Donald was out of his reason when he spoke these words, and for long after.  They bore with him tenderly and patiently, and did as they could for the best; Katie, the wan and grief-stricken Katie, being the chief adviser and planner of all.

Elspie’s body was carried home and buried near the spruce grove, in a little copse of young spruces which Donald pointed out.  This was the only wish he expressed about anything.  Katie took the baby with her to the old homestead.  She dared not try to rear it without her mothers help.

It was many months before Donald came to the farm.  This seemed strange to all except Katie.  To her it seemed the most natural thing, and she grew impatient with all who thought otherwise.

“I’d feel that way mysel’,” she repeated again and again.  “He’ll come when he can, but it’ll be long first.  Ye none of ye know what a love it was he’d in his heart for Elspie.”

When at last Donald came, the child, the little Donald, was just able to creep,—­a chubby, blue-eyed, golden-haired little creature, already bearing the stamp and likeness of his mother’s beauty.

At the first sight of his face Donald staggered, buried his head in his hands, and turned away.  Then, looking again, he stretched out his arms, took the baby in them, and kissed him convulsively over and over.  Katie stood by, looking on, silently weeping.  “He’s like her,” she said.

“Ay,” said Donald.

The healing had begun.  “A little child shall lead them,” is of all the Bible prophecies the one oftenest fulfilled.  It soon grew to be Donald’s chiefest pleasure to be with his boy, and he found more and more irksome the bonds of business which permitted him so few intervals of leisure to visit the farm.  At last one day he said to Katie,—­

“Katie, couldn’t ye make your mind up to come up to Charlottetown?  I’d get ye a good house, an’ ye could have who ye’d like to live wi’ ye.  I’m like one hungry all the time I’m out o’ reach o’ the little lad.”

Katie’s eyes fell.  She did not know what to reply.

“I do not know, Donald,” she faltered.  “It’s hard for you having him away, but this is my home now, Donald.  I’ve a dread o’ leavin’ it.  And there is nobody I know who could come to live with me.”

A strange thought shot through Donald’s brain.  “Katie,” he said, then paused.  Something in the tone startled Katie.  She lifted her eyes; read in his the thought which had made the tone so significant to her ear.

Unconsciously she cried out at the sight, “Oh, Donald!”

“Ay, Katie,” he said slowly, with a grave tenderness, “why might not I come and live wi’ ye?  Are ye not the mother o’ my child?  Did she not give him to ye with her own lips?  An’ how could ye have him without me?  I think she must ha’ meant it so.  Let me come, Katie.”

It was an unimpassioned wooing; but any other would have repelled Katie’s sense of loyalty and truth.