His sister stood, her hands clasped upon her heart--a manner she had--her tears, unnoted, flowing down her cheeks, waiting till her brother should let her into his joy, as she had waited for entrance into his grief. His griefs and his joys were hers, and though he still held her a mere child, it was with a woman's self-forgetting love she ministered to him, gladly accepting whatever confidence he would give, but content to wait until he should give more. So she stood waiting, with her tears flowing quietly, and her face alight with wonder and joy for him. But as her brother's sobbing continued, this terrible display of emotion amazed her, startled her, for since their mother's death none of them had seen Allan weep. At length he raised himself from the ground and stood beside her.
"Oh, Moira, lassie, I never knew how terrible it was till now. I had lost everything, my friends, you, and," he added in a low voice, "my mother. This cursed thing shut me out from all; it got between me and all I ever loved. I have not for these months been able to see her face clear, but do you know, Moira," here his voice fell and the mystic light grew in his eyes, "I saw her again just now as clear as clear, and I know I have got her again; and you, too, Moira, darling," here he gathered his sister to him, "and the people! and the Glen! Oh! is it not terrible what a crime can do?
How it separates you from your folk, and from all the world, for, mind you, I have felt myself a criminal; but I am not! I am not!"
His voice rose into an exultant shout, "I am clear of it, I am a man again! Oh, it is good! it is good! Here, read the letter, it will prove to you."
"Oh, what does it matter at all, Allan," she cried, still clinging to him, "as if it made any difference to me. I always knew it."
Her brother lifted her face from his breast and looked into her eyes. "Do you tell me you don't want to know the proof of it?" he asked in wonder. "No," she said simply. "Why should I need any proof? I always knew it."
For a moment longer he gazed upon her, then said, "Moira, you are a wonder, lassie. No, you are a lassie no longer, you are a woman, and, do you know, you are like mother to me now, and I never saw it."
She smiled up at him through her tears. "I should like to be," she said softly. Then, because she was truly Scotch, she added, "for your sake, for I love you terribly much; and I am going to lose you."
A quiver passed through her frame, and her arms gripped him tight.
In the self-absorption in his grief and pain he had not thought of hers, nor considered how with his going her whole life would be changed.
"I have been a selfish brute," he muttered. "I have only thought of my own suffering; but, listen Moira, it is all past; thank God, it is all past. This letter from Mr. Rae holds a confession from Potts (poor Potts! I am glad that Rae let him off): it was Potts who committed the forgery. Now I feel myself clean again; you can't know what that is; to be yourself again, and to be able to look all men in the face without fear or shame. Come, we must go;
I must see them all again. Let us to the burn first, and put my face right."
A moment he stood looking down upon his mother's grave. The hideous thing that had put her far from him, and that had blurred the clear vision of her face, was gone. A smile soft and tender as a child's stole over his face, and with that smile he turned away.
As they were coming back from the burn, Martin and the schoolmaster saw them in the distance.
"Bless me, man, will you look at him?" said the master in an awestruck tone, clutching Martin's arm. "What ever is come to him?"
"What's up," cried Martin. "By Jove! you're right! the Roderick Dhu and Black Douglas business is gone, sure!"
