like a
connoisseur. As I turned to go down the hill, he was lying on his belly
on the summit, with his hands stretched forth and clutching in the
heather. He seemed rejuvenated, mind and body.

When I got back to the house already dismally affected, I was still more
sadly downcast at the sight of Mary. She had her sleeves rolled up over
her strong arms, and was quietly making bread. I got a bannock from the
dresser and sat down to eat it in silence.

"Are ye wearied, lad?" she asked after a while.

"I am not so much wearied, Mary," I replied, getting on my feet, "as I
am weary of delay, and perhaps of Aros too. You know me well enough to
judge me fairly, say what I like. Well, Mary, you may be sure of this:
you had better be anywhere but here."

"I'll be sure of one thing," she returned: "I'll be where my duty is."

"You forget, you have a duty to yourself," I said.

"Ay, man," she replied, pounding at the dough; "will you have found that
in the Bible, now?"

"Mary," I said solemnly, "you must not laugh at me just now. God knows I
am in no heart for laughing. If we could get your father with us, it
would be best; but with him or without him, I want you far away from
here, my girl; for your own sake, and for mine, ay, and for your
father's too, I want you far--far away from here. I came with other
thoughts; I came here as a man comes home; now it is all changed, and I
have no desire nor hope but to flee--for that's the word--flee, like a
bird out of the fowler's snare, from this accursed island."

She had stopped her work by this time.

"And do you think, now," said she, "do you think, now, I have neither
eyes nor ears? Do ye think I havena broken my heart to have these braws
(as he calls them, God forgive him!) thrown into the sea? Do ye think I
have lived with him, day in, day out, and not seen what you saw in an
hour or two? No," she said, "I know there's wrong in it; what wrong, I
neither know nor want to know. There was never an ill thing made better
by meddling, that I could hear of. But, my lad, you must never ask me to
leave my father. While the breath is in his body, I'll be with him. And
he's not long for here, either: that I can tell you, Charlie--he's not
long for here. The mark is on his brow; and better so--maybe better so."

I was a while silent, not knowing what to say; and when I roused my head
at last to speak, she got before me.

"Charlie," she said, "what's right for me needna be right fo