"The Lord deals righteously. I shall sleep now," was all he said.

It was Wullie who told her what her father had meant. They were up on
Ben Grief watching the swollen streams overflowing with melted snow and
storm-water. Marcella looked wan and tired; her eyes were ringed with
black shadows. As usual she was hungry, but Wullie had left potatoes
buried under the green-wood fire, and they would feast when they got
back.

"Why is it father is glad I'm not a boy?" she asked him.

It was a long time before he told her.

"The Lashcairns are a wild lot, lassie--especially the men folk. They
kill and they rule others and they drink. It's drink that's ruined them,
because drink is the only thing they canna rule. That's the men folk I'm
talking of. Your great-grandfather lost all his lands that lie about
Carlossie. The old grey house and the fields all about Ben Grief and
Lashnagar were lost by your father. All he's got now is Lashnagar and
the farm-house. And Lashnagar canna be sold because it hasna any value.
Else he'd have sold it, to put it in his bar'l."

She said nothing. Her tired eyes looked out over the farm and the
desolate hill, her hair, streaming in the wind, suddenly wrapped her
face, blinding her. As she struggled with it, light came, and she turned
to Wullie.

"It was the barrel, then, that made father ill?"