S upper, what there was of it, was a miserable affair. Kezzie had retreated to her room and refused anything whatsoever, though Cameron brought a cup of tea and a piece of toast to her. It was Cameron who fixed the meal for himself and for Margo, who appeared, shaken, drawn of countenance and curiously specked with what looked like leaf mold, to wash herself at the washstand, ignore her tumbled hair completely, and set herself, at Cameron’s invitation, at the table.

“What’s wrong, Mam?” he had asked Kezzie earlier.

“Nothin’ to concern y’rsel’ with, laddie,” Kezzie had answered, and no amount of persuasion could change her.

“Well, then,” Cameron pursued, “maybe I should get Mother, or Molly—”

“Nae, lad. There’s nothing anyone can do. I’ll be a’right.”

Sitting at the table, watching Margo pick at the scrambled eggs and bacon, Cameron was more troubled than ever. That something serious had happened between the two of them he could clearly discern; just what, had him mystified.

“Something’s gone terribly wrong, Margo,” he said, finally. “I’d be blind not to see it. I can’t imagine what could be so bad between Mam and you. She’s adored you always. I believe you feel the same about her. Can you tell me about it?”

“No.”

“I can’t stand to see you both suffering like this. You’re young and strong”—Cameron’s voice took on a concerned note—“but Mam is old and nearing the end of her days. I don’t want to have her spend them in misery . . . in fact, it appears that this is going to shorten what time she has left. Isn’t there something I can do . . . you can do . . . ?”

“I wish there were,” Margo said dully, with the futile wish to turn back the clock, back to a time before she knew the truth about Angus . . . about her mother . . . about herself . . . about Cameron.

“Just know this,” she said. “I haven’t deliberately hurt Kezzie. It’s nothing . . . nothing I’ve done.” Except to ferret out the truth , she thought to herself. And, feeling as she had toward Cameron, how relieved she should be that the truth had come out before . . . before. . . .

But the weight on her heart said otherwise.

“I can comfort her,” Margo said now, “and trust it helps.”

With that she excused herself from the table and made her way to Kezzie’s room. There the make-believe grandmother and the pretend granddaughter wept in each other’s arms.

“I’m sorry, lass,” Kezzie whispered over and over. “It would have been best if y’d never known.” And though part of Margo agreed, another part—the secret corner reserved for Cameron—cried out in repudiation.

It would have been best if she’d never come, she told herself. And yet she had been forced into it by the terms of Hugh Galloway’s will. He had literally taken her life, turned it, shaped it, and changed it forever. He had left her no alternative but to retreat to the bush country and the place he had, she supposed bitterly, prepared for her. Perhaps, knowing Wallace, her father had even hurried her decision by bringing him from Scotland.

Why had Papa . . . Hugh . . . hated her so? She felt she understood now—he had looked on the proof of his wife’s infidelity every day of the child’s life and suffered. And, finally, he had devised a diabolical scheme to all but annihilate her.

How had he managed to treat his wife as gallantly and properly as he had? “Gran,” she whispered now in Kezzie’s ear, so close to her lips, “did my mother realize that Papa knew the truth?”

“He never let on, lass. He knew how much she wanted a bairn. Perhaps he knew he couldn’t father one—his first marriage had been childless, y’know. It may have been the one thing he couldna gi’ her. Never blame Hugh, lassie. He was a great and good mon, with high principles . . . a true aristocrat and gentleman. If you only knew—” But here, it seemed, Kezzie’s lips were sealed. Margo, try as she might, could find no redeeming feature about the man she had considered her father, except that he had treated her decently and raised her properly. Only—at the end, she thought bitterly—to crush and destroy her.

By morning Margo’s mind was made up; she knew what she must do. And, difficult though it was, the decision brought a measure of peace to her.

While Cameron was doing the milking, Margo went about the by-now familiar task of fixing breakfast—porridge, of course, for this Scotch family. Cameron, when he came in, gave her a keen glance, and settled himself soberly at the table.

“Heavenly Father,” he prayed, “as we thank Thee for this food, we also ask Thy guidance and grace for this day. Bless this wee lamb that Thou hast brought among us, and bring her, too, into the fold.” There, he had said it. Boldly and without embarrassment, as seemed to be the Morrison way. His words spelled out Margo’s situation—a lost lamb, a stray without a shepherd—and plainly asked for her rescue.

He couldn’t have put it better. Feeling so lost, so alone, Margo found a quick longing in her heart for that sheepfold, the safe, protected fold where the Morrisons were sheltered. A swallow of coffee did little to rid her of the lump that had risen in her throat.

“Cameron,” she said quickly, “I’ve decided to sell the place after all. And you shall have it, if you want it. What do you say?”

“What I say is,” Cameron answered slowly, “how come?”

“You want a place; I need the money. It’s that simple. It seems like a perfect arrangement and shouldn’t take long to accomplish. I suppose a trip to Prince Albert will do it. When do you think you can get away?”

“Whoa!” Cameron said, a frown line appearing between his sunburnt brows. “There’s no hurry, is there? Let’s take time to think this over.” His hesitation over the very thing he had so wanted was strange indeed.

“There’s no reason to wait. No,” she insisted, “I can’t wait.”

“You have plans, then?”

“Ah . . . tentative, I suppose you’d say.” Truth to tell, Margo hadn’t gone that far in her thinking. Leave, just leave! had been the one thought consuming her.

“Does this mean,” and Cameron’s lips tried to turn up in a hint of a smile, “that you’ve given up on Bliss?”

“Bliss,” she answered matter-of-factly, as though they were discussing chokecherries, “is where you find it. What’s in a name, anyway? It could be . . . Snicklefritz, as far as I’m concerned.” The foolish name, pulled from the air, brought no smile to Cameron’s face, nor to Margo’s.

Under the silent study of that dear face, Margo’s eyes stung and her bravado faltered. To recover, she said quickly, “I’ll go see how Kezzie is.”

“Will you . . . have you . . . told her?”

“No, and I don’t think I will yet. After we get the business part done . . . when there’s no backing out, then I’ll tell her. I think she’ll understand.”

“I wish I did,” Cameron said roughly, as Margo hurried away only half hearing, away from the troubled look on Cameron’s face.

Nor did she hear his urgent, “Father in heaven! Stop her, Lord! Keep her here, if it please You, Father, as it would please me.”

Their business transaction taken care of, most of Cameron’s hoarded wages transferred to Margo’s account, and arrangements made for payments to be made at harvesttime over the next few years, Margo and Cameron mounted the buggy for one final ride together to Bliss. Though the deed crackled in Cameron’s pocket, and a train schedule crackled in the Chatelaine bag made from the same rustling taffeta as Margo’s skirt, there was no satisfaction on either face and no joy in either heart.

Put a little crape on the bridle and an armband on our sleeves, was his gloomy thought, and you’d have a right fair funeral cortege.

It’s as final as a funeral, was her thought, leaving Granny Kezzie, the others, and . . . Bliss, forever and ever.

“Surely,” he said finally, “you’ve given some thought to what you’ll do, where you’ll go. And surely,” he added, again in that rough voice so unlike him, “we have a right to know. Well, perhaps not a right—”

“Well, of course you do. You’ve all been most kind.” Could she continue? The lump in her throat made it difficult.

She delayed further conversation while she took a handkerchief from her bag, coughing delicately into it and, hastily, wiping her telltale eyes.

But Cameron was pursuing the subject. “You’ll go back to Heatherstone, of course. I understand you have a home there for as long as you care to stay. That’s a sensible idea—”

“No,” she interjected quickly. “I told you, I’ll never go back to Heatherstone. I think . . .” she was thinking even as she spoke, “I’ll go to Winnipeg. Yes, that’s where I’ll go—Winnipeg, ‘Gateway to the Golden West.’ ”

“And what will you do in this golden gateway place?” Cameron flicked the reins, the muscles in his jaw tight though his tone was casual.

“First,” she said, her voice wobbly but gaining confidence as she worked out her future for the first time, “I’ll find a . . . a genteel place to live. With what you’ve paid me and with the small income . . . stipend, it’s called . . . from my . . . from the Galloway estate—” Her confidence seemed to be faltering, along with her voice.

“There, never mind,” Cameron said, giving the flushed face a keen glance, then reaching over and giving her gloved hand a quick squeeze. He might as well have squeezed her heart, so tight and pained did it seem. But of course a brother could offer such comfort and kindness to a sister.

“You’ll have to think of a sensible story to tell Mam,” Cameron said. “It certainly doesn’t sound very sensible to me. Truth be told, it doesn’t make sense at all. Frankly, I’m not a bit sure Mam can survive it. Have you thought of that?”

“I’m sure she thinks it’s best . . . all the way around.”

“You’re not making a bit of sense again.” Cameron, now, sounded angry, and he jerked the reins unnecessarily so that the horse jumped, sidled, and settled into a fast trot, taking up the attention of both of the ancient buggy’s occupants.

There was no use putting off the fateful moment; every day, every hour, every minute made the farewell harder.

“Granny,” Margo said, settling herself beside Kezzie’s couch, “I’m going away. I’m going somewhere away from all this terrible situation.”

“Oh, my angel,” Kezzie moaned. “Just when I’ve found y’ again. How can I bear it? First my Mr. Hugh, now you. Couldna y’ linger a wee while? I’ll no be here forever, y’ know, lassie.”

“Don’t, Granny, don’t. I can’t, I just can’t stay. Don’t you see? That . . . that man—Angus Morrison! I can’t bear to look him in the face!”

“Ah, lassie,” Kezzie’s voice was distressed, “y’re wrong, sae wrong! Angus is a guid mon, a . . . a Christian mon—”

“Christian! To let his family believe him to be such a fine, upstanding man, when all the while . . . oh, it’s too wicked to mention!”

“Lassie, lassie, y’re wrong! You mustn’t think such things! Oh, God in heaven, what have I done?” Kezzie’s cry was pitiful.

“I despise him! He’s ripped away every true, dear thought of the man I always knew as my father and left in its place himself, a creature who sins and runs away and leaves the consequences for others to suffer! I despise him, I tell you!”

Kezzie, pale and shaken, was silent for so long that Margo said anxiously, “You see, Gran, why I’ve got to go. I couldn’t hide feelings like that. I’m afraid if I see him again, I’ll spew out all this misery, and then everyone—Mary, Molly, Cameron—will be as miserable as I am. I’ve got to get away and get away soon.”

When Kezzie could speak, she said clearly, “Call Cameron. I’ve got to talk to Cameron.”

“You won’t tell him!”

“Nae, I willna’ tell him.”

Cameron came from Kezzie’s presence to say simply, “She wants me to bring my mother over here.”

“Mary? Why, Cameron? Did she say why?”

“She says,” and the young man’s face was touched with a quiet wonder, “she’s ready to make peace with God. You don’t know, lass, how we’ve prayed for this time to come. It seemed there was an unbreakable barrier holding her back from the love God offers her. Oh, to think she’s ready to accept His great gift at last!” There was a spring in his step as he left.

Margo peeked in on Kezzie; her eyes were closed, perhaps she was asleep. Certainly she looked worn, growing more frail almost daily. I suppose, Margo thought, if one needed to make peace with God, one shouldn’t wait .

Peace! Did one need to die to obtain it? How about the living? Wasn’t there some balm for hearts like hers? Knowing the Morrisons, Margo could only conclude that yes, such peace was possible. A phrase from the Bible came to her from the days when a governess had religiously set a portion of Margo’s day for the reading of a Bible passage; Margo had been struck then by the scene it painted, and she recalled it now: “All thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.” That’s me , Margo cried, that’s me!

But wait! Dimly she remembered a fascinating story about how Jesus, in just such an overwhelming situation, had stood up in a little, tossing boat and commanded, “Peace, be still.” As a child Margo had thrilled to the glorious “Then He arose, and rebuked the wind and the raging of the water; and they ceased, and there was a calm.”

Opening drawers and removing her effects and placing them in her trunk, Margo felt the troubled waves surging over and around. And true, the pressing greenery of the bush, in some respects, resembled the tossing sea. But where was Jesus when He was needed? And would Granny Kezzie, in what were possibly her final moments, come to experience His peace for herself?

The dog barked its welcome, and Margo heard the rattle of the buggy and the jingle of harness as Cameron and his mother drew up to the door. Believing this was a private, personal matter between a mother and her daughter, Margo continued her sorting and packing, though it was with reluctance and despair that each garment was readied for departure.

There was a tap at the door. “Margo,” Mary called, “Mam has asked that you join us.”

“Are you sure, Granny,” Margo asked, kneeling at the side of the bed, Mary on the other, “that I should be here? This praying . . . I don’t know much about it.”

“Perhaps y’ should, lass. Perhaps if I’d prayed wi’ y’ earlier . . . well, I didn’t, and I had my reasons.” Kezzie was propped into a half sitting position. Her white hair floated freely around the white face; the blue eyes, though fading, were set with determination.

“Mary, my own bairn, I’ve somethin’ to say to you. It must be said . . . though I had hoped to live and die withoot sayin’ it.”

“Must you, Mam? Must you?” Mary asked with entreaty in her voice. “I can see it’s all been too much for you. You know I love you . . . nothing can change that.”

“I must say it,” Kezzie continued, with a half sob in her old, quavery voice. “I must ask your forgiveness . . . and then, maybe . . . God’s.”

“Oh, Mam!” Mary couldn’t watch, couldn’t listen, without feeling her mother’s distress and weeping, too.

“I never thought to tell it,” Kezzie went on. “But now, if I don’t, wee Margo will go awa’ by hersel’—no Mam, no father, no mither, no one . . . and I canna bear it.”

Don’t tell , Margo felt the silent scream rising in her throat. “Don’t tell! Don’t ever tell her . . . about her husband . . . and my mother! I’ll go away! I’ll never breathe a word of it—”

Kezzie seemed to rally, to gain strength as she proceeded. The Scots seemed to fade from her speech, and her words were clear.

“I’ve done a terrible thing, an unforgivable thing, though I didn’t intend it to be a bad thing. At the time, I didn’t have time to think . . . I just acted automatically. It was on board ship . . . comin’ over.”

At the reminder Mary’s eyes darkened. “Ah, Mam—must you?”

Kezzie plowed on steadily as though she hadn’t been interrupted. “You, Mary, were in labor, terrible labor. You don’t remember all about it . . . you faded in and out of consciousness. The hours went on and on, down there in that crowded, foul place, ’til I was near to faintin’ from it all. At the same time, Mrs. Hugh went into labor too soon, having fallen down the ladder. Mr. Hugh wanted me with her; I needed to be with you. So I went back and forth.”

Mary’s head was bowed onto the hand she held as she kneeled at the bedside. Her tears flowed freely. Margo couldn’t help it; her own eyes teared up with sympathy and with love for the two women obviously living through a dreadful ordeal. The ordeal that had left her alive and taken Mary’s baby.

“Mr. Hugh sent the doctor down, insisted that he go. But he was ruthless . . . diggin’ into you with his dirty hands, haulin’ your poor wee bairn out regardless of life or death for either of you. I was there. I saw it all. You never knew any of it; you were as good as dead. In fact he pronounced you dead, wiped his hands on the bedding, and left. Angus and the bairns were kissin’ your hands and face, Angus was near to faintin’, and all the folks in the hold were silent, some weepin’ with us.”

“I know, Mam. I know all this; I’ve been told time and again. Please, let’s not live it all over again—the burial . . .”

“Hush, lass.” Kezzie’s voice was growing weaker, her face whiter, if that were possible. “You don’t know it all . . . you haven’t heard all of it. No one has, though Mr. Hugh knew the rest of the story. The only one to know the rest of the story.”

At the mention of her father’s name, Margo lifted her head and fixed her puzzled gaze on Kezzie’s face.

“Yes, Mr. Hugh knew, though he never mentioned it and no word of it ever passed between us. Still, he knew.”

“Knew?” Mary’s voice expressed bewilderment. “Mr. Hugh . . . knew?”

“I took your newborn bairn, wrapped it in something or other, and took it with me. I had to get back to Mrs. Hugh. And, Mary,” for the first time Kezzie’s eyes filled with tears, “remember—I thought you were dead. You had been pronounced dead. There was nothing more, at the moment, that I could do. And Mr. Hugh,” Kezzie’s slavish obedience to her Mr. Hugh had shaped her decision, “needed me, and expected me. He was stayin’ with his wife. I just had time to lay the bairn down when Mrs. Hugh began bearin’ down. Within minutes her bairn was born. Mr. Hugh was at her head, comfortin’ her, strokin’ her hair, and I took his wee one, wrapped it quickly, and laid it alongside the other babe. But not before Mr. Hugh saw it. Oh yes, he took a quick and smilin’ look at his first and only child. But oh, Mary—” Kezzie’s story broke on a sob, and it seemed she might not be able to continue. Margo reached to console her, but Mary—Mary was sitting back on her heels, still holding her mother’s hand, her eyes drying as she looked, startled, at her mother’s twisted face.

“The bairn—Mr. Hugh’s bairn—” Kezzie whispered, “was dead.”

“What . . . what are you saying?” Mary asked, tense now.

“I had a split moment to think, Mary. You were dead, your babe lived. Mr. Hugh lived, his babe was dead. Loving him as I did . . . and loving the babe—”

In a flash Margo saw it all: Kezzie’s love could no more have been denied her than a fish could live out of water. She, Margo, was born to Kezzie’s love.

“Loving your bairn, Mary. Even then, loving your bairn.”

Yes, Margo thought, and loving her Mr. Hugh.

Mary’s face was dead white . . . sick white. “Mam . . . Mam,” she managed, “what have you done . . . to us all?”

“I did,” Kezzie said thickly, “the only thing I could think to do. And the only thing that would have made any sense, if you had indeed been dead. Can you see that, Mary?”

“My baby,” Mary was whispering, “buried at sea—”

“Nae, love. Living . . . alive.” Kezzie’s hand, holding Margo’s, pulled her closer, and her eyes were fixed lovingly on Margo’s face.

“Your Angel, Mary.”