"Oh, my God! She's deid," gasped Robert, clasping the thin dead hands in
a frenzy of passionate grief. "Oh, Mysie! Mysie! Oh God! She's deid,"
and his head bent low over the bed while great sobs tore through him,
and shook his young frame, as the storm shakes the young firs of the
woods. Then suddenly recollecting himself as his mother put her hand
upon his bent head saying: "Rise up, Robin, like a man. You maun gang
oot noo." He rose and with tears in his eyes that blinded him so that he
hardly saw where he was going, he stumbled out into the darkness under
the pale stars--out into the night to the open moor, his grief so
burdening that he felt as if the whole world had gone from his
reckoning.
"Oh, my poor Mysie," he groaned. "It was all a horrible mistake," and
the darkness came down in thick heavy folds as if the whole world were
mourning for the loss of the young girl's soul, but it brought no
comfort to him.
CHAPTER XXIV
A CALL FOR HELP
It was a quiet night in early April, full of the hush which seems to
gather all the creative forces together, before the wild outburst of
prodigal creation begins in wild flower and weed and moorland grasses,
and Robert Sinclair, who had walked and tramped over the moors for
hours, until he was nearly exhausted, his heart torn and his mind in an
agony of suffering, sat down upon a little hillock, his elbows on his
knees and his hands against his cheeks.
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