“Your face and breast seem very badly bruised and cut.” “Aye, yes,” said Macdonald. “The breast is bad whatever.” “I think you had better send for Doctor Grant,” Mrs. Murray said. “There may be some internal injury.” “No, no,” said Macdonald, decidedly. “I will have no doctor at me, and I will soon be round again, if the Lord will. When will the minister be home?” But Mrs. Murray, ignoring his attempt to escape the subject, went on: “Yes, but, Mr. Macdonald, I am anxious to have Doctor Grant see you, and I wish you would send for him to-morrow.” “Ah, well,” said Macdonald, not committing himself, “we will be seeing about that. But the doctor has not been in this house for many a day.” Then, after a pause, he added, in a low voice, “Not since the day she was taken from me.” “Was she ill long?” “Indeed, no. It was just one night. There was no doctor, and the women could not help her, and she was very bad--and when it came it was a girl--and it was dead--and then the doctor arrived, but he was too late.” Macdonald Dubh finished with a great sigh, and the minister's wife said gently to him: “That was a very sad day, and a great loss to you and Ranald.” “Aye, you may say it; she was a bonnie woman whatever, and grand at the spinning and the butter. And, oich-hone, it was a sad day for us.” The minister's wife sat silent, knowing that such grief cannot be comforted, and pitying from her heart the lonely man. After a time she said gently, “She is better off.” A look of doubt and pain and fear came into Macdonald's eyes. “She never came forward,” he said, hesitatingly. “She was afraid to come.” “I have heard of her often, Mr. Macdonald, and I have heard that she was a good and gentle woman.” “Aye, she was that.” “And kind to the sick.” “You may believe it.” “And she loved the house of God.” “Aye, and neither rain nor snow nor mud would be keeping her from it, but she would be going every Sabbath day, bringing her stockings with her.” “Her stockings?” “Aye, to change her feet in the church. What else? Her stockings would be wet with the snow and water.” Mrs. Murray nodded. “And she loved her Saviour, Mr. Macdonald.” “Indeed, I believe it well, but she was afraid she would not be having 'the marks.'” “Never you fear, Mr. Macdonald,” said Mrs. Murray. “If she loved her Saviour she is with him now.” He turned around to her and lifted himself eagerly on his elbow. “And do you really think that?” he said, in a voice subdued and anxious. “Indeed I do,” said Mrs. Murray, in a tone of certain conviction. Macdonald sank back on his pillow, and after a moment's silence, said, in a voice of pain: “Oh, but it is a peety she did not know! It is a peety she did not know. For many's the time before--before--her hour came on her, she would be afraid.” “But she was not afraid at the last, Mr. Macdonald?”