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."