“Lat him gang, laddie! It’s a strang tow ‘at wad haud or bin’ Dawvid, whan he considers he bud to gang, an’ ‘twere intill a deil’s byke. But I’m no that feared aboot him. I maist believe he’s under special protection, if ever man was or oucht to be; an’ he’s no more feared at the storm, nor gin the snaw was angels’ feathers flauchterin’ oot o’ their wings a’ aboot him. But I’m no easy i’ my min’ aboot Maggy—the wull hizzie! Gin she be meetin’ her father, an’ chance to miss him, the Lord kens what may come o’ her.” Hugh tried to comfort her, but all that could be done was to wait David’s return. The storm seemed to increase rather than abate its force. The footprints Hugh had made, had all but vanished already at the very door of the house, which stood quite in the shelter of the fir-wood. As they looked out, a dark figure appeared within a yard or two of the house. “The Lord grant it be my bairn!” prayed poor Janet. But it was David, and alone. Janet gave a shriek. “Dawvid, whaur’s Maggie?” “I haena seen the bairn,” replied David, in repressed perturbation. “She’s no theroot, is she, the nicht?” “She’s no at hame, Dawvid, that’s a’ ‘at I ken.” “Whaur gaed she?” “The Lord kens. She’s smoored i’ the snaw by this time.” “She’s i’ the Lord’s han’s, Janet, be she aneath a snaw-vraith. Dinna forget that, wuman. Hoo lang is’t sin’ ye missed her?” “An hour an’ mair—I dinna ken hoo lang. I’m clean doitit wi’ dreid.” “I’ll awa’ an’ leuk for her. Just haud the hert in her till I come back, Mr. Sutherlan’.” “I won’t be left behind, David. I’m going with you.” “Ye dinna ken what ye’re sayin’, Mr. Sutherlan’. I wad sune hae twa o’ ye to seek in place o’ ane.” “Never heed me; I’m going on my own account, come what may.” “Weel, weel; I downa bide to differ. I’m gaein up the burn-side; baud ye ower to the farm, and spier gin onybody’s seen her; an’ the lads ‘ll be out to leuk for her in a jiffey. My puir lassie!”