“Ay, it has that.  Peety ony puir body that has been oot in it,” said her mother, with a deep sigh, as she folded back the blankets.  “It’s an awfu’ nicht for the homeless to be oot in.”

Silence reigned for a short time, and only the whisper of the wind outside prevented the sobs of the poor waif at the window being heard.

“You are lookin’ a wee better the nicht, Matthew,” said Mrs. Maitland after a long thoughtful pause, as she drew in her chair beside his.

“Ay, I’m feelin’ no’ sae bad,” he answered feebly.  Then, as if having made up his mind about something, he went on, as he looked into the glowing fire, “Do you ken, wife, I hae been thinkin’ a lot aboot oor Mysie a’ day.  I wonder what’ll be the cause o’t?  But a’ day she has been in my mind, an’ I only hope naething has come to her.”

“I dinna ken, Matthew,” she said; for this was the first time he had spoken about their missing daughter since the day they had learned of her disappearance.  He had always remained silent when she had given expression to her thoughts regarding Mysie; but thinking this an encouragement, she spoke about her, and he too, in a way that made her wonder; for he was never talkative at any time, and it seemed as if his heart was hungering to talk of their bairn.

“I wonder what wad hae come owre her, that nae spierin’s o’ her could be got.  Puir Mysie!  I liket that wean, wife—­liket her maybe owre weel; an’ my heart has been sair for her mony a time, wonderin’ what has come o’ her!”

Mrs. Maitland lifted a corner of her rough apron and wiped her eyes, as she cried softly at hearing her husband thus speak of their missing daughter.

“Do you think she’ll be living, Matthew?” she asked looking through her tears at her husband anxiously.

“That’s hard to say, wife,” he replied, a break in his voice.  “Sometimes I think she maun be deid, or she wad hae come back to us in some way.  I think we liket her weel enough, an’ she kent it, and she was ay a guid lassie at a’ times.”

“Ay, she was,” replied the mother, “a guid bairn, an’ a clever yin aboot the hoose; an’ I never had an angry word frae her a’ my days.  Oh, Matthew,” she cried out, again bursting into tears, and sobbing pitifully, “what is’t we hae done to be tried like this?  Mysie gane, an’ guid kens where she is, an’ John ta’en awa’ jist when oor battle was beginnin’ to get easier.  Noo you hae been laid aside yoursel’, an’ God kens hoo we are to do, for hinna a penny left in the hoose!  Oh, dear, but it’s a hard lot we hae to suffer!” and she sobbed in silence, while her husband stroked her pale, thin, toil-worn hands that hid her weeping eyes.