That was all.
"Ay, Robin," she said brokenly, unable to hide her pride and weakness.
"I ken a' that you hinna telt me. I guessed it years syne; but I'm sure
noo. An' I'm awfu' vexed, laddie; ay, I'm awfu' vexed," and with that he
withdrew to his room, more touched with her simple words of sympathy
than anything she had ever said to him in all her previous life.
Mrs. Sinclair went to bed, but she knew her laddie had not done so. She
heard him in his room and knew that in the silence of the night and in
the privacy and secrecy of his own room he was fighting out his battle
with fate, and she knew that no one could help him--that only the fiber
of his own soul could help him through.
In the morning he rose early and went for a walk, for it was Sunday.
Returning, he found his mother with the latest news of Mysie's
condition. She waited until the other members of the house had gone out,
and then with a sigh observed very quietly but with a world of tender
sympathy in her voice:
"Mysie's sinkin' fast, Robin. I think you should gang ower and see her.
She canna' last very lang, puir thing, an' she was askin' aboot you when
I was ower. I think she wad like to see you.
Pages:
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372