'll soon be back--I--”

He said no more for a time. He had fainted. When he recovered, he started at once to his feet.