THE MANSE IN THE BUSH
"Yes, Ranald and his father, Macdonald Dubh, and he's hurted awful bad, and—"
"Hurt, Hughie," interposed the mother, gently.
"Huh-huh! Ranald said he was hurted."
"Hurt, you mean, Hughie. Who was hurt? Ranald?"
"No; his father was hurted—hurt—awful bad. He was lying down in the sleigh, and Yankee Jim—"
"Mr. Latham, you mean, Hughie."
"Huh-huh," went on Hughie, breathlessly, "and Yankee—Mr. Latham asked if the minister was home, and I said 'No,' and then they went away."
"What was the matter? Did you see them, Lambert?"
"Oui" ("Way," Lambert pronounced it), "but dey not tell me what he's hurt."
The minister's wife went toward the house, with a shadow on her face. She shared with her husband his people's sorrows. She knew even better than he the life-history of every family in the congregation. Macdonald Dubh had long been classed among the wild and careless in the community, and it weighed upon her heart that his life might be in danger.
"I shall see him to-morrow," she said to herself.
For a few moments she stood on the doorstep looking at the glow in the sky over the dark forest, which on the west side came quite up to the house and barn.
"Look, Hughie, at the beautiful tints in the clouds, and see the dark shadows pointing out toward us from the bush." Hughie glanced a moment.
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