And hence this night he was
led to talk of his father and mother, and the things of his
childhood. He told Arctura all about the life he had led; how at one
time he kept cattle in the fields, at another sheep on the
mountains; how it came that he was sent to college, and all the
story of sir Gibbie. The night wore on. Arctura listened--did
nothing but listen; she was enchanted. And it surprised Donal
himself to find how calmly he could now look back upon what had
seemed to threaten an everlasting winter of the soul. It was indeed
the better thing that Ginevra should be Gibbie's wife!
A pause had come, and he had fallen into a brooding memory of things
gone by, when a sudden succession of quick knocks fell on his ear.
He started--strangely affected. Neither of his companions took
notice of it, though it was now past one o'clock. It was like a
knocking with knuckles against the other side of the wall of the
room.
"What can that be?" he said, listening for more.
"H'ard ye never that 'afore, maister Grant?" said the housekeeper.
"I hae grown sae used til't my ears hardly tak notice o' 't!"
"What is it?" asked Donal.
"Ay, what is't? Tell ye me that gien ye can!" she returned "It's
jist a chappin', an' God's trowth it's a' I ken aboot the same! It
comes, I believe I'm safe to say, ilka nicht; but I couldna tak my
aith upo' 't, I hae sae entirely drappit peyin' ony attention til't.
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