The Doctor : a Tale of the Rockies | Page 2

eyes deep set,
black and sombre, glowing with that mystic light that shines only in
eyes that have for generations peered into the gloom of Highland glens.

"Ay, it's a bonny spot," she sighed, her rugged face softening as she
gazed. "It's a bonny spot, and it would be a sore thing to part it."
As she stood looking and listening her face changed. Through the hum
of the mill there pierced now and then the notes of a violin.
"Oh, that weary fiddle!" she said with an impatient shake of her head.
But in a few moments the impatience in her face passed into tender pity.
"Ah, well, well," she sighed, "poor man, it is the kind heart he has,
whateffer."
She passed down the bank into the house, then through the large
living-room, speckless in its thrifty order, into a longer room that
joined house to mill. She glanced at the tall clock that stood beside the
door. "Mercy me!" she cried, "it's time my own work was done. But I'll
just step in and see--" She opened the door leading to the mill and stood
silent. A neat little man with cheery, rosy face, clean-shaven, and with
a mass of curly hair tinged with grey hanging about his forehead, was
seated upon a chair tipped back against the wall, playing a violin with
great vigour and unmistakable delight.
"The mill's a-workin', mother," he cried without stopping his flying
fingers, "and I'm keepin' my eye upon her."
She shook her head reproachfully at her husband. "Ay, the mill is
workin' indeed, but it's not of the mill you're thinking."
"Of what then?" he cried cheerily, still playing.
"It is of that raising and of the dancing, I'll be bound you."
"Wrong, mother," replied the little man exultant. "Sure you're wrong.
Listen to this. What is it now?"
"Nonsense," cried the woman, "how do I know?"
"But listen, Elsie, darlin'," he cried, dropping into his Irish brogue.
"Don't you mind--" and on he played for a few minutes. "Now you

mind, don't you?"
"Of course, I mind, 'The Lass o' Gowrie.' But what of it?" she cried,
heroically struggling to maintain her stern appearance.
But even as she spoke her face, so amazing in its power of swiftly
changing expression, took on a softer look.
"Ah, there you are," cried the little man in triumph, "now I know you
remember. And it's twenty-four years to-morrow, Elsie, darlin', since--"
He suddenly dropped his violin on some meal bags at his side and
sprang toward her.
"Go away with you." She closed the door quickly behind her. "Whisht
now! Be quate now, I'm sayin'. You're just as foolish as ever you were."
"Foolish? No mother, not foolish, but wise yon time, although it's
foolish enough I've been often since. And," he added with a sigh, "it's
not much luck I've brought you, except for the boys. They'll do,
perhaps, what I've not done."
"Whisht now, lad," said his wife, patting his shoulder gently, for a great
tenderness flowed over her eloquent face. "What has come to you
to-day? Go away now to your work," she added in her former tone,
"there's the hay waiting, you know well. Go now and I'll watch the
grist."
"And why would you watch the grist, mother?" said a voice from the
mill door, as a young man of eighteen years stepped inside. He was his
mother's son. The same swarthy, rugged face, the same deep-set,
sombre eyes, the same suggestion of strength in every line of his body,
of power in every move he made and of passion in every glance.
"Indeed, you will do no such thing. Dad'll watch the grist and I'll slash
down the hay in no time. And do you know, mother," he continued in a
tone of suppressed excitement, "have you heard the big news?" His
mother waited. "He's coming home to-day. He's coming with the
Murrays, and Alec will bring him to the raising."

A throb of light swept across the mother's face, but she only said in a
voice calm and steady, "Well, you'd better get that hay down. It'll be
late enough before it is in."
"Listen to her, Barney," cried her husband scornfully. "And she'll not
be going to the raising today, either. The boy'll be home by one in the
morning, and sure that's time enough."
Barney stood looking at his mother with a quiet smile on his face. "We
will have dinner early," he said, "and I'll just take a turn at the hay."
She turned and entered the house without a word, while he took down
the scythe from its peg, removed the blade from the snath and handed it
to his father.
"Give it a turn or two," he said; "you're better than me at