Drumloch

And the peace! Oh how good, how good that was! No captious old woman
flyting and complaining at every mouthful. No laughing noisy gossips. No
irritating interferences. No constant demand on her attention or sympathy.
She sat and drank and thanked God with every mouthful; and with grateful
tears promised Him to live a good life, and do her honest, kindly duty
every hour.

At last too, she could think of Allan without fear of any evil suspicious
eye upon her. She had been in such excitement and anxiety for some days,
that she had let him slip from her mind; for it was one of this loving
woman's superstitions, never to mix his memory with angry or sorrowful
thoughts. But in the peace and stillness that followed her meal, she
called him back to her. With closed eyes and folded hands she remembered
the words he had said to her, remembered the strength and sincerity of his
promise, the glow and tenderness of his handsome face, the truth in the
firm clasp of his hands, the glance of commingled love and grief which had
been his farewell. "I'll never wrong him by a doubt. Never, never, never,"
she whispered. "If God has willed him to me, there's nane can keep him
frae me. Oceans canna part us, nor gold, nor friends, nor time, nor death
itself. Allan! Allan! Allan!"

At that moment Allan was in a pretty pleasure yacht idly drifting on the
gulf of Mexico. Mardi Gras had taken him to New Orleans, and there he had
hired the boat, and was leisurely sailing from one gulf town to another.
The skipper was his only companion, but he was fore, and Allan lay under
an awning, full of the afternoon's lazy content. The scent of orange
blossoms was blown from the shore, the blue waters dimpled in the
sunshine, and the flop of their ripple in the clincher-landings was an old
and pleasant music to him. Suddenly he sat erect and listened: "Maggie
called me. Three times over she called me." The impression upon his
spiritual ear was so strong that ere he was aware he had answered the call.