End of Chapter II
Chapter III
Grace Campbell hurried home with not less eagerness than her future scholar, to tell the news of her expedition at Kirklands. Her Aunt Hume was only half awakened from her afternoon nap, and glanced with dropsy eyes at the glowing face, as she listened to her niece's description of how and where she had found Geordie.
"Baxter! I do not remember that name; I must ask Mr. Graham who they are, and all about them, nest time he comes," said Miss Hume, after Grace had finished her eager narration, and stood twirling her hat in her hand, hesitating whether she should tell her aunt Geordie's impression of what sort of people the "Kirklands folk" were; but just at that moment tea was brought, and on reflection, Grace resolved that, for the present, it would be wise to keep silent on that point. Two days passed quickly, and Sunday afternoon found Grace hovering about the door of the little room which her aunt had given to her for her class. She had been seated in state at a table which Margery had placed for her, at what the old nurse considered a suitable angle of distance from the form arranged for the scholars; but Grace began to think it felt rather formidable to be waiting seated there, so she gathered up the books again, and wandered between the avenue and the little room, waiting with impatience the arrival of her first scholars, and having a vague fear lest they might not be forthcoming after all.
Meanwhile, Geordie and his little sister were toiling along the dusty highway in an excited, expectant state of mind. The shady elm avenue was a refreshing change after the hot white turnpike road. Geordie looked keenly about him, noting all the well-kept walks and shrubberies, among which he saw many plants that were not natives of the valley, and thought he should like, sometime, to examine them more closely.
At last they came in sight of the grey gables of the old mansion, and little Jean grasped her brother's hand more closely, and looked up with a frightened glance at the many windows, which seemed to her like so many great eyes all staring at her. She began to wish that she was safe back in her granny's cottage again, but consoled herself by thinking that as long as she had hold of Geordie's hand nothing very dreadful could possibly happen. Geordie, too, was somewhat overawed by the nearer view of the "big hoose," which certainly seemed much more formidable in its dimensions than it did from the moorland, where he used to get a glimpse of it while he watched the sheep, and then it looked no larger than the grey cairn which he made his watch-tower, but now it seemed to frown above him, and the windows, too, began to create uncomfortable sensations in his mind as well as Jean's.
With the sight of his friend of the stepping-stones, his flagging courage returned, for had he not conversed with her on his own domain, and been invited by her to pay this visit?
"This is Jean," he said, immediately looking up at Grace with his frank smile, as he gave his sister a little push forward.
"I have kept my tryst, ye see. You thought, maybe, I wouldna mind," he added, smiling again at the absurdity of the idea that he should forget such an eventful engagement. "I am so very glad to see you, Geordie, and Jean, too. I must say I was a little afraid that you might forget to come," added Grace, quite in a flutter of delight over the arrival of her scholars, which they little dreamt of. Then she happened to glance at Jean, who stood clutching her brother's corduroys in a very frightened attitude, and Grace remembered that this was also a new experience for the scholars, and perhaps they, too, might be suffering from the nervousness which had been following her from the lawn to the class-room for the last hour as she waited for them.
Putting out her hand to Jean, she said, in an encouraging tone, "Come, I dare say you must be tired after your walk in this hot afternoon. We shall go to a little room that my aunt has given us to sit in, and see if we cannot find something nice to read and learn," and Grace led the way up the old steps and across the hall, then through what appeared to the children quite a bewildering maze of dark passages, so dim and sombre after the bright sunshine, that Grace overheard Jean say in an, abrupt whisper, which was instantly smothered by her brother, "I'm afraid, Geordie; I'm no gain' farther upon this dark road."
At last the little company reached the room that had been assigned to them. It was the old still-room, but it had been long in disuse, and was scarcely less dim than the passages which led to it. The high narrow window only admitted a few slanting rays of sunlight, that danced on the white vaulted roof, which was queerly curved and arched by the windings of a narrow staircase above. It looked, however, none the less an imposing chamber to Geordie, who instinctively drew off his cap as he came in from the sunny glare of the fresh spring day to its semi-darkness.
Then Jean, who had decided that the best code of manners was to watch what Geordie did, and follow implicitly, began to pull the strings of her little bonnet, to remove it from her head. It had been a present from Mistress Gowrie on New Year's Day, and this was the first occasion on which Jean had worn it, though it had often been taken from its resting-place in a red cotton pocket-handkerchief, and viewed with complacency. To-day, when it came to be-tied, she had to apply to Geordie, her unfailing help in all extremities; and he in his efforts to make an imposing bow like the one which decorated Mistress Gowrie's ample chin, had knotted the strings after the manner of whipcord, so that they required all Grace's ingenuity to disentangle them.
Presently, after all these preliminaries were satisfactorily accomplished, the young teacher seated herself at the table, and began, to fumble nervously among the books which she had brought to use. There was a little story-book that Walter and she used to like long ago, in which she thought would be nice to read to them, and her mother's Bible, in which she had been searching all the morning for what might be best to choose as the first lesson, having selected and rejected a great many parables and incidents both in the New and Old Testaments, and was even now doubtful what they should begin to read.
The sight of the books reminded Geordie of his pocket compendium of knowledge, and coming to the table he laid the dog-eared "Third Primer" in Grace's hand, saying, "I've been once through, but I'm thinkin' I've maybe forgot it some. I doubt Jean doesna know one letter from another, though I've whiles tried to make her understand," added Geordie, rather ruefully, as he glanced towards the smiling little maiden, who sat quite unabashed at this account of her ignorance.
Grace was rather taken aback by the sight of the spelling-book, and also by Geordie's statement as to the amount of his knowledge, though it was the same as he had made at their first interview. Grace, however, in her eagerness, had not understood its full import, so she gasped out in some dismay, "But you can read the Bible a little, can you not, Geordie?"
"Maybe I might, if I tried," replied Geordie, in a hopeful tone. "They were just goin' to put me into the Bible when I left the school. I have heard them reading out some of the stories, and I thought they wouldn't be that difficult to spell out. Maybe if I read in the primer for a while, ye'll put me into the Bible," he added, evidently having a strong idea of the necessity for a good foundation of spelling-book lore before proceeding to use it.
But Grace thought ruefully of all her high-flown plans for this Sunday class, and felt that it was a terrible descent to be restricted to the "Third Primer." But Geordie seemed convinced that through this dog-eared volume lay the only royal road to learning. He had already opened the book at one of the little lessons near the end which he seemed to think he had not sufficiently mastered in the "schoolin' days" already far away in the distance to the little herd-boy. He still stood by Grace's side at the table, and his finger travelled slowly along the page as he read, in the nasal sing-song tone in which the reading functions were performed at the parish school, one of those meaningless little paragraphs that are supposed to be best adapted by the compilers of primers for teaching the young idea how to shoot.
Grace sat listening, rather perplexed as to what course it would be best to pursue. This certainly was not the kind of ideal Sunday-class which she had in her mind all these months; indeed, this "Third Primer" was hardly orthodox food for Sunday at all, according to her ideas; and yet Geordie was laboriously travelling over the page with a dogged earnestness which she did not know how to divert into any other channel without doing harm in some shape or other. But presently help came to her from a quarter where she had least expected it.
Jean, who had been seated on the form unnoticed for several minutes, listening to Geordie's earnest but uninteresting sing-song, as he stood at the table leaning over his lesson-book, got tired of her neglected situation, and descending from her high seat, she planted her sturdy little legs on the floor, saying, in a decided tone, as she stumped away towards the door, "Geordie, I'm tired sittin' here. I'm away home." Jean's words fell like a thunderbolt both on Geordie and Grace. The blood mounted to the boy's face, and his earnest blue eyes turned anxiously towards the young teacher, to see what she was thinking of such an utter breach of good manners on Jean's part.
THE FIRST LESSON
Poor Grace felt bitterly conscious of sudden and terrible failure in this work which she had so longed to undertake. She had not been able to interest one scholar for a quarter of an hour, and the other seemed only to have his heart set on learning to spell. "But it is not quite time to go home yet, Jean," she faltered, as she watched the little girl's efforts to open the door, since Geordie did not seem inclined to come to her assistance. "Indeed, we haven't really begun yet," continued Grace. "Come, Jean, would you not like to stay a little longer and hear a story from the Bible before you go? Geordie used to like them at school, he says;" and then, turning to the boy, who stood looking in grave reproving silence at Jean, she said, "Besides, Geordie, I think, perhaps, I did not quite explain to you the other day what I thought we should try to learn on Sunday afternoons when you come here. I shall be very glad to help you with spelling, too, you know, but I thought I should like to tell you something about the Lord Jesus Christ our Saviour, and to read some of his wonderful words which we find in the New Testament. You have heard of him, have you not, Geordie?"
"Oh, ay, I'm thinkin' I have. But it was in the Auld Testament they were readin' when I was at the school. I mind there was a right fine story about a herd-laddie killin' a big giant, that one o' the laddies telt me once. You've heard it many a time from me, Jean."
"Ah, yes, I know that story too," Grace replied, brightening, as if a glimmer of light had come to her in her perplexity. "And if you will listen, I can tell you another story—about a Shepherd, too. I'm sure you would like it, if you would only come back for a little and listen, Jean," said Grace, eagerly.
She did not venture to open the Bible, in case the little girl should think the book would imply another course of spelling, and be roused into immediate flight. Abandoning all her carefully arranged plans for teaching which she had been thinking of for so long, she looked into Geordie's eyes, which were still wandering hungrily towards the unconquered pages of the primer, and began to tell of the Shepherd who watched the hundred sheep in a wilderness far away in a very hot country, where the burning sun dried up the streams and withered the pasture, and where it was very difficult to find food for either man or beast. And then she told of how very wise and tender this Shepherd was with his flock, looking after their wants day and night, and taking very special care of the silly, play-loving lambs, who did not guess what terrible dangers they might fall into; for there were wild beasts prowling about, ready to pounce upon them, and rushing torrents that came suddenly from the hillsides in rainy seasons, which would have drowned them in a minute, if the Shepherd's watchful eye had not been there. He knew all their names, too, though sheep are so wonderfully like each other."
"Did he though?" exclaimed Geordie. "He must have more wit than Gowrie's shepherd, then. He has been wi' them for more than a year now, and I dinna think he knows the one from the other so well as I do."
Little Jean seemed to have abandoned her design of immediately returning home, and was gradually edging nearer the table, with her twinkling black eyes fixed on Grace.
"But I was going to tell you what happened to one of the little lambs in spite of the Shepherd's watchful care," Grace continued, feeling inspirited by the growing interest of her audience.
"Eh, but I hope none o' the wild beasts ye spoke o' got hold of it," said Geordie, drawing a long breath.
"Well, there's no saying what might have happened, but for the Good Shepherd. For the little lamb got lost—lost among bleak, sandy hills, where it could find no green blade to eat, and got very hungry and footsore. It could hear no kind shepherd's voice that it used to love to listen to in happier days, but only terrible sounds like the bark of wolves, coming nearer, and lions prowling about when it began to get dark."
"Puir lambie!" murmured Jean, whose face now rested on her little fat hands, while, leaning on the table, she looked up in Grace's face; "it must surely ha'e been very frightened," she added, in a compassionate tone; for she knew that she did not like to cross the turf in front of the cottage, after dark, without Geordie's protecting hand.
"Yes, it surely must have been frightened enough, for it was certainly in great danger, and the Shepherd knew what a terrible plight it must be in, wandering about tired and hungry, far away from the fold. For what do you think he did?" Grace continued, looking at Geordie; "he actually left all the other sheep —the ninety-nine, you know—in the wilderness, and went away to seek for this poor little silly lost lamb."
"Did he though! He must have been a real fine man," responded Geordie, warmly. "There's Gowrie's shepherd lost a wee lambie among the hills not lang syne, and when Gowrie asked him, when he came home, why he didna look about among the heather for it, he said he couldn't leave the rest, and that it was a puir sick beastie no' worth much trouble. But it was a nice wee thing for a' that, and it must have died all alone there, with nobody to give it a drop of water," said Geordie, regretfully, for he had a tender heart for all dumb creatures. "I must tell Gowrie's lad about this Shepaerd the very next time he comes round the hill. But did he find the lambie?" he asked, turning to Grace.
"Yes, he found it. He looked for it 'till he found it,' the story says. After wandering along a road full of danger and painfulness, and sorrowful sights of the terrible ruin the wild beasts had wrought, he came upon the little strange lamb, just when its heart was beginning to faint and fail. The story does not say that he punished it for running away and giving him so much trouble, or even that he spoke some chiding words and pushed it along in front of him with his crook, as I have sometimes seen shepherds on the road do when the sheep get footsore and weary and unwilling to go on with the journey."
"Ay do they. They get their licks many a time when they don't deserve them," chimed in Geordie, in a pathetic tone.
"Well, but instead of any hard words or beatings, what do you think the Shepherd did? He took the little lamb into his own weary arms, and it lay safe and warm there, while he carried it all the way home to the fold."
"Did he though?" exclaimed Geordie, in warmest admiration. "Eh, but the lambie must surely have been right fond of the Shepherd after that. I'm thinkin' he would know his voice better than before, and follow him right close and canny. That's the kind o' shepherd all beasts would like, for they know fine when a body cares for them," Geordie said, with a glowing face, as he looked up at Grace, and the "Third Primer" slipped unheeded on the floor.
Was it a mere chance coincidence that this remark of Geordie's came at a moment when it made more easy of introduction to Grace that part of the parable story which she was full of eagerness to tell to her first scholars? She desired that it might prove to them not merely a pleasant tale, which had beguiled an hour that had threatened to be a very weary one, to little Jean, at least; but that, through its homely dress, they might catch a glimpse of its higher meaning, and be able to trace the footsteps of the Great Shepherd of souls.
"Yes, Geordie," she continued, "one would certainly imagine that the sheep would follow such a shepherd very closely, and be very sure that his way was always best, and that he was leading them by wise safe paths, even when they seemed thorny and toilsome; but it is not so. I can tell you of a Shepherd who not only went through many painful dark desolate places, so that his flock might not stumble and fall when they came to follow, but ended by laying down his life for his sheep. And yet these very sheep do not always listen to his voice, nor follow the safe narrow paths which he has tracked out for them, through the wilderness, to the happy fold. I think you must both have heard of this Shepherd, Geordie, and little Jean too."
"I never knew a shepherd except Gowrie's, and he lost the bonnie lambie with the black face, that used to lick Geordie's hand," replied little Jean, with a doleful expression in her usually merry black eyes.
"Ah, but this Good Shepherd always searches for the lost sheep till he finds it, and then he carries it in his arms all the journey through to his beautiful home among the angels, and there is joy among them over the little found lamb. For it is the Lord Jesus Christ who calls himself the Good Shepherd, Jean, and who has told us this story about finding the lost sheep, that we might understand the better how he came to this world to save us from dark dangerous paths of sin that go down to death. For we have all strayed as this poor silly lamb did, and some of us are straying yet," continued Grace; and then, glancing at Geordie's earnest face, she said, "You have heard of the Lord Jesus Christ, who came to save us from our sins, have you not, Geordie?"
"I have heard tell o' him. But I didna just think he was so real-like as a shepherd with his sheep, or that he would have ta'en that trouble forone," Geordie replied, with a dreamy look in his eyes; but he did not say more.
Just then Margery knocked at the door, and intimated that the hour was expired, and little Jean again began to show some signs of restlessness, so Grace felt regretfully that the first afternoon had come to an end, and she had not followed any part of the programme which she had previously marked out. There was the hymn-book, with a tune all ready to sing to one of the hymns, which Grace had practised painstakingly on the piano the day before. But now she found that neither Jean nor Geordie could sing, so she thought it might be wise to select something simpler than she had chosen before, and ended by singing her oldest childish favourite, "The Happy Land." It was evidently new to the children; for their poor old deaf granny's was not a musical home. Geordie's eyes dilated with delight as he listened, and he kept giving Jean a series of nods across the table, in case she should by any chance miss the full enjoyment of such beautiful sounds.
A second knock from Margery, this time carrying a plateful of currant-cake which Miss Hume had sent to the children, fairly broke up the little gathering. Grace felt with disappointment that this first class had come sadly short of her ideal, was a complete failure, in fact, when she remembered all that she had meant to say and do, and all the hoped-for responses on the part of the scholars.
In thinking of this afternoon long afterwards, when it lay in the clear rounded distance of the past, Grace used to smile as she remembered her restless impatience, and compare herself to the little girl who was always pulling up by the roots the flowers she had planted in her garden, to see how they were getting on.
When they prepared to leave the little still room, Grace handed Geordie his precious "Third Primer," which she found lying on the floor, and as he put it into his jacket pocket, he said with a smile, "I won't bring it back with me, I'm thinkin'. Ye'll maybe tell us some more about the Good Shepherd next time, and I can hold at the spellin' when I'm herdin', and maybe I'll soon be able to get into the Bible itself," he added, still firm in his belief that the only entrance lay through the spelling-book.
Grace, remembering little Jean's dislike to the exit through the dark passages, led the way to a door which opened into a path to the garden. Jean manifested undisguised satisfaction when the dim still-room precincts were fairly left behind, and they got into the pleasant old walled-in garden, where the yellow afternoon's sun was lying on the opening fruit-blossom, and bringing delicious scents out of the newly-blown lilac and hawthorn. She kept pulling Geordie's corduroys, to draw his attention to all that captivated her as they walked along the broad gravel walk. This was certainly a much pleasanter way home than along the dim passage, and Jean decided that the best part of the afternoon had come last. Presently Grace opened the door of one of the greenhouses, and they stood among richer colours and sweeter scents than before. The children had been surveying with admiring wonder the dazzling house glittering in the sun, which was making each pane sparkle like a diamond, but they never dreamt that it would be given to them to enter it, or indeed that it had an interior which could be reached, so entirely did it seem to belong to the region of the sun, not to the world of thatched cottages and grey walls.
"Eh, but surely this will be something like the happy land you were singin' aboot," Geordie said at last, with a long-drawn breath, after he had wandered about in silence for some time, revelling in the exotic delights of the first greenhouse he had ever seen.
"Oh yes, Geordie; there will be all this, and a great deal more; things so beautiful and, glorious that our poor minds can't even imagine what they will be like," said Grace, glowingly, feeling a thrill of pleasure to hear that the hymn had any meaning for the boy, so desponding was she concerning her efforts. "Look here, I'll just read to you about the pleasant place where the Good Shepherd leads his flock, after their journey on earth is over." And leaning against an old orange-tree, Grace read to her little scholars about that wonderful multitude "which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple: and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." They stood quite still for a few moments after Grace had finished reading, each thinking some new thoughts.
In the mind of little Jean, to be sure, there certainly prevailed some confusion of ideas between the happy land of which she had been hearing, and the beautiful garden in which she stood. Indeed, to the end of her life, the yellow glitter of the sun on the Kirklands greenhouses brought to her mind the description of that "city of pure gold, as it were transparent glass;" and the tall tropical plants which were ranged round the shining floor were to her the embodiments of the trees whose leaves were for the "healing of the nations."
But Geordie's thoughts were most about that Shepherd Saviour who seemed to be able to lead his flock away from bleak, scorching places to such a blessed land as these words told of.
In spite of old Adam's approaching shadow on the gravel walk, Grace plucked a few of the rare, beautiful roses and gave them to little Jean, whose small fat hands were eagerly stretched out to receive the prize. They spent the remainder of their flourishing existence in a broken yellow jug on the window-sill of Granny Baxter's cottage, and were a joy to Jean for many days. And when it was the fate of their companions still left in their stately glass home to be gathered into Adam's barrow when their charms had past, and ignominiously flung away, Jean's roses had a more honourable future. After they had done their duty faithfully on the window-sill, the dead leaves were tenderly gathered and scattered in the drawers allotted to Jean in the ancient chest, where they made a sweet scent in their embalmment for many a day.
The little party arrived at last at the farther end of the garden, where there was a door in the high, red wall opening on a path which led to the turnpike-road. Grace turned the rusty key, and the children saw the familiar face of their native valley again. Giving a lingering backward glance into the pleasant garden which they had just left, they trotted away towards the dusty high-road, while Grace stood watching them till they were out of sight.
End of Chapter III
Chapter IV
I
ll tell you what it is, Grace; that scholar of yours is far too fine a fellow to be left to tie companionship of old Gowrie's cattle any longer."
The speaker was a bright, breezy-looking lad in midshipman's dress, who was sauntering up and down the old terrace at Kirklands, in company with our friend Grace. She is a year older than when we saw her last at the garden-gate, parting with her two scholars after their first Sunday together. They have had a great many afternoons in company since then. Grace had remained in her summer home all through the long Scotch winter, and now autumn had come, bringing with it her brother Walter on a delightful holiday of six weeks, after an absence of years.
Miss Hume had got so frail the previous year, that she was unfit for the return journey to her house in Edinburgh, and the following months had only brought an increase of weakness. She now lay in her darkened room, with, her flickering lamp of life burning slowly to. its socket, while some young lives beside her were being kindled by glowing fires which would cause their hearts to burn long after the "glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay."
The little company in the still-room had somewhat increased, four others haying been added to the two first scholars. One of them was Elsie Gray, the forester's daughter, a pretty little girl with a sweet voice, and able to sing a great many hymns, so that Grace had no longer to perform solos to the still-room audience, but was accompanied by more than one voice timidly following Elsie's example, and joining in the singing. There were three other scholars from the borders of the next parish, and a very happy party they all made together. But it must be confessed that the warmest place in Grace's heart was reserved for the first scholar whom she had found that chilly spring day among the pasture lands which sloped down to the little stream. Judged by an educational standard, Geordie was certainly, with the exception of the little Jean, the most deficient of the company, in spite of his having manfully conquered the last pages of the "Third Primer," and got at last "intil the Bible." The other boys and girls still attended the parish school on week days, and seemed more or less very fairly in possession of the rudiments of education. Some things, however, which they read and heard in the little quiet room at Kirklands sank into their hearts as they had never done when they read them as the stereotyped portion of the Bible-reading lesson amid the mingled jangle of slates and pencils and pattering feet, with the hum of rough northern tongues, which prevailed in the parish school-room.
To Geordie even this discordant medium of education had been denied. Grace had set her heart on having him sent to school during the past winter. She saw what a precious boon such an opportunity appeared in Geordie's eyes when she suggested it to him. But Farmer Gowrie had to be consulted, and finding the herd-boy useful in winter as well as during the summer months, he decided that he could not possibly spare Geordie. And as for Granny Baxter, she could not understand what anybody could want with more learning who was, able to earn money. So Geordie had one day lingered behind the other scholars to tell Grace that the idea of going to school even during the winter quarter must be given up. There was always a manly reticence about the boy which made one feel that words of sympathy would be patronising; but Grace could see what a bitter disappointment it was, though he appeared quite unalterable in his decision that he "belonged to Gowrie," when Grace tried to arrange the matter by an interview with the farmer. He could only claim the boy week by week, and the young teacher did not see the necessity for such self-denial on Geordie's part.
Then Grace's store of pocket-money had been devoted to sending little Jean to school. This arrangement had been a source of great delight to Geordie—much more of an event to him, indeed, than to the phlegmatic little Jean, to whom the primer did not contain such precious possibilities as it did to her brother's eyes. Grace had arranged that she should go to a girls' school lately opened in the parish. It was the one to which Elsie Gray, the forester's daughter, went. On her way to school she had to pass Granny Baxter's cottage, and after Jean was installed as her fellow-scholar, Elsie used generally to call and see if the little girl was ready to start, so that they might walk along the road together.
Elsie was a pale, fragile-looking girl, who looked as if she had grown among crowded streets, rather than blossomed in the open valley, with its flowing river and breezy hillsides. She was a very silent child, too, with a meek grace about all her movements; her large grey eyes shone out of her face with a luminous, dreamy light in them, which distressed her practical, rosy-faced mother, who used to say that she did not know where Elsie had come by "those ghaist-like eyes o' hers," and as for those washed-out cheeks, "there was no accountin' for them neither;" and the worthy matron would go on to narrate with what abundance and amplitude Elsie had been ministered to all her life; and yet Elsie glided about still and pale, with her large eyes shining like precious stones, generally hungrily possessed by some book which she held in her hand. She had an insatiable appetite for reading, and had long ago exhausted the juvenile library attached to the church, while the few books which comprised the forester's collection had been read and re-read by her many times. The farmer librarian, who remained half an hour after the congregation was dismissed on Sundays to dispense books for any that might wish them, in the room behind the church, had been obliged to give Elsie entrance to the shelves reserved for older people, after she had exhausted the youthful library. It is not to be supposed, however, that by this admission Elsie was allowed to plunge chartless into light literature. The shelves contained only books of the most sober kind, the lightest admixture being narratives of the persecutions of the Waldenses and stories of the Covenanting struggles. These Elsie read and pondered with intense interest, interweaving the scenes in her imagination with the familiar places and people round her, and living a far-away dreamy life of her own in the forester's cozy little nest, while her active-minded, busy-fingered mother made her cheese and butter, and reared her poultry, and was withal so very capable of performing her own duties, that the forester sometimes ventured to think, when Mrs. Gray complained of Elsie's "handlessness," that seeing the mistress was so well able for "her own turn," it was fortunate his little daughter chanced to be of a more contemplative disposition.
Mrs. Gray had heard from Margery of the Sunday class which her young mistress had opened at Kirklands, and though, as the forester's wife remarked, "Elsie had enough and to spare of schoolin' already," yet it would only be a suitable mark of respect to the lady of Kirklands to send her there on Sunday afternoons; and so it happened that Elsie became one of Grace's scholars, sitting in the little still-room on Sunday afternoons, her large tender eyes answering in sympathetic flashes as the young teacher talked with the little company of those wonderful days when the Son o Man lived upon the earth, or told them some story of the earlier times of the world, when God's voice was heard in the beautiful garden in the cool of the day, or when he guided his chosen people by signs and wonders.
In those days, however, the gospel tidings were not more to Elsie than many another pathetic story which she knew, and served simply as food for her imagination, though Grace's earnest words did throw a halo round the familiar incidents which the daily reading of a chapter in the New Testament had failed to do. Yet it was not till some of the sharp sorrows of life had fallen upon Elsie that those words which she heard in the still-room came with living power to her heart, and became to her a light in dark days, a joy in sorrowful times, which nothing was able to take away from her.
And this was the little girl who used to knock gently at the door of Granny Baxter's cottage every morning as she passed along the road to school, arrayed in her pretty grey stuff frock, and with her snowy linen tippet and sun-bonnet. Sometimes she found little Jean's round smiling face peering against the peat-stack at the end of the cottage awaiting her coming, for a great friendship had sprung up between these two, though they were certainly very different in character. Elsie seemed to have a brooding protective care over the little unkempt Jean, exercising a sort of guardianship of her in the new life at school. She would often come to her rescue when Jean sat pouting over a blurred slate, en which she was helplessly trying to reproduce the figures on the blackboard, or give her timely aid amid the involvements of some question in the Shorter Catechism. It was Elsie who tied the bonnet-strings now, with more dexterous fingers than Geordie's, and performed many similar kindly offices besides; and little Jean was already learning from the forester's daughter many habits of tidiness which her poor, failing grandmother had not been capable of teaching her.
Sometimes, on their way from school, the girls would find Geordie perched on the paling of one of Gowrie's fields, while the cattle grazed within the fences, watching for their coming to enliven a lonely hour with their talk and news of school doings. His eye used to glisten with pride and pleasure as he watched the little Jean appear, carrying her books and slate, and already bearing many traces of civilising influences. And it is not to be wondered at if his eye rested with admiration sometimes on the sweet maiden, who was generally her companion, and that he learnt to watch eagerly for the first glimpse of the snowy sun-bonnet along the winding green lane which led from the girls' school to the high road. Sometimes Elsie used to bring one of her favourite books in her plaited-cord school-bag, and then the trio would sit in a shady corner, where Geordie's vigilant eye could still keep watch over his charge, while the little girl introduced her friends to some of the favourite scenes of her ideal world. Elsie seemed to understand, though she had never been told it in so many words, all about Geordie's intense desire for knowledge, and to appreciate his self-denial in remaining in his present post. And so it happened there grew up in her mind a tender sympathy for all that he had missed, side by side with an admiring belief in his character.
How many thoughts and ideas he surely must have, she used to think, after one of those meetings, when she took her solitary way home, after parting with Jean, and remembered Geordie's remarks, which seemed to throw new light on her favourite histories, and to touch with insight all that was most beautiful and true in them. Often Elsie used to delight the unvocal brother and sister by singing one of her hymns, which for days afterwards would echo in some "odd corner" of the lonely little herd-boy's brain. Sometimes, too, they discussed what they had been hearing on the previous Sunday at Kirklands; and Elsie always felt more interested in the lesson after hearing Geordie's gentle, reverent talk. And to Elsie, who had neither brother nor sister, there was an infinite charm in Geordie's devotion to his sister Jean, and his unwearied anxiety for her happiness. She noticed, too, the tender, chivalrous care with which he ministered to his old grandmother, never wearying of her selfish, querulous ways, and sacrificing himself to her smallest wishes.
So it happened that a warm friendship sprang up between those three who sat side by side in Grace Campbell's little school-room; and their daily lives had become pleasantly interwoven during these past months. To Jean, Elsie appeared the embodiment of all that was worthy of imitation, from her snowy sun-bonnet to her gentle voice, both seeming equally unattainable to the little girl. When Geordie returned to the village on Saturday night, he used generally to hear from Jean some glowing narrative in Elsie's praise, to which Geordie's ears were quite wide open, though he sat bending over his books in the "ingle neuk" of the cottage kitchen.
When her idea of a winter at school had to be abandoned, Grace gave him a few helpful class-books, and tried to direct his efforts to learn as much as was possible; but, during the past year, her aunt's increasing weakness and dependence on her companionship made it impossible for Grace to give the boy such practical help as she would fain have done. But Geordie had been fighting his own battle manfully, and had made more progress than Grace guessed.
Walter had first been telling her as they walked on the terrace together, that the day before he had found Geordie busy with a geography book as he tended his cattle, and how pleased he had been to hear about the new lands Walter had seen. Like Elsie, Walter felt that, in Geordie's mind, things seemed to gather a richness and an interest with which his own impressions had not clothed them.
"You've no idea how many queer questions the fellow asked me about everything," continued Walter. "Indeed, Grace, I couldn't help thinking how much more good Geordie would have got out of all the things and places I've seen since I went away, than I have. And yet he's much too clever for a sailor's life. What can we do with him, Grace? I really can't bear to think of his drudging on as a farm servant to old Gowrie, though he seems quite contented with the prospect," and Walter turned to Grace, who glanced at her brother's kindly face with pleasure, though not unmixed with surprise, that he should take such an interest in her Sunday-scholar.
Walter seemed to look on Grace's class rather in a humorous light when he first heard of its existence on his return to Kirklands. And presently he had begun to grudge that she should devote herself to it, and thus deprive him of the pleasure of her society during the long Sunday afternoons, when they used to be together in the old days. And, in the midst of all her joy in having her brother with her again, Grace had been feeling with sadness that there was as yet no response in Walter's heart to those unseen, eternal things, which, in her efforts to share them with the little company on Sunday, had become increasingly vivid to her own mind. He used occasionally to rally her on her new fancies, which he seemed to think quite harmless and suitable for a girl, provided they did not cross his plans and fancies.
One day, when he was on his way to fish, he had happened to meet Geordie, who was herding his cattle near the stepping-stones. Geordie was a clever angler, and could wile more trout out of the river than most people, and Walter had been delighted with his information as to the fishing capabilities of the Kirklands river. Since that day they had always been friends when they chanced to meet. Walter could never see the sun-bleached locks gleaming in the distance without crossing whatever gate or field happened to lie between, and going to have a talk with him; so the boys had seen much more of each other than Grace knew. She had often been obliged to leave "Walter to solitary rambles, owing to her aunt's, increasing dependence on her during her long illness, so it happened that she felt some surprise when she saw Walter more moved than was his wont as he eagerly discussed plans for helping Geordie.
"I'll tell you what it is, Gracie," said Walter, in his blunt way, as his quick eye detected Grace's slight surprise that he should have so warmly espoused the cause of her Sunday-scholar. "You know I have seen Geordie a good deal lately. We have had a lot of fishing talk, and all that, and I like the chap—he's a first-rate fellow. I can't bear to see a fellow so much better than myself trudging away behind those beasts of Gowrie's day after day. And, besides, Grace, the fact is I owe him something more than anything I may be able to do for him can ever repay. It isn't every fellow, I can tell you, who would have had the courage to say to me what he did," stammered Walter.
"What did he say, Walter?" asked Grace, more astonished than ever. "I thought you hardly knew more of Geordie Baxter than his name. You know he is my favourite scholar. But it is a long time since I have had a quiet talk with him. I well remember the first conversation we had, standing on the stepping-stones near that bend of the river where the birches grow."
"Ah, yes, I know the place. It's curious, it was just about that very spot I was going to tell you. I met him there, one day, not long ago, and he happened to say that he had been asking Gowrie to stop sending the cattle to that bit of pasture, because the stepping-stones made it a thoroughfare, and that bull had been getting more savage lately, and he could not always persuade people that it was dangerous to pass near him; but Gowrie had said it was nonsense, and so forth. Well, you see, I'm not very fond of old Gowrie, and when I saw how meekly Geordie submitted to him, I felt provoked, and began to speak a little strongly, as we middies sometimes do—swore, in fact. And if Geordie didn't make me feel more ashamed of myself than ever I did in my life. You've tried your hand on me before now, Gracie, and I'm sure you'll be glad to hear—well, that I'm going to try to lead a very different life now." Walter's voice faltered, and Grace looked at him with glistening eyes.
After a few moments' silence, she said, "But Walter, dear, you haven't told me yet what Geordie said."
"Well, Grace, I hardly think I should like to tell you all he said. But he came, and laying his hand on my shoulder, looked at me with those earnest eyes of his. 'You've been very kind to me, Maister Campbell,' he began, 'and it would be ill-done no to min' ye that ye are giving a sore heart to your best Friend ye have by takin' his dear name in vain,' and then he said a little more about it. I was so taken aback, Grace, I could hardly believe my own ears. It must have required a lot of downright courage to speak like that; there isn't a mid in all our crew who would have ventured to do so. And yet I dare say I'm in for something of the same kind when I go back again to the ship. For you know I must be a 'good soldier,' Grace," added Walter, with a gentle, fearless look in his eyes that carried Grace's thoughts back to an early scene, when she stood in the crowded street in her nurse's hand, and watched her father's face as he rode alongside his men to his last battle. And as she looked at Walter's face, she remembered some old words which say, "He that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city;" and she lifted up her heart, and gave God thanks that this young spirit, so dear and precious to her, had taken him for his Leader and Lord.
End of Chapter IV
Chapter V
Itwas a lovely autumn evening. The valley of Kirklands lay flooded in the sunset glow. Its yellowing fields were tinged with warm-crimson and purple, and the golden light shimmered on the trees and fringed the dark fir tops. Never had her home looked more beautiful, Grace thought, when, at last, the brother and sister turned to go indoors, after their earnest talk. She stood leaning on the old carved railing of the steps, taking one more glance at the peaceful scene before she followed Walter into the darkening entrance-hall, when her eye caught sight of a stumpy figure which she thought she recognised.
It was little Jean Baxter, who hurried along the elm avenue as fast as her short legs could carry her. She looked breathless and excited, and when she came nearer Grace saw that she was tearful and dishevelled. She hastened down the steps to meet her, wondering what childish grief could be agitating the mind of the usually imperturbable little Jean. When she caught eight of Grace, she threw up her arms with a loud, bitter wail that rang among the old elms, echoing through their arching branches, and startling the birds that had just gone to roost. "Oh, Miss Cam'ell! Geordie, Geordie!--he's hurt; he's dyin'; Blackie's gotten hold o' him."
It was vain to ask anything more. Jean could only repeat her wailing refrain, so taking the child's hand, Grace quietly asked her to lead the way to where Geordie was, trying to quiet her bitter weeping by such soothing words as she could muster in the midst of her own distress at the possibility of any serious accident having happened to her favourite scholar. But poor little Jean's sad monotone still rang mournfully through the soft evening air as she trotted along by Grace's side—"Geordie's dyin'; Blackie's got hold o' him."
Grace, however, managed to learn from a few incoherent words that the boy was lying, in whatever state he might be, at the river side, near the stepping-stones. He had, that afternoon, taken the cattle, along with the dangerous bull, to the heathery knolls, where Gowrie's careful soul grudged that any morsel of pasture should remain unused. Geordie had always been most careful in warning unwary passers-by of their danger, for, though fearless enough himself, he still held that Blackie was the "ill-natertest bull in all the country-side," and never felt easy in his mind except when he had him within the fences of the upland fields. He had once or twice tried to tether the animal near one of the hillocks, but he saw that it made his temper more dangerous than ever; besides, the little patches of green pasture were so scattered through the heather, and had carefully to be scented out by discriminating noses, that to have fettered poor Blackie to one spot seemed to him a crying injustice, uneasy as he felt at his being able to roam at large so near a thoroughfare. Geordie had never even allowed himself the luxury of Jean's company when there were no fences to put between Blackie and her.
But that day the harvest holidays had been given at the girls' school. There had been prizes distributed and an examination held which lasted till evening. Elsie Gray had got several trophies of her diligence, but the great and unexpected event of the day was that little Jean had actually got a prize. She was nearly beside herself with ecstasy as she clutched the gay crimson and gilt volume which was presented to her, and resented that it should even for a moment be absent from her arms to be admired by her companions. Then Geordie must hear about this unexpected honour, must see and touch the treasure at once; and Jean galloped off with the precious volume to the field where he was generally to be found perched on the paling, awaiting their coming. Elsie Gray followed, eager enough, too, to show her honours to the boy-friend, whose golden opinions she dearly loved to win. There was a pink flush on her usually pale cheek, as she glanced about in search of Geordie when they reached the field, panting and breathless after their race. But no Geordie was visible anywhere, and the field was quite empty and tenantless. Then Jean remembered, what she had forgotten in her excitement, that Geordie was to be herding at the hillocks to-day, and so she started off to find him, forgetful that his present post was forbidden ground.
The girls were not long in reaching the stepping-stones, and presently Jean was at Geordie's side, dancing round him with wild cries of delight, as she flourished her gay prize in his rather bewildered eyes. He had been lying with his face resting on his hands, on one of the soft knolls of turf, looking at the sunset, and thinking of the new lands of which he had lately been hearing from Walter Campbell. He seemed so possessed by his own thoughts and reveries that he heard no sound of coming footsteps till he looked up suddenly, and saw little Jean by his side. He jumped up from the turf, and began to look wistfully towards the river side to see if there was nobody else besides Jean coming to enliven a lonely hour.
Elsie had crossed the stepping-stones, and was moving towards the hillock on which he stood, with her sun-bonnet in one hand, and her heavy armful of shining prize books in the other with the golden sun's rays falling on her. Her dusky hair was hanging rather more loosely than usual, shaken out of its general smoothness by her hot face. The pale face was all aglow with pleasure, and her large eyes looked radiant with delight at the thoughts of the pleasure that little Jean's success, as well as her own, would give to Geordie. The boy stood with his flaxen hair all gilded by the sun, looking at her with a glad light in his blue eyes. For a moment only, and then, with a look of terror, he glanced in the opposite direction, remembering that this was dangerous ground. Blackie had been roused from his sleepy grazing by little Jean's cry of delight, and, looking up, his evil eye caught sight of Elsie, with her bright colours, made more dazzling by the sunset tints. With a toss of his head, and a few wild plunges, the brute, with his head near to the ground, and his eyes fixed on his prey, made his way towards her. Geordie shouted, "Back, Elsie; back on the stepping-stones!" but it was too late.
Elsie lost her presence of mind, and wavered backward and forward for a moment, till it was impossible to save herself by taking refuge on the other side of the stream, where Blackie, not knowing the advantage of stepping-stones, would probably not have troubled himself to follow her. In an instant Geordie had flung himself between the roused animal and Elsie. His stick still lay on the hillock, where he had been resting, so he had no weapon of defence, and Blackie, in his rage, would not spare the faithful lad, who had spent so many lonely hours by his side. In another moment, Geordie was lying gored and senseless on the heather.
Elsie had reached the stepping-stones, and stood there transfixed like a marble statue. Blackie might follow her now if he had a mind to, but he had not. After a glance at Geordie, he plunged away with his heels in the air through the heather, having an uneasy consciousness that he had lost his temper, and treated a good friend rather roughly.
As for little Jean, she had fortunately happened to be beyond Blackie's range of observation; for it was on Elsie that his sole gaze had been fixed, and he only vented his baulked fury on Geordie when the vision of bright colours slipped away. Gowrie's ploughman happened to be passing near, and had been a witness of the scene, though it was impossible for him to give timely help. Elsie Gray, he noticed, was now safe on the stepping-stones, and Geordie lying on the heather, with all the mischief done to him that Blackie was likely to do. But the enraged animal might attack somebody else presently, and the man thought the best service he could render was to secure Blackie against doing further injury. Never did repentant criminal receive handcuffs with more submission than the guilt-stricken Blackie the badge of punishment. There was a subdued pathetic look of almost human remorse and woe in the eye of the brute, as he was led past the place where Geordie lay low among the heather. The hands that had so often fed him and made a clean soft bed for him at night, often stroking his great knotted neck, and never raised in unjust punishment, lying helpless and shattered now, and the fair locks hung across his face, all dabbled with blood. Elsie was now kneeling by his side, but he was quite unconscious of her presence, and heedless of her low wailing, as she looked wildly round to see if nobody was coming to help Geordie, who had helped her so bravely. Little Jean had hurried shrieking to the farm, with the news of the accident, and Mistress Gowrie presently appeared, to Elsie's intense relief. She was a kindly woman, and felt conscience-stricken as she kneeled beside the little herd-boy; for she knew that it was not with his will that Blackie roamed at large among those knolls. She had happened to hear his last expostulation with her husband on the point; and this was how it had ended. But she did not think he was dead. Elsie could hardly restrain a cry of delight when she heard the whispered word that he lived still. How joyfully she carried water in her sun-bonnet from the flowing river, how tenderly she sprinkled it on his face and hands, and wiped the bloodstained locks.
And then old Farmer Gowrie came and stood with his hands behind his back, and a shadow on his furrowed face, as he gazed on his young servant with an uneasy stare. He kept restlessly moving backwards and forwards to see whether the still motionless figure showed any sign of life, till his wife reminded him that Granny Baxter was probably ignorant of the terrible accident which had happened to her grandson, and asked him to go and break the news to her. Little Jean had been there before him, however; and Gowrie found the old woman crawling helplessly along in the direction of the knolls, quite stupefied by the terrible tidings that Jean had managed to convey to her deaf ears. The little girl seemed possessed with the idea that Miss Campbell would be sure to be able to help Geordie in this extremity; and so she left her old granny to find her way alone, and had hurried away in the direction of Kirklands to tell her sorrowful tale, meeting Grace, as we know, in the elm avenue, after her eventful talk with her brother.
They were already half-way to the stepping-stones, when Grace remembered—feeling it unaccountable that, even in her anxiety, she should have forgotten for an instant—that Walter must know what had happened to Geordie—Geordie, to whom he owed so much. She felt that she could not leave the little weeping girl to go on her way alone; but just as she was standing hesitating what it might be best to do, she met one of the dwellers in the valley, who promised to go at once and convey a message to her brother, and then she and Jean hurried on towards the fatal pasture lands. Before they crossed the stepping-stones which led to the knolls, Grace could see a little group bending over a spot in the heather; but no sound reached them through the calm evening air, except the rippling of the sunset-tinted river, which rolled between. And so Geordie was lying there gored, maimed, perhaps dying, as Jean persisted in saying. Grace felt her heart sink with fear, lest the sorrowful refrain should be true, as she crept silently near to the place where the little company was gathered. But Geordie was not dead.
"Here comes Miss Campbell," somebody said, and then the circle opened up, and Grace caught a glimpse of her scholar lying very quietly among the heather with his blue eye turned gladly to welcome his friend.
"It was only a faint, after all,—and some bruises that will soon heal," Mistress Gowrie said, in a tone of relieved anxiety, as she rose from the turf where she had been kneeling to make way for Grace, who felt an intense relief as she bent smilingly over him, and talked gently of the danger past, with her heart full of thankfulness.
When little Jean saw the happy aspect of matters, her grief gave place to the wildest ecstasy of delight. Throwing herself down beside her brother, she shouted gleefully, "Oh, Geordie, Geordie, ye're no dyin' after all, ye're all right. I'll never greet again all the days o' my life," was the rash promise which she made in her joy, remembering Geordie's dislike to tears. Presently her thoughts reverted to her treasure, which, in her grief, had been forgotten. It had been dropped on the knoll when the accident happened, and Jean now bounded off gleefully in search of it.
A doctor had been sent for soon after the accident, but Geordie seemed so well that old Gowrie already began to regret that they had been in such haste in sending to fetch him. Presently Mistress Gowrie left the knolls and returned to her usual evening duties, which she felt were put sadly in arrear owing to this outbreak of Blackie's, and feeling truly thankful that it had ended so fortunately. She invited old Granny Baxter to have a cup of tea with her at the farm, which was a very great mark of graciousness on the part of "the mistress," and extremely gratifying to the old woman, to whom attentions of the kind came rarely.
It had been arranged, also, by the farmer's wife that Geordie should be moved into the "best bedroom" before the doctor came, and Granny Baxter was filled with pride when she was shown the woodruff-scented chamber, with its dark shining floor, and among other impressive decorations from the farmyard, a waving canopy of peacock feathers above the ancient chimney-piece, where Geordie was to sleep among snowy sheets that night. But each time that they proposed he should be carried there from his rough bed among the heather, Geordie pled rather wistfully, "Just wait a wee while. I'm right comfortable here among the heather," and once he added with a sad smile as he glanced at the farmer's wife, "But I'll no be able to supper the beasts the night, Mistress Gowrie. Maybe Sandy will look to them. Puir Blackie! give him a good supper; he didn't mean any ill."
Only Elsie Gray, of all the original group, still sat near Geordie, where she could watch every movement, though she could not be seen by him. She kept gazing at him with unutterable anguish in her eyes, and only she detected the sharp spasms that occasionally crossed his face, and felt his frame quiver with pain which he tried to conceal.
"Miss Campbell," she whispered to Grace who was seated near her, "he's very sore hurt, I'm sure of it. Oh, will the doctor no come soon!" and when Grace looked into Geordie's face she began to share Elsie's fears.
Presently Jean came bounding back in delight with her recovered treasure to lay it in Geordie's hands. He looked at the gaily-bound book with his most pleased smile, and then glancing at Jean proudly, he said, "Eh, Jean, but ye'll be learnin' to be a grand scholar. I'm right glad ye have got to the school."
Then the eager little girl must needs have the book in her own hands again, to search among the leaves for the illustrations which were interspersed, so that Geordie might be introduced to all the beauties of this wonderful volume. Geordie kept looking at her as she turned the leaves with a somewhat pitiful gaze, and presently he said in a low tone, "Jean, come a little nearer. I want to speak to ye, Jeanie. Do ye ken I'm maybe goin' til the grand school the good Maister keeps waitin' for us in the heavenly land? And I'll be learnin' a deal o' things there that we canna learn down here," he added, with a smile; and then he paused.
Jean looked up from her boot with bewildered eyes as she listened to Geordie's words; a grave expression came into her face, but the shadow was only caused by her not understanding what he meant, for she knew that Geordie occasionally went beyond her depth.
"I'll no ever herd Gowrie's cows again, Jean, or wait at the fences for Elsie and you. I'm dyin' Jeanie," he added in a hoarse whisper, as he gazed sorrowfully at the little girl.
There was no mistaking the meaning of these words, and little Jean, dropping her precious book, burst into loud sobbing, as she flung herself on Geordie.
Grace had been watching the boy with a sinking heart, and a great fear began to take possession of her that what he said might be true, as a terrible spasm of agony crossed his face, and a groan of pain escaped him. She looked anxiously to see if there was any sign of the doctor coming, and taking little Jean aside, she told her that if she loved Geordie she must be brave and quiet, even though he was so very ill, as he seemed to think. Then she tried to speak some soothing words of comfort, but little Jean wailed out with a fresh burst of sorrow:
"Oh, Miss Cam'ell, why didn't God keep him from Blackie, if he loves him as ye say? Ye mind how ye read to us in the Bible about him saving the herd-laddie out o' the jaws o' the bear; oh, but, I think, he might have taken care of our Geordie;" and poor little Jean would not be comforted.
"Where's granny?" Geordie had whispered, and Elsie rose from her post at Geordie's head and flitted away like a little noiseless ghost to find the old woman. She met her at the farm, where, having finished her cup of tea, she was being shown some of Mistress Gowrie's feathered favourites in the farmyard.
"Mistress Gowrie, he's not better, as ye think; he says he's dyin', and wants to see granny," Elsie said, with quivering lips, as she reached them.
"Dying, child, nonsense! what do you mean?" said the farmer's wife, looking at Elsie to see if she was not dreaming. But Elsie looked terribly wide-awake and sorrow-stricken, and Mistress Gowrie went off in search of her husband.
Then Granny Baxter began to perceive that there was something wrong, and presently Elsie succeeded in making her understand, and began to guide her slow steps to where her grandson still lay. Oh, how slow they were, Elsie thought, as she glanced along the straight field path still to be crossed before they reached the knolls, and thought of what might be going on there. But had not Geordie wanted to see his grandmother, and surely she might endure for him who had done so much for her? So the little girl kept close by the old woman's side, who leant her wrinkled hand on Elsie's shoulder, while, with the help of her staff in the other, she hobbled along, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, groaning and muttering about this terrible blow that seemed likely to fall upon her.
"Granny, granny, I've been wearyin' for you," said Geordie, holding out both his hands, when at last Elsie's patience had guided the old woman to the spot. "Oh, but I'm no able to make her hear. Nae words o' mine can travel to her ear, and I had much to say to her," Geordie cried, with a suppressed sob, as some terrible internal pain seemed to seize him.
The old woman had seated herself by his side, and her withered fingers wandered trembling among his hair, as she moaned helplessly, "Oh, laddie, laddie, what's this that's come upon us?"
Suddenly, Geordie seemed to remember something, and, smiling brightly, he feebly raised his hand to his jacket-pocket, and drew out the little chamois bag, containing the slowly-gathered store of money with which he intended to buy the ear-trumpet for his poor deaf granny.
"I gathered the last sixpence yestreen, for holding the minister's horse," he said, as he laid the bag in her hand, "It's to buy a thing that makes deaf folk hear, granny. But she can't understand me, Miss Cam'ell," he murmured, sadly, as he looked at Grace, who was leaning over him; "and, oh, I would have liked well to tell her before I go away about the Good Shepherd that you first told me about, Miss Cam'ell. I dinna think she understands right what a Friend he can be to a body; and I've always been waitin' till I got that horn for makin her hear to tell her all about him, for it's no a thing that a body wad just like to roar at the tap o' their voice. But you'll maybe speak to her some of the things ye spak' to us, Miss Cam'ell. Ye'll have one less at the school now, ye see," he added, smiling sadly; and then turning with a look of tender pity on his grandmother, who watched him with wistful eyes, as if she knew that his lips were moving for her, he said, "Oh, tell her to listen to his voice, and let the sound into her heart. He was aye able to mak' deaf folk hear, wasn't he, Miss Cam'ell?" said Geordie, with a bright smile as he turned to his young teacher.