Macdonald followed her in a whisper through the petitions until they came to the words, “And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors,” when he paused and would say no more. Mrs. Murray repeated the words of the petition, but still there was no response. Then the minister's wife knew that she had her finger upon a sore spot, and she finished the prayer alone. For a time she sat silent, unwilling to probe the wound, and yet too brave to flinch from what she felt to be duty. “We have much to be forgiven,” she said, gently. “More than we can ever forgive.” Still there was silence. “And the heart that cannot forgive an injury is closed to the forgiveness of God.” The morning sun was gleaming through the treetops, and Mrs. Murray was worn with her night's vigil, and anxious to get home. She rose, and offering Macdonald her hand, smiled down into his face, and said: “Good by! We must try to forgive.” As he took her hand, Macdonald's dark face began to work, and he broke forth into a bitter cry. “He took me unawares! And it was a coward's blow! and I will not forgive him until I have given him what he deserves, if the Lord spares me!” And then he poured forth, in hot and bitter words, the story of the great fight. By the time he had finished his tale Ranald had come in from the kitchen, and was standing with clenched fists and face pale with passion at the foot of the bed. As Mrs. Murray listened to this story her eyes began to burn, and when it was over, she burst forth: “Oh, it was a cruel and cowardly and brutal thing for men to do! And did you beat them off?” she asked. “Aye, and that we did,” burst in Ranald. And in breathless haste and with flashing eye he told them of Macdonald Bhain's part in the fight. “Splendid!” cried the minister's wife, forgetting herself for the moment. “But he let him go,” said Ranald, sadly. “He would not strike him, but just let him go.” Then the minister's wife cried again: “Ah, he is a great man, your uncle! And a great Christian. Greater than I could have been, for I would have slain him then and there.” Her eyes flashed, and the color flamed in her face as she uttered these words. “Aye,” said Macdonald Dubh, regarding her with deep satisfaction. His tone and look recalled the minister's wife, and turning to Ranald, she added, sadly: “But your uncle was right, Ranald, and we must forgive even as he did.” “That,” cried Ranald, with fierce emphasis, “I will never do, until once I will be having my hands on his throat.” “Hush, Ranald!” said the minister's wife. “I know it is hard, but we must forgive. You see we MUST forgive. And we must ask Him to help us, who has more to forgive than any other.”