And through the smoke and the fire and the terror Elspie answered back:  “I’ll not leave ye, my Donald.  We’re gettin’ it under.”  And with her own scorched hands she pulled the coat-flaps down over the smouldering bits of flax, and tore off her burning garments.

Not a coward thread in her whole body had little Elspie, and in less time than the story could ever be told, all was over, and safely; and there they sat on the ground, the two, locked in each other’s arms,—­Donald’s beard gone, and much of his hair; Elspie’s pretty golden hair also blackened, burned.  It was the first thing Donald saw after he made sure danger was past.  Laying his hand on her head, he said, with a half-sob,—­he was hysterical now there was nothing more to be done:  “Oh, your bonny hair, my darlin’!  It’s all scorched away.”

“It’ll grow!” said Elspie, looking up in his eyes archly.  Her head was on his shoulder, and she nestled closer; then she burst into tears and laughter together, crying:  “Oh, Donald, it was for you I was callin’.  Did ye hear me?  I said to myself when the fire took hold, ’O God, send Donald to save me!’”

“An’ he sent me, my darlin’,” answered Donald.  “Ye are my own darlin’; say it, Elspie, say it!” he continued.  “Oh, ye bonny bairn, but I’ve loved ye like death since the first day I set eyes on your bonny face!  Say ye’re my darlin’!”

But he knew it without her saying a word; and the whispered “Yes, Donald, I’m your darlin’ if you want me,” did not make him any surer.

There was a great outcrying and trembling of hearts at the farm-house when Donald and Elspie appeared in this sorry plight of torn and burned clothes, blackened faces, scorched and singed hair.  But thankfulness soon swept away all other emotions,—­thankfulness and a great joy, too; for Donald’s second word was, turning to the old father:  “An’ it is my own that I’ve saved; she’s gien hersel’ to me for all time, an’ we’ll ask for your blessin’ on us without any waitin’!” Tears filled the mother’s eyes.  She thought of another daughter.  A dire instinct smote her of woe to Katie.

“Ay, Donald,” she said, “it’s a good day to us to see ye enter the house as a son; but I never thought o’—­” She stopped.

Donald’s quick consciousness imagined part of what she had on her mind.  “No,” he said, half sad in the midst of his joy, “o’ course ye didn’t; an’ I wonder at mysel’.  It’s like winter weddin’ wi’ spring, ye’ll be sayin’.  But I’ll keep young for her sake.  Ye’ll see she’s no old man for a husband.  There’s nothing in a’ the world I’ll not do for the bairn.  It’s no light love I bear her.”

“Ye’ll be tellin’ Katie on the morrow?” said the unconscious Elspie.

“Ay, ay,” replied the equally unconscious Donald; “an’ she’ll be main glad o’ ‘t.  It’s a hundred times in the summer that she’s been sayin’ how she longed to have you in the town wi’ her.  An’ now ye’re comin’, comin’ soon, oh, my bonny.  I’ll make a good home for ye both.  Katie’s the same’s my own, too, for always.”