"Here noo, my bonnie lambie, is a drap o' cauld watter to ye. Ye're welcome tilt. May ye get a lang draught o' the watter that He gies, afore ye try a' the broken cisterns o' this warl.'"
Kirsty's dialect was more difficult for Blanche to understand than even Morag's. She came originally from that part of Scotland where a rough, harsh dialect is spoken, almost as difficult for English people to understand as a foreign language would be. Blanche, however, understood sufficiently to make her reply eagerly—
"Oh! that is the water we read about in the Bible, is it not? I suppose you are very fond of reading the Bible, and know all about Jesus Christ? I do wish Morag had beenhere; you might have told her some of the things she is so anxious to know. She's so fond of the New Testament,—so much more than I am. She's such a nice little girl, Morag. I'm sure you would like her if you knew her," added Blanche, eagerly, on peace-making thoughts intent. "She is the keeper's daughter, you know, and often goes out with Shag and me."
The old woman, in her turn, had difficulty in understanding the little English girl's rapid, silvery flow, and Blanche had again to explain that the keeper Dingwall's daughter was waiting outside.
"Alaster Dingwall's bairn, say ye? I hae heard tell she wasna an ill bairnie, puir thing. She's ootby there, is she? I wad like richt weel to tak' a look o' her. It's mony a lang day sin' I hae lookit intil her faither's face. Weel div I min' upon the last time, though," continued the old woman, with a sad look in her calm gray eyes.
"She's at the gate with Shag; do come and see her," said the impulsive little Blanche, forgetting how unwilling Morag had been to make any advances to Kirsty.
"Do you live quite alone in this cottage? Aren't you very lonely sometimes?" askedBlanche, as she watched the old woman moving about her solitary habitation. "I'll come back and see you again soon, if you would like; and perhaps Morag may come in with me, next time," added Blanche, in an encouraging tone.
"'Deed, an' I'll be richt glad to see ye, my bairn, gin yer folk kens ye're here, and doesna' objec. I'm thinkin' ye're fond o' a bit flouer, like mysel," said the old woman, smiling, as she pulled a pretty yellow rose from the wall beside the cottage door, where it had been carefully fastened, to preserve it as long as possible, and gave it to the little girl, who had stopped to admire it.
Meanwhile, Morag and Shag were waiting on a shady bit of the road, a few yards off. Blanche ran eagerly forward to meet them, whispering in an excited tone to Morag—
"O Morag! you'll like her so much. She is such a nice, kind old woman; and besides," she added, in a lower tone, "I think she knows all about Jesus Christ—just what you are so anxious about. She's coming now to talk to you; she knew your father once, she says, and wants to see you."
The old woman came slowly along the road towards them, but Morag's face wore amore dogged expression than ever, and she turned away from Blanche, and began to plait Shag's mane in dumb silence.
"So ye're Alaster Dingwall's dochter, my bairn," said the old woman, slowly, as she looked at the little hot-cheeked girl. "Ye maybe dinna ken auld Kirsty, but yer faither will min' o' her, fine. Will ye tell Alaster Dingwall that Kirsty Macpherson is willin' to forgie him, though he brocht sair trouble upo' her ance. But it's lang syne,—and we maun forgie, as we hope to be forgien," and the old woman held out her long, thin hand to Morag.
The little girl glanced at her with a mixture of curiosity and surprise, and her face worked nervously; but she gave no hand in return, and preserved a dogged silence.
Blanche wondered greatly how the good little Morag could ever have grown so naughty all of a sudden, and there followed an awkward silence, only broken by some manifestations of restlessness on Shag's part, as if he thought it was more than time to start for home. At last Blanche thought there was no use of waiting longer for any rift in the cloud, and going up to the old woman she laid her little fluttering hand in the thin fingers, saying, "Good-bye, Kirsty, and thank you very much for thenice drink of water, and for this pretty rose. I'll make Ellis fix it in my curls when I'm dressed for the evening. I shall come back to see you again, at any rate," she added, with an emphasis on the personal pronoun, as she mounted Shag, and turned to go, while Morag followed silently, with downcast eye and lingering step.
The old woman shaded her eyes with her long thin fingers, and stood watching them till they were out of sight, and then she returned with slow steps to the cottage. She sighed as she glanced round the room, which a few minutes ago had been filled by the child's bright presence. It seemed more solitary than usual now, Kirsty thought, as she looked wearily round. "She said she thocht I maun be some lonesome. Sic a bonnie bit blink o' a lassie! I wad like richt weel to see her agin. I liket the look o' Alaster Dingwall's bairnie. Surely he couldna hae pitten her agin me? She lookit some dour like, and wouldna speak ava'."
Like persons who live much alone, Kirsty had the habit of thinking aloud; and, indeed, her thoughts were so often with a living, listening Friend, that the practice seemed quite a natural one. As she pulled out her rough bluestocking, which she was knitting, and seated herself on the doorstep, in the yellow afternoon sunlight, she continued—"If I didna mistak that wee leddy wi her sweet tongue, she said that the bairn was wantin' to ken aboot the Lord Jesus. Eh! Lord, but Thy thochts are wonderfu' and Thy ways past findin' oor. Puir lambie! may the gude Shepherd lead her til Himsel. It's a pity gin her faither has pitten her agin me. I wad like to see the lassie, whiles. There's been nae bairn i' the house sin he gaed away. My puir, lost laddie! fat's come o' him? O Lord! I wad fain ken aboot the wanderin' sheep afore I gang hame mysel," and the old woman covered her face with her withered hands, and rocked to and fro in silent grief, at the memory of a life-long sorrow which was ever present with her.
In the meantime Blanche and Morag had been going on their homeward way. The afternoon was beautiful as before, and the soft cool breeze made the road through the heather very pleasant indeed; still neither of the girls felt so happy or light-hearted as they had done when they started.
"The little rift within the lute,That soon must make all music mute,"
"The little rift within the lute,That soon must make all music mute,"
"The little rift within the lute,That soon must make all music mute,"
had this afternoon shown itself for the first timesince they became friends. With Blanche, however, it was only a momentary feeling of unpleasantness and perplexity as to how Morag, the wise and good, should on this occasion have behaved so badly. It was not her habit to keep her thoughts to herself, so she presently exclaimed, "Well, Morag, I really can't understand what makes you dislike such a nice old woman. You were really quite sulky and rude when she held out her hand."
A host of bitter feelings were surging in poor little Morag's breast, and she made no reply to Blanche's remark. She had tried so hard to do what was right, much against her own inclination, and now everything seemed wrong. Her bonnie wee leddy, whom she loved so well, and wanted so much to please, had called her rude; and very rude, certainly, must Kirsty have thought her.
Little did Blanche know what a familiar, enchanted spot this cottage was to Morag. How often she had glanced wistfully into the little garden with its sweet-scented flowers—the nicest she ever saw in her life, and how she had longed to speak to the old stooping woman moving about among them. On one eventful occasion, as she happened to pass along the dusty road, Kirsty stood knitting at the gate,and, looking at the little girl with her kindly smile, she had said, "It's a richt bonnie day, my bairn." That was all; but poor little Morag went home feeling as if a great event had happened, and resolving that she would pass that way again, in the hope of such another salutation. She recounted the circumstance glowingly to her father, but as he listened, his face wore its darkest frown, and he said sternly, "Ye're no to be passin' that way agin, I tell ye, gettin' Kirsty Macpherson's clavers. Depend on't, she didna know your name was Dingwall, or she wouldna hae spoken til ye. Ye'll no be darkenin' her door agin. D'ye hear, Morag?" and the little girl had replied meekly, for she noticed that her father was in one of his darkest moods.
Morag had often pondered the matter, and wondered why her father disliked Kirsty so very much. Always when they chanced to pass by the road, Dingwall would glance uneasily at the cottage and its garden to see if the old woman was about, and presently he would make some bitter remark, and repeat his injunction that Morag should have nothing to do with the "like o' her," till the little girl had come to think that though Kirsty looked so delightful, she must surely be a very wickedwoman. Still, she had a curious fascination for the little girl; she longed to see the interior of the pretty cottage, and felt a great interest in all the ongoings of its inmate which it was possible to observe from afar. She had always conscientiously avoided an encounter, however, and on this afternoon she had in loyalty to her father shaped her conduct, which Blanche characterized as rude. But now Morag began to doubt whether Kirsty could really be a bad woman after all; she looked so gentle, and had spoken such kind words,—and that strange message to her father, too, what could it mean? The little girl could not understand it, and she walked by Shag's side in silent perplexity and distress.
Blanche began to feel rather uncomfortable in having Morag walking by her side so sadly and quietly. She could not be long silent under any circumstances, and finally took refuge in a lively conversation with Chance, who had been keeping beside her with rather a depressed aspect, as if he guessed that something was wrong. At last, when he bounded off in pursuit of a rabbit which had crossed the road, Blanche felt glad of the excuse to follow, and trotted off, leaving poor little Morag companionless. More heartsore than footsore,she wearily seated herself on the heather to await their return. Her tears were not in the habit of flowing readily, indeed she hardly remembered having a fit of crying since she was a little girl; but as she sat on the bank, the bright sky and the purple heath seemed suddenly to become dim to her eyes, and hot tears rolled down the brown cheeks, and trickled through the little hands, which would fain have hid them from the day. It was so hard, she thought, to have tried to be good and obedient, and yet to feel so much in the wrong as she did now, and to be so bitterly disgraced. If the wee leddy could only know how much she would like to have gone to the cottage-door with her, and what a struggle it had been to refuse when the opportunity, so longed for, had presented itself. How nice it would have been to see what was inside those pretty curtained windows, and to watch the old woman moving about the cottage! And the wee leddy had said something about Kirsty knowing the Lord Jesus; so she would be sure to be able to tell her all the things which she wanted so much to know.
Morag laid her head among the heather, and wept bitterly at the thought of all she had missed that afternoon. And as she lay sobbingthere, the remembrance of the story which she had heard the day before for the first time flitted across her little troubled heart like a gleam of light. The Lord Jesus seemed always so very willing to help and comfort everybody in trouble before the wicked men crucified Him on the green hill. And had He not even come back again after He was laid in His grave, and spoken such kind words to the woman who stood weeping there, and might He not be able to help her now?
Hardly knowing that she spoke aloud, Morag buried her face among the bracken, and cried in her distress, "O Lord Jesus! gin ye be a frien' o' Kirsty Macpherson's, dinna let her think ill o' me for no speakin' til her; and mak' me happy again wi' the wee leddy."
When she had finished speaking, she glanced around with an expectant gaze, as if she might see a listener standing by her side. But there stretched the solitary moors on all sides, with the yellow afternoon sun shining calm and bright on everything, and sending his kind rays upon the sorrowful little girl.
Meanwhile, Blanche had been trying to enjoy her canter. She went further on her homeward way than she intended; and Shag remonstrated not a little when his bridle-reinintimated that he must retrace his steps. "What! Shag, do you really mean to say that you've the heart to go home, and leave Morag all alone?" expostulated Blanche; and at last the wilful little Shetlander was brought to a better mind.
And now Blanche began to think of the troubles which she would have to face again; for she was a little person who could not be happy unless she was the best of friends with everybody round her, winning and bestowing smiles on all sides; and she felt that it was a very uncomfortable state of matters to have Morag walking beside her, so sad and silent. It did not occur to her that her friend's broken-hearted aspect was more than half her doing; for Blanche had yet to learn how much "evil is wrought by want of thought as well as want of heart." But when she felt herself in the wrong it was a much easier matter for her, than it is for some people, to seek forgiveness eagerly and graciously. All at once it dawned upon her that it was not quite kind to have brought Kirsty to talk to Morag, who seemed so anxious not to see the old woman. Perhaps, indeed, it might have been better not to have gone into the cottage at all; and certainly it had quite spoilt a pleasant afternoon. Thoroughly penitent,Blanche resolved that peace must be instantly proclaimed between her mountain friend and herself. She quickened Shag's pace, and swept suddenly round upon poor Morag, whom she found starting up from the heather with a tear-stained face. Blanche was at her side in a moment.
"O Morag, dear, I'm so sorry! It's all my fault. I've just been thinking I shouldn't have brought Kirsty to speak to you when you didn't want to see her. Miss Prosser says I'm so thoughtless, and, you see, it's quite true. Do say you forgive me, and don't cry any more, or I shall begin directly." And Blanche's eyes filled with tears as she threw her arm round the little brown neck, and looked into Morag's sorrowful face.
"It's no that I didna want to see Kirsty, but father bid me no speak til her,—niver, and I couldna' anger him. I would hae liket weel to gang inby, though," she added, in a mournful tone. Then Morag went on to tell, with much unconscious pathos in the narrative, of the romance which had grown up round Kirsty Macpherson and her pretty dwelling, of how long she had watched her from afar, often passing by that way, in order to catch a glimpse of the old woman among her flowers, till her father's injunctionhad made it an act of disobedience; and since then she had tried very hard always to look the other way. Blanche could not help thinking, as she listened, how much more good and obedient this little untaught maiden had proved than she was likely to be in similar circumstances.
"But, Morag, I really can't think why your father should forbid you to talk to Kirsty. I'm sure she can't possibly be a bad old woman;" and Blanche gave a glowing description of her visit to the cottage, to which Morag listened with eager interest.
Shag was taking advantage of the pause to snap some delicious blades of grass on the roadside, as well as his mouthful of steel would permit, while Chance had drawn near to investigate the reason of this objectionable halt, and was captured by Blanche, who began to twine a wreath of deer-horn moss round his reluctant neck, as she talked.
"I'll tell you what you must do, Morag," she said presently, jumping to her feet with energy, as if inspired by a new idea. "Tell your father all about our stopping at Kirsty's cottage,—how I would go to ask for some water to drink, and how kind and nice she was to me; and wanted to speak to you so much, if youonly might have spoken to her. And, by the by, she sent a message to your father—something about forgiving him, wasn't it? I couldn't understand her very well. Now, Morag, if you only tell your father the whole story, and coax him a little, you know, he will be sure to allow you to speak to her next time. I do want so much to go and see her another afternoon; but I shouldn't care to, if you didn't come with me."
Morag shook her head; she had not the same belief in her own coaxing powers as she had in the bonnie wee leddy's.
"I'll maybe try, but I'm thinkin' he'll no bear the soun' o' Kirsty's name," said Morag, in a desponding tone, as she rose to recapture the straying Shag. Then she reminded Blanche that they had still a long way to go, and pointed to the sun, which was fast westering; so the cavalcade moved on, and both the little hearts felt happier than they had before the halt.
Blanche felt certain that Morag's story would melt her father's prejudice, whatever it might arise from; and Morag, though less sanguine, began to be more hopeful, and listened with delighted smile to the castles in the air which her companion was building concerning a visit to the cottage; how they would tie Shagto a paling where he could find some nice grass, and deciding that Chance must really be left at home, being much too outrageous for a small room like Kirsty's. Besides, as Blanche thoughtfully suggested, she might very likely have a cat, in which case, Chance would be a most unwelcome guest, for his sentiments regarding cats were only too well known to his anxious mistress.
Morag was still very shy and timid, and it was only on rare occasions that even the little English maiden's pleasant prattle could put her at her ease. It was quite an effort for her still to make a remark or to ask a question; and now, as she nervously took hold of Shag's mane, Blanche felt sure that she wanted very much to say something which would come out presently. At last she asked, in quiet, eager tones, "Will ye be so kind as to tell me, leddy, what she would be sayin' about the good Lord? Is she weel acquaint wi' Him?"
"Oh! let me see. I forget exactly what she said. I think I said that I thought she must be very lonely, living there all by herself, and she said she would be if it were not for the Lord Jesus Christ—or something like that," replied Blanche, unable to give a sufficiently circumstantial account of that part of the interviewto satisfy Morag, who remarked meditatively—
"I dinna' min' o' seein' nobody goin' intil the hoose, excep' auld Elspet Bruce. Will He be goin' to see her, whiles, when she's her lone, think ye, leddy?"
"Who do you mean? I never said anybody went to see her; she did not tell me so, you funny Morag," replied Blanche, looking puzzled.
"I jist thocht maybe He will be goin' inby, whiles, when she was terrible lonesome—the Lord Jesus, ye ken," stammered Morag.
"Why, Morag, what queer, odd ideas you do have! Nobody ever saw the Lord Jesus—at least not since He died and went to heaven,—and that's ever so far away beyond the sun, you know, so He couldn't possibly come back. I forget how far the nearest planet is from the earth. I had it in my astronomy lesson the other day only."
Morag relapsed into puzzled silence. She had not the remotest idea what astronomy was, and wondered if she should know about that too when she was able to read the Bible. After a little pause, she hazarded one remark more—
"But do ye no min', leddy, how we readyestreen about the good Lord no restin' intil His grave, like other folk, and when the woman was cryin' there, how He came inby, and was terrible kind like?"
"Oh yes," said Blanche, interrupting her; "of course 'He rose again the third day,'—the creed says so, you know. But indeed, Morag, He never comes and sees anybody now. I never heard of such a thing in my life. If I were to ask Miss Prosser, she would be sure to say, 'My dear, I'm shocked at your ignorance,' as she generally does when I ask questions." And Blanche sighed at the thought of her ignorance, which appeared so shocking to her governess in many instances.
They were coming near home now, and had reached the shady birk walk which led to the castle, when they heard through the trees Mr. Clifford's pleasant ringing tones, which Morag loved to listen to. "Well, pussy, what mischief have you been about this afternoon?" he said, smilingly, as he lifted his little daughter from her pony.
"O papa! I've so much to tell you. I have actually been inside Kirsty's cottage, and it looks quite as pretty inside as outside, and she's such a nice old woman," said Blanche, rapturously, forgetting that she had not introduced her new acquaintance.
"I fear I must confess shameful ignorance, Blanchie," replied her father, smiling. "Who is this Kirsty? and where does she abide—a friend of Morag's?"
And then Blanche remembered that was a question which might prove embarrassing, so she adroitly changed the subject.
"Oh, here comes Lucas for Shag. I know Morag wants to get home to make ready her father's supper," she continued, being quite at home now in all the domestic arrangements of the hut among the crags.
Morag seemed nothing loath to make her escape. She quickly resigned Shag's bridle to the old coachman and was turning to go, when Mr. Clifford, opening the luncheon basket, took a beautiful bunch of grapes, and handed them to her, saying, "Here, little black-eyes, take this to eat on the way home."
Morag lifted the dark fringes, and looked timidly up for a moment, then a pair of brown hands were held out to receive the purple cluster. The tartan skirt touched the ground in a low curtsey, and after a timid glance at her bonnie wee leddy, she walked slowly off, carefully balancing the gift in both hands.
"I hope she will eat them on the way home, and not keep them for her father," said Blanche,sighing, as she looked fondly after her little friend.
"Why, Blanche! you ungracious little person; do you really object to my gamekeeper having a share of all the good things going?" said Mr. Clifford.
"Yes indeed, I do, papa. I don't think the keeper can be a nice man at all. Only fancy, he has quarrelled with that nice old Kirsty, and has forbidden Morag to speak to her even; and she is such a good girl she will not do it, though she wanted to know Kirsty for ages."
"And so you are going to be a sort of damsel-errant, riding forth on Shag to redress all the wrongs and quarrels of the Glen," laughed Mr. Clifford, as he looked at Blanche's glowing face. "Depend upon it my keeper has some very good reason at his finger-ends for having quarrelled with this same Kirsty. Perhaps he found her poaching; who knows, Blanchie?"
"What's that, papa? But if it's anything wicked, I'm quite sure Kirsty would not do it. Is poaching wicked, papa; and what is it?"
"Just you ask the Major, pussy! Blanche has got a knotty question for you to solve, Seton," said Mr. Clifford, turning to one of his guests. "She wants to know if poaching is wicked!"
"But I want first to know what poaching is, because papa says that nice old woman Kirsty may have been poaching, and that is the reason why the keeper dislikes her so much," said Blanche eagerly, as she joined Major Seton.
"Ah! I see. You want to know what poaching is, and you reserve the right of deciding whether it is right or not. Very proper," said the old gentleman, as he looked kindly at the little eager face. "I'll tell you what game preservers call poaching; but, perhaps, if you were to ask your friend of the uncouth name, she might not give you exactly the same description of the word. You might find her sitting down to sup on a hare, which she caught in the act of dining off her nice trim row of cabbages—some of which she meant for her own dinner, probably, if the hare hadn't thought them good to eat. Perhaps she might invite you to join in her savory supper, and you might be sitting smacking your lips over it. But, suddenly, an official-looking individual might pop his head in at the door with a knowing look, and tapping your friend on the shoulder, say, in a stern voice, 'My good woman, you must come with me; you've been poaching.' And if, in defence, you attempted to explain that the hare was treading down the trim garden,and eating the cabbages when Kirsty caught it, 'Just so, little girl,' the individual would reply; 'I see you're in possession of the facts. This woman is a poacher, and must be committed for trial. My prisoner,' he would say," and the Major finished with a little tap on Blanche's shoulder, which made her start as if the said official were at her elbow.
"So that's what you call poaching?" she said, with a long-drawn breath. "But, Major Seton, how can anybody call it wicked to kill a beast that is destroying one's garden when gentlemen shoot them only for fun on the hills?"
"So it may appear to our philosophical minds, Blanchie; but I doubt whether your papa and his gamekeeper will take quite the same view of the matter. Clifford, your daughter is dead set against the game-laws. I haven't succeeded in making her view poaching in a criminal light. She's a born Radical, I fear. You must take her in hand, and teach her young idea how to shoot in a proper Conservative direction," said the pleasant old gentleman as he rolled away, but his love for truth brought his portly figure rolling back again the next minute. "I say, Blanchie, dear, I'm afraid my parable was decidedly one-sided.Remember that poachers are often no better than common thieves—stealing a gentleman's game as they might steal his watch or his umbrella, if they had the chance. So don't go romancing in your tender heart over the wrongs of poachers, little woman. They are often great rascals, I assure you."
"Well, I only hope papa won't ever put a nice old woman into prison for catching a creature that was spoiling her pretty garden. But do you know, Major Seton," added Blanche, in a confidential tone, "I don't like Dingwall. I think he could be very cruel and unkind. He has got such cruel eyes—not a bit like Morag's. I don't like him at all."
"Why, what a prejudiced little puss it is, to be sure. What ails you at the keeper? Is it a case of the unfortunate typical Doctor Fell, I wonder?" But just then Blanche was summoned to tea, and the reason, if she had one, of her dislike to the keen-eyed keeper was not forthcoming.
MORAG'S VISIT TO KIRSTY, AND HOW IT CAME ABOUT.
IT was the Sabbath-day. Glen Eagle was, if possible, stiller than its wont—no shepherd shouted upon the mountains; no reapers stood among the upland, half-shorn fields; the moor-fowl had peace that day among the heather, unmolested by dog or gun. The white, motionless clouds on the deep blue sky, as well as the lower landscape, seemed pervaded by that peculiar stillness which Morag always noticed belonged to this day, though it brought to her no sound of church bells, inviting her to mingle her worship with the congregation. Sunday was always a very lonely day in the little eyrie among the mountains, and during these past weeks they had seemed specially empty and solitary to the little Morag. For then there were no rambles with the bonnie wee leddy—indeed she seldom saw her onthese days, except she chanced to catch a glimpse of her from afar, as she was driven past in an open carriage, embedded in furs and dazzling with bright colors. But the little gloved hand would always emerge from the furs in friendly salute if Morag was in view, and the blue eyes look kindly, and often longingly, down on the little mountain maiden, who would stand watching the shining carriage as it swept swiftly along the winding road, and listening to Blanche's silvery laugh as it echoed among the silent hills.
But on this Sunday morning Morag did not wander down the hill, as usual, when her work was done, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the people from the castle. She sat very disconsolately on the turf in front of the hut, watching her father as he went down the hill toward the kennels.
The keeper had gone to loose the dogs, to take them for a long walk, which he always did on Sunday. He was not a frequenter of the little kirk in the village, and somewhat disliked the cessation from his ordinary work which the day of rest imposed. This morning he had gone off in one of his darkest moods. Morag was used to his periods of grim silence; but, of this one, she thought that she couldtrace the cause, and she pondered ruefully over the utter failure of the wee leddy's sanguine plan for softening the keeper's heart towards Kirsty. The story of the visit to the cottage, and her share in it, had been narrated on the previous evening to her father without any other result than a bitter sneer, as he said, "Ye did weel, Morag, my lass, no to darken Kirsty Macpherson's door; and gin ye be yer ain frien', ye'll jist better keep that chatterin' bit leddy outby."
Morag felt as if she had received a blow, but there still remained one other arrow in her quiver, and she drew it at a venture. "But, father, though I didna speak wi' Kirsty, I couldna shut my ears when she was speakin', ye see. I hae a bit o' a message for ye frae her—I'm thinkin' I min' upon ilka word that she said—this was it: 'Will ye tell Alaster Dingwall that auld Kirsty is willin' to forgie him?' There was some more I'm thinkin', but I didna hear right," she added in low, troubled tones, lowering her eyelashes, and not daring to look into her father's face.
He was smoking his pipe at the time, and he sat gazing gloomily into the red embers on the hearth till he had finished. Morag knew that he had come in for the night, so she wasnot a little surprised to see him refill his pipe again and prepare to go out; but he gave no explanation, so she did not venture to ask any questions. It was a fine moonlight night; Morag came to the door of the hut, and stood watching him as he sauntered slowly down the hill, and went in the direction of a larch plantation, some distance off, which looked pale and shadowy in the clear shimmering light, with its background of dark fir-trees that stretched beyond.
These larches were young seventeen years ago, when Dingwall had known the place well; and a crowd of strange memories, conjured up by Morag's random shot, drew him towards it to-night. The little girl had sat watching and waiting by the whitening peat embers till she grew very sleepy; and before her father returned from his night walk, she crept away to bed.
So this bright Sunday morning opened very gloomily for the inmates of the hut among the crags. Morag had taken the old Bible from the depths of thekist, and it lay open before her on the turf, but somehow to-day she felt disinclined for the slow spelling of the words, and rather disheartened with her progress generally. She began to fear that hereye would never be able to go swiftly down the pages, understanding every word like her little teacher, or as Blanche had said, Kirsty was able to do; and then her thoughts went back to the events of yesterday. How sorry the wee leddy would be to hear of the plan for melting the keeper's prejudice, and perhaps she might be angry and call her rude again the next time she refused to go into the cottage. It all seemed very hard, Morag thought; and, as she sat gazing up into the calm sky with its motionless clouds, she could not help thinking how very far away it seemed from her and her troubled ways. Presently these sad meditations were interrupted by the reappearance of her father, who, to her great surprise, seemed to be coming up the hill again, with the dogs all scrambling round him. He had only been gone a few minutes, and it was his custom to take a long walk, so Morag wondered what could have brought him back, but she did not venture to ask any questions. He seated himself on the turf beside her, and after playing with the dogs for a little, he glanced at her with a half smile, and said, hurriedly—
"Weel, Morag, lass, is yer heid as sair turned as iver aboot that auld Kirsty Macpherson?"
"She looks a real nice old woman, father. I canna think why ye'll no let me speak wi' the like o' her. She surely canna be an ill woman, as ye think," returned Morag, emboldened by the smile on her father's face.
"Wha ever said she was an ill woman?" said the keeper, looking dark again, and ignoring all the bitter things which Morag had often heard him say concerning Kirsty. "We did ance quarrel, but I'll no say I wasna maist to blame. Gin Kirsty Macpherson speaks a ceevil word to ye agin, ye needna jist athegither haud yer tongue, lass. D'ye understand, Morag?" asked the keeper, getting up from the turf as if he had said what was on his mind.
Morag could hardly believe her ears. She sat watching her father go down the hill again, as if she were in a dream. Presently an idea seemed to seize her, and she bounded off after him, and all trembling with eagerness, she said—
"Father, I'm feert Kirsty will be thinkin' me terrible rude for no speakin' yestreen. Would it anger ye if I jist ran past the cottage to see if she was outby? I needna speak gin she doesna, ye ken."
"Oh ay; ye can gang if ye like, lass. I'm thinkin' that Kirsty is atween ye and yer wits,Morag," he added, smiling at the earnest face. "Jist tak a brace or twa o' the grouse hangin' there wi' ye. The auld wife will think mair o' them than us."
Morag was bounding back to the hut in wild delight, when her father called again, "Bide a wee, lass. Ye mustna tak' the birds. I dinna think she would athegither like sic a present frae me."
Morag stood rather discomfited. The idea of a peace-offering had been very pleasant, and it was disappointing to be obliged to abandon it. She suddenly remembered the purple cluster of grapes which Mr. Clifford gave to her the day before. She had hidden it away as a delightful surprise for her father, during some period of to-day, and she said, doubtfully—
"I was keepin' some bonnie berries for ye that the maister gied me yestreen; but maybe ye wouldna min' if I gied them to Kirsty?"
"That'll do fine, my lass," cried Dingwall, in his most good-humored tone, as he disappeared down the hill, surrounded by the scrambling pointers and setters.
In a very short time after, Morag might have been seen hovering near the little gate of Kirsty's cottage, with her peace-offering carefullybalanced in her little brown hands. A few of the precious moments previous to setting out had been spent in performing a most careful toilette, and the opinion of a broken corner of the looking-glass was that the black locks had never looked so smooth and sleek before. Having scampered down the hill in a state of breathless excitement, she did not at first contemplate the bold step of entering the sacred precincts and knocking at Kirsty's door, as the wee leddy had done. She quite counted on seeing her "outby" somewhere, and she hung about on the roadside in that hope, but no Kirsty appeared. Then Morag remembered that it was Sunday, and she began to fear that the old woman might have gone to the kirk. The little girl felt bitterly disappointed; for she felt sure that this must be the case, since Kirsty was not visible anywhere, and no smoke came from the tiny chimney of the cottage. If she lost this opportunity, she might never have such another. What if her father changed his mind again? she thought. Indeed it seemed hardly possible to believe that she was here with his permission when she remembered his stern command on the previous evenings that she was never to darken Kirsty's door. At last, with exhaustedpatience, she resolved to take the bold step of entering the little gate and tapping at the door, for had she not a peace-offering?—and it was just possible that Kirsty might not have gone to the kirk after all.
Many a time in after years Morag Dingwall remembered that first knocking at Kirsty's door on the still Sunday morning, and smiled a quiet, thankful smile as the vision of the eager, breathless little girl, standing on the threshold of Life, rose before her in the shadowy distance of the Past.
The outer door stood open, but nobody answered the knock, though Morag fancied that she heard some movement within. The doors of bothbutandbenwere closed, but she ventured to knock again, and this time a voice, which seemed to sound feebler than the old woman's did on the previous day, called "Come ben."
Morag obeyed the call, and at last stood inside the pretty cottage which she had so longed to see. The room looked as pretty as the wee leddy had described it, but the arm-chair at the ingle-neuk was empty, and there was not the faintest glow among the white peat embers on the hearth. The little girl looked round in dumb surprise, but presently a voice came fromthe bed in the dark-panelled wall, "Eh, lassie, but is this you? Ye're the keeper Dingwall's bairn 'at I saw yestreen—arna ye?" and Kirsty raised herself in bed, and holding out her hand, smiled kindly on the little Morag.
"Are ye no weel, Kirsty?" she asked, in low, sympathizing tones, as she drew near the bed.
"I'm nae jist verra weel the day. I had a bit blastie i' the nicht. 'Deed, bairn, I some thocht He was ga'en to tak' me hame til Himsel. An' fat's brocht ye here the day, my lassie?" said Kirsty, turning kindly to the shy little Morag, as she held her hand in her long thin fingers.
"I brought ye some bonnie berries the castle folk gied me yestreen. Maybe ye'll tak' some," said the little girl, as she lifted the grapes from the table where she had laid them, and put them on the bed.
"Eh, bairn! but that was terrible mindfu' o' ye. They're richt bonnie graps, and will cool my mou'. 'Deed, they'll be the first thing I hae tasted the day." Morag felt immensely gratified when Kirsty plucked a grape from the purple cluster and put it into her parched mouth. She was now seated at Kirsty's bedside, by her invitation, and began, already, tofeel quite happy and at home in this enchanted interior of her dreams.
"I'm richt glaid to see ye, Morag," said the old woman, smiling kindly on her. "The sicht o' a blythe young face does a body guid—and it's a rare ane to me, sin' mony a lang year," she said, sadly; and then, brightening, she added, "But we canna say we're unca lonesome, when we can hae a sicht o' His ain face, gin we lat Him in. Eh, bairn; but He's aye keepit His word wi' me. 'I'll no leave ye comfortless, I will come to ye,'" said Kirsty, as she closed her eyes and laid her head on her pillow again.
"Ye'll be meanin' the Lord Jesus, arna ye, Kirsty?" asked Morag, her face all quivering with eagerness. "Then He does come, efter a'?" she added, triumphantly. "The wee leddy o' the castle said how it wasna possible. I would like richt weel to see Him, mysel. He maun aye come i' the nicht, surely, for I'll whiles be passin' o' this road, and I never saw Him goin' inby."
Kirsty looked at the eager, young face, with a shade of perplexity in her calm, gray eyes. Morag noticed it, and felt a chill, but she would not give it up yet. "It will be the Lord Jesus who comes cheerin' ye when ye're feelin' some lonesome like, isna it, Kirsty?"
"Ay is't, my bairn. And He's willin' to come til ye, just the same. It's ane o' His ain sweetest words, 'Suffer the children to come.'"
"But Miss Blanche says naebody iver saw Him, and that He doesna go aboot healin' and comfortin' folk, as He did lang syne. I dinna understan' it richt; for just the ither day she read til me i' the fir-wood that He cam' oot o' His grave efter wicked folk killed Him deid on the green hill, and was speakin' real kind to the woman that was cryin' inby there. I would like weel to see Him, Kirsty. I dinna think I would be feert."
"Eh, my bairn, but I see fat ye would be at, noo. But ye're jist for a' the earth like the onbelievin' Thamas, that wouldna rest satisfeid till he pit his fingers intil His maister's verra side. We mauna forget that He says Himsel, 'Blessed are they who dinna see, and yet believe.'"
Kirsty's Biblical illustration was too much advanced to suit the little untaught maiden, but she gathered enough from it to begin to fear that the wee leddy must be right after all, and presently she said, in a mournful tone—
"Then, Kirsty, it's true that we canna see His face nor hear Him speakin' no more at all?"
"No wi' the eye o' sense, my bairn. 'The warl seeth me nae mair; but ye see me,' He says Himsel', and He aye keeps His word. Jist ye get a sight o' Him wi' the eye o' faith, bairn, and it will mak' ye rejoice and be glaid a' yer days;" and the old woman turned with a radiant smile to the little girl, who sat gazing wistfully, with folded hands.
It was evident that this good Lord was a real present person to Kirsty, however shadowy might be the conception which Morag could at present form of Him. But to understand in any degree that He was a real, present friend, though unseen, was more than Morag could know, just then.
The yellow autumn sun came streaming in at the little window, and shone on Kirsty's face, showing how wan and wearied it was after her sleepless night. Morag was full of motherly, ministering instincts, and it made her little heart ache to see the kind old woman look so ill and feeble. Glancing at the cold hearth, she remembered, wondering how she could have been so long of thinking about it, that Kirsty could not have had any breakfast yet, and must be cold and faint for want of it.
"Wouldna ye be better wi' a cup o' tea, Kirsty? I'll jist licht a bit fire, and be puttin'the kettle on," said Morag, as she rose and began to break some dead branches which Kirsty's careful fingers had gathered in the gloaming on the evening before.
"'Deed, bairn, I would tak' it richt kin' o' ye," replied Kirsty, who had always the good grace to receive a favor simply.
The branches soon began to crackle merrily, the peats caught the glow, and the kettle commenced to sing in the midst of the cheerful blaze. Morag moved quietly about, filled with contentment that she was able to be of use to Kirsty. She had shut her eyes, and was lying quietly, so Morag did not trouble her with questions, but seemed to know by instinct where all the component parts of a cup of tea were to be gathered. When Kirsty opened her eyes again, it was to see the little maiden standing by her bedside with the restoring beverage all ready, and a bit of beautiful toasted bread into the bargain.
"Eh, but it's unca kin' to be comin' ministerin' til an auld body like me," said the old woman, as she sat up in bed. "But winna yer faither be wonderin' what's come ower ye? ye mauna anger him, ye ken."
"Wha wad hae thocht that Alaster Dingwall's bairn would be makin' a cup o' tay tilauld Kirsty?" continued the old woman in a soliloquy, as Morag washed the cup and plate when she had finished her breakfast, and replaced them among the rows of shining delf. How very clean and pretty they looked, Morag thought; and she resolved that she would immediately arrange the slender stock of unbroken dishes belonging to the hut after the same fashion, and make them look bright and shining too. Then she proceeded to build up the fire with skilful fingers, and surveyed the room, with a thoughtful air, to see what the possible wants for the day might be. The pitcher which held the supply of water was almost empty, so Morag ran quickly down to the spring under the tree, and brought it back refilled, and then she poured some into a cup and set it by Kirsty's bed. "Thank ye kindly, bairn. The Lord reward ye for yer helpin' o' an auld frail craeter. Afore ye gang, wad ye jist rax me that Bible, an' maybe ye wad read a bittie til me; my eyes are some dim the day?"
"I would be richt glaid to read to ye, Kirsty, but I canna read ony," replied Morag, sadly, with an ashamed look; and then she added, "the wee leddy's been tryin' to learn me, though, and maybe I'll be fit to read to yesome day, but it'll no be for a lang time yet, I'm thinkin'."
"Eh, my puir bairn, I never thocht but ye could read. 'Deed it was ill dune o' the keeper nae to sen' ye til the schule," remarked Kirsty, in a more severe tone than she generally used.
"How could he sen' me til the schule, and it such a lang road frae this,—and him aye needin' me forby," replied Morag, kindling up in her absent parent's defence.
"Weel, weel, bairn; maybe I shouldna hae been judgin'. We're a' ready eneuf at that. But gin ye'll come to see me, whiles, when I'm a bit stronger like, I'll gie ye a' the help wi' the reading 'at I can. I've a gey curran buiks there."
"I'll be real glaid to come back and see ye, and I'm thinkin' father will no hinder me, noo. I maun be goin' hame, but I'll try and get back the morn, to speir how ye're keepin'. I'm real sorry to leave ye yer lone, Kirsty," said Morag, pityingly, as she glanced at the lonely, frail old woman. Then she remembered what Kirsty said about not being lonesome when the Lord Jesus was with her, and she added, "I'm thinkin' when I'm awa, ye'll jist be speakin' til Him—the good Lord, ye ken."
"Aye, that will I my bairn; an' I houp ye'll learn to speak wi' Him yersel. It's His ain blessed Word, that them that hungers efter Him will be filled. 'Deed but I'm richt glad ye're ta'en up aboot Him, Morag. There's whiles He stands at the door o' bairns' hairts and knocks, and they winna lat Him in; but tak' their ain foolish, sorrowfu' gait. Keep on seekin' Him, and ye'll surely get a sicht o' His face or lang. It's jist as plain as gin ye saw Himsel' i' the body, like the woman at His grave. Now, bairn, ye mauna bide a minute langer. Yer faither will be wonderin' what's come ower ye," said Kirsty, looking uneasily at Morag, who had seated herself again, and seemed inclined to linger. "Tak' this bonnie word wi' ye oot o' His ain Beuk," she added, smiling on the little, grave, perplexed face that looked into hers. "'Them 'at seek me early shall fin' me.' Good-day, Morag, and haste ye back."
Morag was soon crossing the breezy heather road on her way home, with a very happy heart, only disturbed by a slight feeling of anxiety lest her father should have relapsed into his old state of feeling towards Kirsty, and she should be hindered from another visit to the cottage.
THE GYPSIES AT LAST.
ONE pleasant day, when the woods and hills of Glen Eagle were lying in the yellow afternoon sunshine, Morag and Blanche wandered into their old trysting-place, the fir-wood, which they had rather deserted of late.
The precious holiday afternoons had most frequently been spent in theben-endof Kirsty's cottage, and a staunch friendship had sprung up between the old woman and the little girls. These visits had become a great and daily happiness to Morag. Kirsty's illness lasted for some time, and Morag often thought that but for it she should never have felt so much at home in the cottage, which she had so long watched from afar with a mingled feeling of curiosity and dislike; and now she knew every stone and cupboard of it by heart. For had she not helped Kirsty on her recovery to make a thorough cleaning of bothbutandben, for which the old woman's active fingers hadlonged, as soon as she was "to the fore" again. Already, the little untaught maiden had learnt from her old friend many useful household arts and wise maxims, and the keeper's home began to bear traces of Kirsty's thrifty ways and cleanly habits. Every morning during the old woman's illness, Morag had started for the cottage after her own work was done, taking the short cut through the heather, and gathering, as she went, a little bundle of sticks for the fire-lighting. Then, after Kirsty's morning wants were supplied—and she was not an exacting invalid—Morag would take her seat on a little low wooden stool which Kirsty named "Thrummy," from its being covered with shreds of cloth fastened to the wood. It was made by her long ago for a vanished child, who once had been the light of that now lonely home. Morag often sat on it in these days, listening with eager, upturned face to Kirsty's solemn reading of the book she loved. Her rough northern tongue sounded very different from the silvery flow of the little English lady; but Morag felt that the words which she heard in the cottage were no mere tale to Kirsty, "no vain thing, but her life."
Slowly, the words of Jesus began to sink into the little girl's heart, and gradually shecame to understand, after the first chill of disappointment was past, that though the earthly voice of the Son of Man was heard no longer, nor His ministering touch felt among the people, as it used to be in those early days of which the Gospels told, yet He was still the loving, listening Helper of all who came to Him. Kirsty's belief that He was not dead, nor very far away, but a very present Friend to be listened to and spoken to at all times with a certainty that He would both hear and help, had in some degree penetrated Morag's soul; and she, too, ventured to bring her little cares and troubles to this new-found Friend, and had already a spiritual record of help given and difficulties met in the name and strength of Jesus.
And so it happened that Kirsty's cottage became quite a rival to the fir-wood, which seemed to Morag like a dearly-loved, but neglected friend, as she trod among the soft moss and brown fir-needles on this afternoon. After visiting a few of the historical spots sacred to the memory of the first days of their acquaintance, Blanche proposed that they should make an exploring tour to a part of the forest which she had never visited; and the little girls made their way through the fir-trees to where theShadows were darkest, and the arching green boughs almost shut out the day. Blanche was gay and talkative as usual, dancing hither and thither, singing snatches of songs, and making the great aisles of pine re-echo with her laughter and fun. She kept stopping as usual to gather various treasures from the great floor of the forest—"specimens," she called them; but it is to be feared that they never reached a calm state of museum classification. Blanche meant that these "specimens" should travel to London with her—and stowed them away in corners of her room with that intention, though her design was frustrated in most cases, however, by their being deposited in the dust-bin by Ellis, while she remarked to cook that she "never did see the like of missy for fillin' her room with rubbage of all kinds."
Chance had chosen to remain at home on this afternoon, notwithstanding Blanche's pressing invitation that he should accompany them. He had replied to it by shaking his head, knowingly, as if to say, "No, no, my little mistress, I'm not going to be taken in. Shag is not going, I see; so you are only going to loiter about in an aimless manner, and I should certainly be bored. Much nicer here," he thought, as he stretched himself lazily on thewarm stones of the old court-yard, where the sun was striking, and snapped at a fly,—pretending to look the other way when Blanche made her final appeal to his honor and conscience. Perhaps he felt a few twinges of remorse at having so determinately chosen to neglect his duty, for he rose presently and stood looking after the girls as they disappeared among the birk-trees; but he did not repent, evidently, for he went and lay down again, deciding that there was no use of a fellow putting himself about for two silly little girls on a hot afternoon like this.
Morag and Blanche wandered into the forest till they reached the old road skirted by a low, lichen-spotted wall, which was the entrance to the glen, and divided the forest. And now Morag's clock—the afternoon sun—told her that it was more than time for them to be turning their steps in a homeward direction,—especially since, that very afternoon, before they started, she had received strict injunctions from Miss Prosser to see that her charge was not again late for tea, since the flight of time seemed to pass quite unnoticed by Miss Clifford. It was by no means an easy matter to be time-keeper to such an inconsequent young lady as Blanche, who never realizedthe unpleasantness of being late till she was brought face to face with Miss Prosser. She was now wandering about in all directions, adding to her lapful of gatherings, and talking pleasant nonsense, while Morag's rare laugh was sometimes heard joining in her merriment.
At last they started on their homeward way, and Morag was congratulating herself that she would be able to present her erratic wee leddy in time for tea, when Blanche noticed a plantation of larches, which looked so pretty and feathery through the dark firs that she thought she should like to inspect them more closely, and coaxed Morag to come on with her.
An old grey dyke separated the fir forest from the larches. The girls followed its windings for a little, and presently Blanche climbed across the loose stones, and went a little way into the larch plantation to explore. Morag felt impatient to proceed, and walked on to try and discover which would be the most direct route home through the firs. Presently she heard a sound, which her accustomed ear detected as an unusual one in that silent sanctuary of hers. She hastily turned a sharp corner to see what the next winding of the dyke woulddisclose, and, in doing so, she almost ran up again a sort of tent. It was a very rude erection, and consisted of a few large branches which had been driven loosely into the ground, and partly rested against the old wall for support. Atarpaulinwas thrown over them, but it was evidently too small to cover the abode, and was supplemented by a tartan plaid, which hung across the front stakes, so that no entrance was visible. This was not Nature's doing, evidently, and Morag was seized with a great panic when she saw the unexpected human habitation. She had heard wild stories of terrible deeds done on lonely moors and in lonely woods, and felt more frightened than she had ever done in her life when she thought how far they were from home, and that the precious wee leddy was unprotected, save by her. However, she saw no terrific personage as yet, and she began to hope that the inmates of the tent might be from home. But there was that sound again, and this time it seemed like the moaning of a voice in pain. Morag felt that safety lay in immediate flight, and she quietly turned to meet Blanche, and to make a sign of silence. But, before she had time to do so, the wee leddy's voice rang out in gleeful tones, concerning the varied delights of the larch plantation, whichthe dwellers under the tartan could not fail to hear. Whenever Blanche caught a glimpse of Morag's startled face, she knew that there must be something very far wrong, and she stood looking at her in questioning silence. Presently, a rustling sound made them both turn, and Blanche's eye caught sight of the rude tent. For a moment she stood riveted gazing at it, while Ellis's stories and prophecies concerning the gypsies chased each other through her mind, and she thought with terror that they had all come true at last.
Presently there was a fluttering of the tartan awning, and a hand appeared among its fringes, as if to make a passage out.
Blanche's face grew white with fear, and she clutched Morag's arm with a scream of terror. The little mountain maiden kept quite silent, though her face looked as terror-stricken as that of her companion. Seizing Blanche's arm, she began to pull her along, running as nearly as possible in a homeward direction. On they galloped, breathless and speechless; but the fir needles were slippery, and the trees were in the way.
At last Morag felt that the wee leddy's steps were beginning to flag; and, worse than all, she fancied that she heard footsteps behind. It was a terrible effort, but the suspense beganto be insupportable, and without slackening her pace she turned to look. There, sure enough, was a man behind them, gaining ground upon them very fast, too. Poor Blanche kept up bravely in the race for a while, but now she began to fail. First, her hat fell off, and even Morag did not venture to turn to pick it up; then her lapful of gatherings dropped one by one, tripping her as they fell; finally she stumbled, and the golden crown was down, down among the fir-needles, and the tears were falling fast. No entreaties of Morag's could persuade her to move, and the footsteps of the pursuer sounded nearer every minute. The little mountaineer could have outrun almost anybody, but she never dreamt of leaving Blanche; and now she seated herself quietly beside her bonnie wee leddy, determined to protect her to the death. In her distress she cried to the unseen, listening Friend, whom in these last days she had been learning to know: "O Lord Jesus, dinna let the gypsies get hand o' us; and may no ill come ower the bonnie wee leddy here," she added as she seized her hand, and made a last effort to rouse her to run again. She knew that the pursuer, whoever he might be, must be close at hand now, but she did not dare to look back. Blanche at lastraised her head, and now, for the first time, she heard the sound of the footsteps behind. With a shriek of terror she rose to run again; Morag followed, but this time she did not feel quite so frightened, somehow, as she had done before, and, at last, a sudden impulse caused her to turn round to face her pursuer, and await her fate.
Hurrying through the fir trees, she saw, not a terrific-looking gypsy, but a pale, slender boy, with a gentle-looking face, considerably taller than herself. He was signing to her, and called something when he saw her turn round at last. Morag's terror began to abate in some degree, and the boy presently joined her, breathless after his chase, and rather frightened-looking also. He was holding Blanche's hat in his hand, which he shyly restored to Morag. "She dropt it," he said, pointing to Blanche, who still continued to run at full speed without turning to look. The restoration of the dropped hat looked promising; Morag began to feel reassured, and at the same time rather ashamed of herself.
"Will you be so kind as tell me where I can find some water?" asked the boy in a quiet tone; "we are strangers, and mother is very sick;" and his voice faltered.
Morag's little motherly heart was melted in an instant. "I'm real sorry yer mother's no weel," she replied in sympathizing tones. "I'll maybe find a drop o' water for ye, but it's some far frae here. The wee leddy and me were terribly frightened, and we couldna jist help runnin'," she added apologetically.
Blanche had halted in her flight, not hearing Morag's step behind, and her astonishment was as great as her terror had been the previous moment when she turned and saw Morag calmly engaged in conversation with the object of their fear. She did not venture to join them; but a feeling of curiosity, which is a great dispeller of fear, took possession of her, and she stood waiting breathlessly to see what was going to happen next.
Presently Morag came running to her to explain and consult. The lad slowly followed, looking rather more abashed than before, when he saw Blanche. He turned to Morag again and said, eagerly, "Will you not come and see my mother? I think it might cheer her to see you. We have come a long way, and the water is done, and she is so tired and thirsty. I'm afraid she is very ill—she says she's dying." It was a fine manly face; but the gray eyes filled with tears as he lookedimploringly, first at one and then at the other of the little girls.
"Oh yes, certainly; we shall be glad to go and see your mother. I do hope she is not so very ill. And, of course, we must find some water, though we have to go right home for it, Morag," said the impulsive little Blanche, every trace of her former fear having vanished in a moment. "You must have thought it very queer of Morag and me to run away as we did. But, indeed, we were dreadfully frightened, and quite thought you were dangerous gypsies, you know."
The boy's face flushed, but he made no reply. Meanwhile, Morag was silently planning what would be the best thing to do. It was now more than time that Blanche should have returned to the castle, and yet here was an appeal which it would require a harder heart than Morag's to resist.
"Of course we must help him, Morag," whispered Blanche, noticing her hesitation. "Don't you see how sad he is about his sick mother? I really don't think there could be any harm in going to see her. He seems so very anxious. Come, let's go for one minute."
And so they turned to retrace their stepsalong the path over which they had hurried in such terror a few minutes before, with their dreaded pursuer walking calmly and inoffensively by their side.
When they reached the tent, Morag recognized the moaning voice which had at first roused her alarm. The boy drew aside the tartan folds and stepped in before them, and presently they heard a feeble voice say, "Kenneth! Kenneth! you've been long away. Don't leave me, my boy—it won't be long now you'll have to stay. I would like to have lived to see her, though. We must surely be near the place now. The last milestone said three miles from the kirk town of Glen Eagle, didn't it? The Highlander said she was still alive, you know. You'll seek her out when I'm gone—she's good and kind, he always said. Bring her here, and she'll help you with everything there will be to do—after I'm gone. I would fain have seen her once before I died, though; but you'll tell her I have gone to meet her long lost Kenneth, who is safe in the happy home of God. You will follow Jesus, and He will lead you safe home, my boy."
Morag had been listening intently to the feeble, broken sentences, and now she couldhear that Kenneth gave a great sob, as he said, "O mother! don't speak like that! I'm sure you'll feel better again, when we find grandmother. You've often been nearly as ill before. There's a nice little girl I met in the wood, going to try to get some water, and maybe you'll be better after you get a drink."
"A girl did you say, Kenny? where is she?" asked the sick woman, turning restlessly about.
Kenneth drew aside the tartan screen, and beckoned to Morag, who stepped in softly, followed by Blanche.
In a corner of the tent, on some loose straw, lay the dying woman, with her head resting on one of the lichen-spotted stones of the old dyke. She turned her large, bright, restless eyes on the little girls as they entered the tent. Raising herself a little, so that she might see the strangers, she said, in a feeble, though excited tone, "I'm very ill, you see. I've come a long, long way to die in this lonely forest. I didn't think once that I should end my days like this." A fit of coughing came on, and after it was over she lay back exhausted.
Blanche had never seen anybody very ill before, and she felt rather afraid of the bright, hollow eyes and the strange sound of the short,gasping breath, and was much relieved when Morag stepped forward and put her little brown hand into the white, wasted fingers. The little girl could not think of anything to say, but she stood, with a pitying look, holding the hand of the sick woman, who seemed pleased, and smiled kindly on her. Suddenly she seemed to recollect something, and starting up, she asked Morag, in an eager tone, "Can you tell me where Glen Eagle is? it surely can't be far from here;" and before Morag had time to reply, she added, "Did you ever hear of a Mrs. Macpherson who lives near there, in a little cottage all alone?"
Morag pondered for a moment, and then, turning to Blanche, she said, "Will that no be Kirsty?"
"Yes, yes; it is Kirsty! Christian was her name. He used to say they called her Kirsty," exclaimed the sick woman, eagerly.
Kenneth had been mending a fire which he had kindled between two of the loose stones. As he got up from his knees to listen, a ray of hope flitted across his pale, anxious face.
"Oh, we know Kirsty perfectly well!" burst in Blanche, glad to be able to say something pleasant. "Morag and I go to see heralmost every day. She is such a nice old woman, and lives in such a pretty cottage!"
"Do you think you could bring her here to see me?" said the sick woman, entreatingly. "I do so want to see her once before I die."
Morag glanced doubtfully at Blanche. "It's no jist terrible far frae here til Kirsty's cottage; but she hasna been weel, and it's a lang road for her to come, I'm thinkin'. But I wouldna be long o' runnin' to see."
"God be thanked. He has granted me the desire of my heart," said the dying woman, clasping her hands. "The Lord reward you, child. Tell Christian Macpherson that her Kenneth's wife is lying dying here, and wants to see her—to come soon—soon," and she sank back, exhausted with the effort of speaking.
"We had better start at once, Morag," whispered Blanche, eagerly. "I do hope Kirsty will be able to come. It is certainly very far for her to walk. Never mind me, Morag," she added, seeing her friend look perplexed as to the best course of action. "Of course I shall be hopelessly late; but I'll tell papa all about it, and I'm sure he won't be angry. He will have come from the moors, I daresay, by the time we get home."
"I'm so thirsty; do you think you couldfind me some water? It might keep me up till she comes," said the woman, turning wearily to Morag.
And then a new difficulty arose; for the nearest spring was quite half-way to Kirsty's cottage, and Morag foresaw that there could not possibly be time before dark to fetch the supply of water, and bring Kirsty too; and Kenneth could not go, for the poor woman was evidently too ill to be left alone.
"I'll tell you what we must do," said Blanche, quickly perceiving the difficulty. "I can't go to Kirsty's, because I shouldn't know the way through the wood, you see! But I can stay with your mother," continued Blanche, turning to Kenneth, and trying hard to look as if she were making an ordinary arrangement, she added; "and you can go with Morag and fetch the water, while she goes on to the cottage."
It was certainly a great effort for Blanche to make this proposal, but she was very anxious to be brave and helpful in the midst of this sad scene, and she insisted on its being carried out, though Morag felt very doubtful as to the propriety of leaving her bonnie wee leddy all alone there. Still there seemed no help for it, so she consented at last, and was soon hurryingtowards the spring with Kenneth. They walked along the narrow path through the forest for a long time without breaking the silence. At last Kenneth said in a stammering tone, "You've been very kind to us, strangers; I'll never forget it, and I'm sure mother won't. I think she'll be all right again when she has seen grandmother. She has been fretting so about finding her."
"Is Kirsty Macpherson your grandmother?" said Morag in a surprised tone, raising her downcast eyes, and looking at Kenneth. "She never telt me about ye," she added, musingly.
They had now reached the spring, and Kenneth having quickly filled his pitcher, and looking gratefully at Morag, turned to retrace his steps in the direction of the tent.
The little girl ran on eagerly, more anxious than ever to fulfil her mission. Emerging from the forest at last, she crossed a small hillock, and came down at the back of Kirsty's cottage. She found the old woman seated at the door, knitting busily, as she watched the sunset. The amber clouds were beginning to gather round the dying sun, and Kirsty sat watching the cloudland scene with a far-away look in her tranquil gray eyes.
"Na! but is this you, my dawtie? I'mricht glad to see ye. I some thocht ye might be the nicht; but how cam' ye roun' by the back o' the hoose?" asked Kirsty, smiling as she welcomed her little friend, when she appeared round the gable of the cottage.
Instead of answering her question, Morag asked, hurriedly, "Kirsty, will ye be fit for a good bit o' a walk the nicht, think ye?"
"Weel, bairn, I wouldna min' a bittie, in this bonnie gloamin'; but I'll no say I'll gang sae fast or sae far as I ance could hae done," replied the old woman, smiling at Morag's breathless eagerness.