“Are ye going to walk? I am not a good walker, Kirsteen. And in the dark by that wild road? I never could get so far--Oh, I’m so used to town ways now--I couldna take such a long, dreadful walk.” “Anne!” “It would be far better to leave me here. You could send for me if I was really wanted; I’m very tired already, and not fit--oh, not fit for more. You’re younger--and ye always was so strong--not like me.” “Would you like your bairns to leave ye to die alone--for the sake of a two miles’ walk? Would ye like them to lie down and sleep and rest, and you dying two miles away?” “Oh, Kirsteen, you are very cruel to me! What can I do for her?” cried Anne. “She will have plenty without me.” It was no time for controversy, and as Anne trembled so that she could scarcely stand Kirsteen had to consent to take the postchaise on, as far as was practicable without rousing the household at Drumcarro. For herself the chill of the wintry night, the cold freshness in the air, the wild sweep of sound all round her, in the swelling burn, and the rustle of the naked trees and all those inarticulate murmurs of silence which come down from the heights of unseen hills were salutary and sweet. When they paused at last upon the lonely road and stepped out into the blackness of the night with the lantern that was to guide them on their further way, that descent into the indecipherable dark, with all the roaring of wind and stream about them, had indeed something in it that was appalling. Anne, not able even to complain more, clung to Kirsteen’s arm with a terrified grasp, and listened among all the other storms of sound to the rolling of the wheels going back as if her last hope was thus departing from her. She that ought to have been warm and safe at home, putting the children to bed, sitting between the bright fire and the pleasant lamp waiting for David, to think that she should be here in a darkness that might be felt, with the burn on one side rushing like some wild beast in the dark, and the wind lashing the bare branches on the other, and only Kirsteen, a woman like herself, to protect her! A weak woman with a strong husband loses all faith in other women. How could Kirsteen protect her? She shivered with cold and terror clinging to her sister’s arm but without any faith in it, and thinking of nothing but her own terrors and discomfort. Kirsteen on her side felt the stimulus of the cold, the tumult of natural sounds, the need of wary walking, and the responsibility of the burden upon her arm as something that subdued and softened the storm of recollections in her heart.