Again there was a pause while he searched the pale face with the
lingering smile, noting the veined, almost discolored eyelids,
transparent and closed over the tired suffering eyes. Then a burst of
coughing again and the blood in thick clots gurgled up from the throat.
Then after a little she spoke again.
"Oh, Rob, you hae made me very happy. But I'm vexed aboot you--an'--an'
Peter. He tried to dae what was richt; but it wasna to be--I hope
you'll--no'--be angry wi' him. He was like me--he couldna' help it."
"Oh, Mysie, I'm no' angry wi' him," he replied brokenly, trying hard to
make his voice sound dearly. "I'm no' angry wi' onybody."
"I'm glad o' that, Rob," she said, her hand caressing his head. "You was
ay a guid hearted laddie--I'm awfu' glad." Then her mind began to wander
and she was back in Edinburgh speaking of her father and John.
"Oh, faither," she rambled on. "Dinna be angry wi' me. There's naebody
to blame. Dinna be angry."
Then Robert was conscious that others were in the room, and looking up
he beheld his mother and Jenny Maitland and behind them with anxious
face and frightened eyes stood Peter Rundell, the picture of misery and
despair.
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