Margot
took it from him to lift it to the quivering lips.

"They will need you all the more, and you must be strong for their
sakes. That's what she would wish, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes. I must take care of the children. And Fred--poor Fred! but
he hasn't loved her as I have done for nearly thirty years. Father,
when can we get back?"

"I'll see, my dearie. I'll see! Leave all to me. I'll settle it all,
and this good lassie will pack your things. Ye need trouble for
nothing, my lass,--ye need trouble for nothing."

He laid his broad hand on his wife's shoulder with a gesture infinitely
tender, then turned and went stumbling out of the room, while Margot's
eyes met the tear-drenched ones above her with a flash of enthusiasm.

"He is--_splendid_!"

Even at that moment Mrs Macalister showed a faint kindling of response.

"Didn't I tell ye? When a man's out of health ye canna judge. When
he's in his usual, there's no one to touch Mr Macalister."

With an instinctive movement Margot turned her head upward till her eyes
met those of George Elgood, and exchanged a flash of mutual
understanding. It heartened her like a drink of water in a thirsty
land, for underlying the pity and the kindliness she recognised
something else; something that existed for herself alone, and which
seemed to bring with it an electric thrill of happiness.

Outside in the "lobby" the Chieftain was looking up trains in his own
_Bradshaw_, and arranging with Mrs McNab for the long drive to the
station, while Mr Macalister was writing out a return message with
trembling fingers.

"Come upstairs with me, dear!" said Margot gently. "You shall lie on
the bed while I do the packing. It's a long journey, and you must be as
fresh as possible when you arrive. They will be waiting for you, you
know, and expecting you to comfort them. You have told me how they all
rely upon you. You wouldn't like to fail just when they need you most!"

Mrs Macalister raised herself feebly from her chair, but her poor face
quivered helplessly.

"I'm a broken reed for any one to lean on. I can only remember that
Lizzie's gone. There's no strength left in me. She was the flower of
the flock. And me so far away!"

For the next hour the poor woman lay on the bed in her room, now sobbing
in helpless paroxysms of grief, now relating pitiful, commonplace
anecdotes of the dead daughter so dearly beloved, a dazed helpless
creature, unable to do a hand's turn