“Indeed, he will not be taking anything whatever,” said Kirsty, in a vexed tone. “And it is no matter what I will be giving him.” “And what does he like, Kirsty?” “Indeed, he will be taking anything when he is not seek, and he is that fond of buckwheat pancakes and pork gravy with maple syrup over them, but would he look at it! And I made him new porridge to-night, but he would not touch them.” “Did you try him with gruel, Kirsty?” “Mercy me, and is it Macdonald Dubh and gruel? He would be flinging the 'feushionless' stuff out of the window.” “But I am sure it would be good for him if he could be persuaded to try it. I should like to try him.” “Indeed, and you may try. It will be easy enough, for the porridge are still in the pot.” Kirsty took the pot from the bench, with the remains of the porridge that had been made for supper still in it, set it on the fire, and pouring some water in it, began to stir it vigorously. It was thick and slimy, and altogether a most repulsive-looking mixture, and Mrs. Murray no longer wondered at Macdonald Dubh's distaste for gruel. “I think I will make some fresh, if you will let me, Kirsty--in the way I make it for the minister, you know.” Kirsty, by this time, had completely surrendered to Mrs. Murray's guidance, and producing the oatmeal, allowed her to have her way; so that when Macdonald awoke he found Mrs. Murray standing beside him with a bowl of the nicest gruel and a slice of thin dry toast. He greeted the minister's wife with grave courtesy, drank the gruel, and then lay down again to sleep. “Will you look at that now?” said Kirsty, amazed at Macdonald Dubh's forbearance. “He would not like to be offending you.” Then Mrs. Murray besought Kirsty to go and lie down for an hour, which Kirsty very unwillingly agreed to do. It was not long before Macdonald began to toss and mutter in his sleep, breaking forth now and then into wild cries and curses. He was fighting once more his great fight in the Glengarry line, and beating back LeNoir. “Back, ye devil! Would ye? Take that, then. Come back, Mack!” Then followed a cry so wild that Ranald awoke and came into the room. “Bring in some snow, Ranald,” said the minister's wife; “we will lay some on his head.” She bathed the hot face and hands with ice-cold water, and then laid a snow compress on the sick man's head, speaking to him in quiet, gentle tones, till he was soothed again to sleep. When the gray light of the morning came in through the little window, Macdonald woke sane and quiet. “You are better,” said Mrs. Murray to him. “Yes,” he said, “I am very well, thank you, except for the pain here.” He pointed to his chest. “You have been badly hurt, Ranald tells me. How did it happen?” “Well,” said Macdonald, slowly, “it is very hard to say.” “Did the tree fall on you?” asked Mrs. Murray. Macdonald glanced at her quickly, and then answered: “It is very dangerous work with the trees. It is wonderful how quick they will fall.”