"I wonder what wad hae come owre her, that nae spierin's o' her could be
got. Puir Mysie! I liket that wean, wife--liket her maybe owre weel; an'
my heart has been sair for her mony a time, wonderin' what has come o'
her!"
Mrs. Maitland lifted a corner of her rough apron and wiped her eyes, as
she cried softly at hearing her husband thus speak of their missing
daughter.
"Do you think she'll be living, Matthew?" she asked looking through her
tears at her husband anxiously.
"That's hard to say, wife," he replied, a break in his voice. "Sometimes
I think she maun be deid, or she wad hae come back to us in some way. I
think we liket her weel enough, an' she kent it, and she was ay a guid
lassie at a' times."
"Ay, she was," replied the mother, "a guid bairn, an' a clever yin aboot
the hoose; an' I never had an angry word frae her a' my days. Oh,
Matthew," she cried out, again bursting into tears, and sobbing
pitifully, "what is't we hae done to be tried like this? Mysie gane, an'
guid kens where she is, an' John ta'en awa' jist when oor battle was
beginnin' to get easier. Noo you hae been laid aside yoursel', an' God
kens hoo we are to do, for hinna a penny left in the hoose! Oh, dear,
but it's a hard lot we hae to suffer!" and she sobbed in silence, while
her husband stroked her pale, thin, toil-worn hands that hid her weeping
eyes.
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