The hungry beasts, as a
last resort, had been turned loose to pick up some food in the
frost-stiffened grass; incredulous of the neglect they haunted the
farm-house, the pigs lively and protestant, the cows solemn and pathetic
and patient. Marcella had taken her piece of oatcake and cheese at
supper-time out to the door. But it was no use to the beasts. The little
black pig gobbled it in a mouthful and squealed for more. In her agony
of pity something dawned on her.
"I suppose," she said to herself, as she stood shivering, looking over
rimed Lashnagar, "that Jesus was as sorry for His disciples as I am for
these poor beasts. He knew they'd be so hungry when He had gone away
from them. So He gave them His body and blood--it was all He had to
give."
She got into bed, but the thought stayed with her. It was to come back
again many years afterwards, illuminating.
That night she heard steps about the house--her father's heavy
steps--but she felt tired, and fell asleep. It was midnight when her
father opened her door and came into the room.
"Marcella, are you asleep?" he said in his beautiful voice that always
made her wish he would let her love him.
"No," she said, starting to wakefulness.
"You've no mother now, Marcella," he said, and turned away. She heard
him stalk heavily up the passage.
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