“But, will it be over? Day after day, just the same. Always that tossing to and fro, the queer, jumbled talk, the growing thinner--all of the dreadful signs of how he suffers. Angelique, if I could bear it for him. I am so young and strong and worth nothing to this world, while he’s so wise and good. Everybody who ever knew him must be the better for Uncle Hughie, Angelique.” “’Tis truth. For that, the good God will spare him to us. Of that be sure.” “But I pray and pray and pray, and there comes no answer. He is never any better. You know that. You can’t deny it. Always before, when I have prayed, the answer has come swift and sure; but now--” “Take care, Margot. ’Tis not for us to judge the Lord’s strange ways. Else were not you and me and the master shut up alone on this island, with no doctor near, and only our two selves to keep the dumb things in comfort. Though, as for dumbness, hark yonder beast!” “Reynard! Oh! I forgot. I shut him up because he would hang around the house and watch your poor chickens. If he’d stay in his own forest, now, I would be so glad. Yet I love him--” “Aye, and he loves you. Be thankful. Even a beastie’s love is of God’s sending. Go feed him. Here--the wing you’ll not eat yourself.” They were dark days now on the once sunny Island of Peace. That day when Mr. Dutton had said, “Your father is still alive,” seemed now to Margot, looking back, as one of such experiences as change a whole life. Up till that morning she had been a thoughtless, unreflecting child, but the utterance of those fateful words altered everything. Amazement, unbelief of what her ears told her, indignation that she had been so long deceived, as she put it, were swiftly followed by a dreadful fear. Even while he spoke, the woodlander’s figure swayed and trembled, the hoe-handle on which he rested wavered and fell, and he, too, would have fallen had not the girl’s arms caught and eased his sudden sinking in the furrow he had worked. Her shrill cry of alarm had reached Angelique, always alert for trouble and then more than ever, and had brought her swiftly to the field. Between them they had carried the now unconscious man within and laid him on his bed. He had never risen from it since; nor, in her heart, did Angelique believe he ever would, though she so stoutly asserted to the contrary before Margot. “We have changed places, Angelique, dear,” the child often said. “It used to be you who was always croaking and looking for trouble. Now you see only brightness.” “Well, good sooth. ’Tis a long lane has no turnin’, and better late nor never. Sometimes ’tis well to say, ‘Stay, good trouble, lest worser comes,’ eh? But things’ll mend. They must. Now, run and climb the tree. It might be this ver’ minute that wretch, Pierre, was on his way across the lake. Pouf! but he’ll stir his lazy bones, once he touches this shore! Yes, yes, indeed. Run and hail him, maybe.”