After the usual service was over, Blanche's interest, which had been flagging, began to revive, and she felt glad that her maid was not in attendance to take her home, as she felt curious to know what was coming next.
Presently a hymn was sung to a sad wailing tune, which suited the words. It told of thatnight on which the Son of Man endured the "eager rage of every foe;" and Blanche felt a knot rise in her throat as she listened to it and tried to join. Never before, she thought, had she felt so sorry for the Lord Jesus Christ, who was "crucified, dead, and buried," though she had heard all about it so many times. And then she suddenly remembered Morag's anxiety to know all about the "good Lord who died on the green hill," and how many questions she used to ask about Him during the first days of their acquaintance; but she never mentioned the subject now, so Blanche concluded that she could not care so much as she did before.
The words of the hymn had brought tears to Morag's eyes, too. But then she quickly remembered the joyful side of the sorrowful story, and thought of Him "who liveth, and was dead, and is alive for evermore."
While the hymn was being sung, four old men, theeldersof the kirk, walked slowly in, carrying the plates of bread and cups of wine, which they placed reverently on a white-covered table, where the minister now sat, and which Blanche supposed must be the altar she had been in search of.
The children watched with mingled curiosityand awe while the symbols were passed to all who sat at the long white tables, after the minister had given thanks and read to the congregation the Master's words which He spoke in the upper room at Jerusalem when He commanded that this Feast should be kept by His disciples till He should come again.
Perfect stillness reigned throughout the church; almost every head was bowed, and many a heart went up in silent adoring gratitude to Him who had loved them and given Himself for them.
When the elders had again reverently placed the symbols on the table in front of the pulpit, the stillness was broken by the deep, grave voice of the pastor, speaking words of exhortation to his flock, that they should be "blameless and harmless, the sons of God." A sweet psalm of thanksgiving was sung, and then, with uplifted hands, the minister prayed that the peace of God might rest on the little company; and, at last, the peasants moved away from the long white tables to scatter to their distant homes in the Glen; some of them never to meet again till they gather to the Feast above.
The children sat and watched them as they passed slowly out of the kirk, and then they, too, rose to go. Morag sought her father immediately.She gazed eagerly into his face, as if she expected him to say something; but he only pressed her hand, and turning to Kirsty, he said 'Good-bye,' and then walked away.
"Lat him gang hame his lane, bairn," whispered Kirsty, as she noticed Morag's disappointed look, and her movement to follow, when her father started to go home alone. "I'm thinkin' he'll hae better company wi' him than ony o' us wad mak' Morag, lass."
And then surveying her little flock, Kirsty said, smiling kindly, "Noo, bairns, I'se warrant ye're hun'ry eneuch. Jist ye come doun til a quaiet burnside 'at I ken fine, and we'll hae a bit o' a rest—and ye'll eat a piece I hae brocht for ye a'."
So the old woman led the way to a quiet nook behind the village, where the yellowing birk-trees drooped round a pleasant bit of greensward, hiding it from the dusty highway, while the splashings of a little burn, rolling merrily among the white stones, kept the turf smooth and green all the year through.
Here Kirsty seated herself, with her merry little party round her. From underneath her red cloak she then produced a basket containing some delicious cream-cakes, which she had baked on the previous evening for this occasion,and of which she now invited the children to partake.
Never did lunch taste so nice; and never was there such a pleasant Sunday, Blanche thought, as she sat at Kirsty's feet, eating her piece of oat-cake, and talking to her old friend.
Morag was perched on a stone, with her sunburnt feet paddling in the brown water, and Kenneth stood watching the fate of twigs, meant to personate his friends, which he occasionally tossed into the water, where presently they got among the tiny rapids of the burn, some of them being finally entangled there, while others were able to extricate themselves from their difficulties, and were borne onwards to the river.
Blanche prattled away merrily, as usual, upon a variety of topics; sometimes asking questions about the services of the day, and comparing notes with the arrangements of the church where she went in London. Morag listened with wondering eyes as the wee leddy glowingly described the beautiful, many-colored picture-windows, the pretty gilded altar, and the great organ, with its surpliced choir. The little mountain maiden had looked upon the interior of the village kirk as very beautiful; but this church, described by Blanche,must be much more so: and Morag began to think that perhaps the Lord Jesus Christ liked best to be worshipped in a fine church like that, since He was so high and holy. But, with the thought, there came a pang of disappointment, and, whenever she had an opportunity, she confided her trouble to Kirsty.
After pondering a little, the old woman slowly replied, "Weel, bairn, I'll no say but that the Maister likes a' thing that's bonnie and fair to see. A fine bigget hoose o' worship, wi' the best wark that the fingers o' man can mak', canna be onacceptable til Him. But I'm thinkin', efter a', the thing that'll please Him maist is to see ilka hert worshippin' Him in speerit and in trowth,—nae maitter whither it be intil a gran' bigget kirk, or amang the bracken upo' the hillside, as oor folk ance did, lang syne, Morag, lass."
"Oh yes, Kirsty, I know. You mean in the time of the Covenanters, don't you?" said Blanche as she broke off a branch from the bog-myrtle, and threw it into the burn, in imitation of Kenneth's amusement. "I know all about the Covenanters. By the by, I've got a book in London with some rather nice stories about them. I wish I had it here, Morag; I think you would like it. The soldierscertainly were very cruel and rough to the people they found making a church among the heather. I'm sure I could never see why," continued the little English maiden, as she went to extricate her twig from among the rapids with her umbrella; because that twig was Morag she said, and she must give her a little poke on.
"Ay, ay!" said the old woman meditatively. "They were the dark days o' oor kirk, but wha kens 'at they warna the brichtest days, efter a', i' the eyes o' Him 'at walks amang the seven golden cawnal-sticks we read o' i' the Revelations. He aye telt His kirk nae to be feared at onything it had to suffer."
"Weel, Morag, lass! so ye're thinkin' yet ye wad like to worship i' the gran' hoose in Lon'on, 'at the wee leddy tells o', better nor in oor wee kirkie?" said Kirsty, turning smilingly to the crestfallen little Morag, as she divined her thoughts. "D'ye min' far the Laist Supper was keepit—i' the upper room in Jerooslem? Weel, I'm no thinkin' there could hae been onything very braw intilt; and yet the Maister thocht it guid eneuch for sic a Feast as the warl' niver saw."
Blanche did not remember about it, soKirsty handed her the old Bible, and she read St. Luke's account of the Last Supper, finishing with the words—"And when they had sung a hymn, they went to the Mount of Olives."
"Why, Kirsty, how funny! That's just something like what we've done to-day. And I'm sure the Mount of Olives couldn't be half so nice as this burn-side; could it, Morag? I shall be sure to remember this Sunday when I go to Holy Communion, Kirsty. But that will be ever so long yet. I've got to be confirmed first, you know. Miss Prosser says it's proper to go to Holy Communion when one is about seventeen; but, oh dear! it's a long time till then. I do wish I were grown up," said Blanche, with a sigh over the slow progress of Time.
"Eh, but my dear lambie, ye maun let Him intil yer hert lang afore that time comes roun'. Will ye no listen til the Guid Shepherd's voice callin' ye the day? There's a hantle o' rough slippy bits o' life afore ye, my bonnie bairn, I'm thinkin'. Will ye no lat Him tak' ye intil His arms, and carry ye safe through them a'?" said Kirsty, as she looked fondly at the little girl.
Blanche did not reply, but sat nervouslyplucking blades of grass. Presently she jumped up, and ran to join Kenneth, who had gone to catch the old cart-horse grazing by the waterside, to yoke him in the cart again, and prepare for the homeward journey.
Then Morag gave Kirsty a shoulder to help her from her low seat on the greensward; and as she stooped to pick up the basket, she said in a low, eager tone, "Kirsty, werna ye richt glad to see father i' the kirk the day? I never thocht he was comin' tilt."
"Ay was I,—glaider than ye can ken' o', bairn," replied Kirsty, her gray eyes beaming with joy. "'Deed I'm thinkin' there maun hae been joy amang the angels themsels, the day when they saw yer father sitting at the table o' the Lord—a bran' plucked frae the burnin'. Eh, bairn, ye that's ain o' His ain lambs yersel', arna ye glaid to think that yer puir father's nae latten bide oot i' the cauld."
Morag's face flushed with joy to hear Kirsty call her a Christian, and she was going to make some reply when they heard Blanche's clear, silvery tones calling them to come—that the cart was all ready to start.
"There's that bonnie wee leddy, wi' her sweet tongue," said Kirsty, as she moved to go. "Dear lamb! may the Guid Shepherd mak'goodness and mercy to follow her a' the days o' her life. She's a winsome bit thing as I ever set eyes on. I wad like richt weel to ken that she gied her young hert to the Lord, Morag. There's a heap o' snares and dangers o' the great warl' for the like o' her. They tell me she's fat they ca' an heiress, and has heaps o' hooses and lan' in Englan' belongin' til hersel'. It wad be a richt sair maitter gin she were like the young man—him ye ken that we read o' i' the Scripter, wha turned awa frae the Lord sorrowfu'-like, because his hert was set upon his gran' possessions. She has sic a hantle o' bonnie ways aboot her, and as sweet a like natur' as ever God made. Ye maun be earnest wi' the Lord for yer wee leddy, Morag, my lass."
This was a subject about which Morag longed greatly to talk to Kirsty, though she had never yet been able to break through her shyness and reserve. She looked up eagerly in the old woman's face, and was about to reply, when Blanche pushed aside the fringing birk-trees in search of them, and they left the quiet green nook, and turned into the dusty highway.
Many a time in after years, when these autumn days lay far away in the dim haze of distance,Morag Dingwall would leave the beaten path, if she chanced to pass that way, and wander in among the whispering birk-trees and the scented bog-myrtle, to stand and gaze at this little spot of mossy-turf. Time having brought many changes for her, she would stand pensively and gaze at this still unchanged spot, where the little singing burn flowed on in its sparkling glee, heedless of the vanished voices which had once mingled in its sport. And as she stood there her thoughts would go slipping back—
"By the green bye-ways forgotten, to a stiller circle of time,Where violets faded for ever, seemed blooming as once in their prime,"
"By the green bye-ways forgotten, to a stiller circle of time,Where violets faded for ever, seemed blooming as once in their prime,"
"By the green bye-ways forgotten, to a stiller circle of time,Where violets faded for ever, seemed blooming as once in their prime,"
till her bonnie wee leddy's voice seemed again to ring out clear and silvery, and she could hear Kirsty's low, earnest tones, as she spoke of the Master she loved so well.
THE LOCH.
ACOLD north wind that smelled of winter had been sweeping through the glen for several days, making the great fir-forests creak and swing, and the ash and birk-trees down in the hollow shiver and drop their leaves at each gust. The nights had begun to draw in visibly, and the mornings felt chilly, and looked sad and grey. Everything seemed to proclaim that the pleasant autumn days at Glen Eagle were nearly done. The purple bloom had quite faded from the heather, and the hills began to look stern and bleak in the cheerless afternoon.
"Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun,The line of yellow light dies fast awayThat crown'd the eastern copse; and chill and dunFalls on the moor the brief October day."
"Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun,The line of yellow light dies fast awayThat crown'd the eastern copse; and chill and dunFalls on the moor the brief October day."
"Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun,The line of yellow light dies fast awayThat crown'd the eastern copse; and chill and dunFalls on the moor the brief October day."
To two young hearts that wintry wind and its accompaniments sounded dirge-like and sad,for it told of happy days that had passed all too soon. Blanche sighed as she remembered the dull London school-room, and the measured promenade in Kensington Park; and Morag's lip grew tremulous as she trotted by Shag's side along the familiar roads, and sighed to think how desolate they would seem without his little mistress.
The shooting party at the old castle had already begun to break up; and the day for general dispersion to warmer latitudes was fixed, when, one afternoon, Blanche and Morag stood together in the old court-yard, trying to decide what would be the very pleasantest way of spending it. They had promised to spend the last afternoon with Kirsty; and now the last but one had come, and the hours seemed so very precious that they feared to "squander one wavelet" of them.
Shag had returned to his winter quarters that morning, not without a tearful parting on the little girl's side. The little Shetlander manifested no emotion on the occasion; indeed Blanche fancied that she could detect a merry twinkle of satisfaction in his bright eye when he recognized his master, and heard his native Gaelic, and he certainly moved off with him in his readiest trot. Chance, too, had been sentsouthward along with the first detachment of servants, so the little girls were able to make their plans irrespective of their quadruped friends.
It seemed this afternoon as if the setting in of bad weather was likely to prove a false alarm after all. The bleak wind that had been sweeping through the strath ceased to blow to-day, and the bright sunshine was once again lighting up the desolate ravines, and sending its glory upon the autumnal tints down among the hollows. Never had the Glen looked more lovely, Blanche thought, as her eye wandered over the now familiar landscape. The loch lay shining in the sunlight, like a looking-glass framed in the heather; and as she looked across to it, Blanche suddenly remembered that she had promised to go there before she left to find a water lily, as a model for one of a group of wax flowers which Miss Prosser had been making during these holiday afternoons, while her pupil was rambling among the hills.
It was a satisfaction to be able to find an object for the walk, and the girls set out briskly along the winding path which led from the castle grounds to the moorland road. The drooping birk boughs were quite golden now, and the rowan berries a coral red. Blanche kept plucking them as she went cheerily along,warbling in the sunshine. Feeling very happy for the present, she did not allow the shadow of the coming separation to throw its gloom over her, as it seemed to do with the grave little Morag, who walked silently by her side. Everything looked bright and smiling, and her wee leddy appeared in one of her most joyous moods; and Morag wondered why she should feel so sad, that the surrounding brightness seemed to jar upon her, rather than chase away her sorrowful mood. And as she listened to the little birds, who took up the refrain of Blanche's warblings, and merrily chirruped odes of welcome to the returned sun, Morag was reminded of a sentiment expressed in one of Kirsty's songs. She had never understood the reason of its saying—
"Why will ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae weary, fu' o' care?"
"Why will ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae weary, fu' o' care?"
"Why will ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae weary, fu' o' care?"
and had once remarked to her old friend that "even though a body was feelin' some sad like, it wad surely do their hearts guid to hear the birdies sing sic bonnie."
But Kirsty had smiled and said, "'Deed, bairn, but ye're wrang there, I'm thinkin'. No a' the birdies' bonnic sangs, nor a' the sweet warks o' God, can pit glaidness intil broken, sorrowfu' herts. Naething can do that, I'mthinkin', excep' a sicht o' His ain face, and a soun' o' His ain voice. I've whiles thocht 'at the poet-chiel' wha made the bit sang maun hae kent fine what it was to hae a richt sorrowfu' sair hert mony a day;" and Morag thought that she was able, from to-day's experience, to catch a glimpse of the poet's meaning.
Presently Blanche caught the infectious sadness of her friend, and became quiet and meditative also. Flinging away her bunches of rowan berries, she came and put her arms round Morag's sunburnt neck, saying, gently, "You won't quite forget me, Morag, dear, when I'm far away, will you?"
A great glow of love rose in Morag's heart as she felt the soft curls about her neck and Blanche's lips on her cheek. She felt as if she could have died for her bonnie wee leddy then and there, but she only answered quietly, "I'm no thinkin' we'll forget ye that ready. Kirsty and me will be min'in' on ye ilka day. But I'm some feared whiles that ye'll no be min'in' o' the Glen when ye gang back to the gran' muckle toun ye bide in."
There was something else which Morag longed to say to Blanche that afternoon, and many times before, but she had never been able to summon up courage to speak about it. Shewished to tell her of the new feeling that had been taking possession of her heart, and which she longed to share with Blanche.
Since those first days of wonder and perplexity—which hearing the hymn in the fir-wood caused—Morag had never talked to the little English girl of those things which had been slowly sinking into her heart. Kirsty had been her Evangelist, Morag sometimes thought, as she read the "Pilgrim's Progress." It was she who had pointed out the way to the Wicket Gate when the little girl was groping blindly; and to her alone could she speak freely as yet. But now that she had come to understand what a real, living, listening Friend the Lord Jesus Christ is, though unseen by earthly eyes, she longed intensely to share this new faith and hope with her wee leddy, whom she loved so well. And since Kirsty had hinted at the many dangers which the world beyond the mountains might have in store for her now guileless friend, she longed the more to ask her to take this unseen Friend for her Saviour and Guide. But somehow the opportunity passed, and they had reached the loch before Morag could find words to say what she wanted.
Blanche did not like the sombre mood which appeared to have fallen on them both;and seemed bent on talking herself and her friend into a gayer mood by castle-building. She began to prattle about all that she meant to do next summer, of the many ambitious feats in the way of climbing which she meant to perform, and of the familiar places—written over with memories of those pleasant autumn days which they would have to revisit.
The yellow afternoon sun was shining on the rippling water of the loch, and the blue sky, with numberless white fleecy clouds, lay like heaps of snow reflected on its clear depths. On the soft mossy banks, sloping down to the loch, there grew masses of scented bog myrtle, and alder bushes, while yellow flags and rushes fringed the edge of the water. The broad dark leaves of the water-lilies rocked about in tangled masses on the loch; but Blanche looked in vain for a lily to take to Miss Prosser. At last she gave up the search, and throwing herself lazily on the sunny bank, she lay watching the circles made by the trouts in pursuit of flies hovering upon the surface of the water.
Morag meanwhile spied a wild rose-bush at some distance off, on the bank, and she clambered up to gather the brilliant scarlet berries; and Blanche presently started off again on a fresh search after the water-lily; for she wasunwilling to return from her last expedition without the flower which she had promised to find. At last she was rewarded by discovering a beautiful lily lying hidden away among the dark leaves. It seemed to be at a convenient stretching distance, so she knelt down on the moss, and put out her hand to grasp it, which she did with difficulty, for it was further off than she had thought. She was about to spring back in triumph at having captured the prize, when she felt the ground suddenly give way, and in spite of her efforts to save herself, she went slipping into the water—down, down among the roots of the floating lilies.
In her terror she gave a plunge to try to grasp some reeds growing near and to regain her footing, but she only landed herself further from the bank than before. All happened in the twinkling of an eye—so quickly that Blanche raised no cry. But now that all footing was gone, and she felt herself being fast submerged in the deep water, she shrieked with terror, and threw up her arms in wild dismay.
Morag was at the water's brink in a moment; but she only came in time to see the ripples closing over Blanche's golden crown. She stretched out her hands towards her, but saw in a moment that she had been carriedtoo far out for any such help. Morag looked round in silent despair, for she could not swim, and she had presence of mind to realise that it would be impossible otherwise to save her; but she could not let her bonnie wee leddy die all alone there, and, in an instant two little girls, instead of one, were struggling for life among the rocking lily-leaves. Morag's wild plunge brought her alongside Blanche, who, with her remaining consciousness roused, clutched her arm, but very soon both the girls were sinking, sinking, and the cruel water closing over them!
Once again Blanche's hands were thrown up, and her closing eyes looked on the calm afternoon scene—the sun-lighted grass, with the scarlet berries scattered over it, dropped by Morag in her wild plunge towards the bank—once again, and then—
But what is that rustling among the alder bushes, and these sounds of heavy breathing after a hard race?
Kenneth Macpherson stands on the grassy bank just as the long, floating curls went under the rippling water, and Blanche Clifford's last struggle for life seemed over. She had loosened her hold on Morag's arm, who now began to make convulsive efforts to find her again, asshe was drifted away. In a moment, Kenneth's arm was round Blanche, and with a few vigorous strokes he laid her on the bank—or all that remained of her, for his hasty glance gave him little hope that life was there.
Morag's consciousness partially returned as soon as he grasped her, and very soon she, too, was laid on the grass by the panting Kenneth. But the most difficult part of his work was yet to come, he thought, as he glanced at the motionless figures on the turf. Kneeling down, he began to chafe Blanche's cold hands, and vainly tried to detect some sign of life. Presently Morag got up from the turf, and stood shivering, gazing blankly round, as if she were at a loss to know what had happened. The sight of the water recalled everything with terrible vividness; she looked wildly round in search of Blanche, and saw her lying pale and motionless on the bank, her fair curls all drenched and tangled. With a cry of agony, Morag sprang to her side.
"I don't think she's dead, Morag!" whispered Kenneth, who still knelt beside her. "Do you think you are able to stay here while I go to the castle to get help? But I'm afraid you must be very wet and tired, yourself, poor Morag!"
"Oh, rin! rin to the castle! I'll easy bide wi' her! My bonnie wee leddy, speak but ae word til me!" And Morag bent eagerly over her; but the lips were silent and bloodless, and the eyes gave no sign of life. It was terrible to be so helpless to do anything, Morag thought, as she kept chafing the cold fingers, while, in a low monotone of agony, she prayed that her wee leddy might come back to life again.
Meanwhile, Kenneth flew like lightning to the castle. On the way, he met the wearied remnant of the shooting party sauntering homewards, after their last day at the moors, all unconscious of what had been going on at the loch. Their pace was quickly changed as they hurried towards the water, while servants followed with a supply of blankets and all other necessaries. Mr. Clifford hardly listened to Kenneth's incoherent words, when, flinging down his gun, he hurried towards the bank where his child lay still unconscious.
"Blanche, darling, speak to me!" he cried, lifting her in his arms. But the head fell back, and the motionless frame gave no sign of life. The dearly won trophy, the water-lily, dropped at last from the unclasping fingers, and the white arm hung listlessly down.
All restoratives were eagerly tried, and atlength the anxious group on the greensward fancied they could detect a slight quiver through the frame, and Blanche slowly returned from the borders of the far-off Land, as the last rays of the evening sun were gleaming upon the loch. The blue eyes opened wearily, and she glanced shiveringly round, evidently unconscious of where she was.
"Morag, Morag! don't let me go!" she cried, with a look of terror. "The river is so dark and cold! Do you not see the Golden City yet, Morag?"
"Hush, Blanche, darling! You must not think of the river any more. You are safe in papa's arms now!"
Gradually Blanche returned to consciousness, and remembered what had happened. After a bewildered glance at the group on the turf, and Miss Prosser seated at her side, she began to understand what had brought them all there. Presently she sat up among the blankets in which she was imbedded, and began to look eagerly round for one familiar face which she did not see. "Morag!" she whispered, looking inquiringly at her papa, and then she glanced towards the rippling water, all tinged with the gorgeous sunset hues,and there she saw floating the wreath of rowan berries which she had twined among Morag's black locks that afternoon. "Morag! where is she? Oh, surely notthere? She jumped into the loch! I remember seeing her! I remember it all now!" and Blanche clasped her hands, and looked wildly into her father's face.
Morag was, meanwhile, seated farther up on the bank, where she could catch a glimpse of her friend, though she could not be seen by her. With her usual shyness, she had fled when the castle party surrounded Blanche; and hiding behind some alder bushes, she watched with intense anxiety the movements within the circle. But when, at last, she heard her own name called by Blanche, her heart gave a great throb of joy, and in an instant she was at her wee leddy's side.
"Morag, darling! it's all right then? I never felt so happy in my life," said Blanche, clasping the little brown hands in her trembling fingers. "Oh, I was so frightened when I woke up. I couldn't see you anywhere, and felt almost afraid to ask, when I saw the rowan-wreath floating about. Oh! it was too terrible. But do tell me, how did it all happen? how did we ever get out of the water?"
"We were droonin', ye ken, leddy; but Kenneth cam' runnin' doun the bank frae the peat-moss, and took's baith oot o' the water."
"Oh yes; by the way, where has the brave fellow gone?" asked Mr. Clifford, getting up from the turf, where he had been kneeling by his daughter's side, and looking about for Kenneth.
"But Kenneth—I don't understand," said Blanche, looking perplexed. "He wasn't with us, Morag. How did he ever come here?"
It was, indeed, a strange coincidence that Kenneth Macpherson should have been within sight and hearing of the loch this afternoon. It was the first time he had been so near it since he came to Glen Eagle. He had come to a peat-moss in the vicinity to lay in Kirsty's winter supply of peats, having borrowed Neil's cart for the occasion. Early in the afternoon he noticed the little girls pass on their way to the loch, as he conjectured. He stopped his work for a moment to watch them, and wished he had been a little nearer, so that they might have spoken to him, as he heard Blanche's ringing silvery tones through the keen air. And not long afterwards, when he heard the wild shriek from the loch, he thought he recognizedthe voice, and leaving cart and peats, bounded off in the direction from which it came, reaching the spot, as we know, just in time to rescue the little girls. After his return from the castle he had hovered near the watching group till he satisfied himself that Blanche had recovered, and then he went again to work at the peat-moss.
Morag had watched him slip quietly back to his work, unheeding of thanks or praise; and from that hour he became enshrined as a hero in her little woman's heart. She longed to see the joy and pride which would be reflected in Kirsty's gray eyes when she heard of her grandson's share in the doings of this afternoon; and she felt a glow of pride when Mr. Clifford called him a brave fellow.
As soon as Blanche had recovered sufficiently, they prepared to carry her away from the scene of the catastrophe. She was looking as pale as the water-lily lying on the turf beside her. Catching a glimpse of it, she picked it up, and handed it to Miss Prosser, saying, "You see I have got it for you. Isn't it a beauty? It was the very last one I could find; I remember holding it so tight when I was in the deep water. I suppose Kenneth fished it up with me," she added, smiling, as Miss Prosser tookthe dearly-won trophy from the trembling fingers, and kissed her little pupil with more tenderness than she was wont to do.
Poor little Morag watched her bonnie wee leddy being borne away to the castle with the desolate feeling of being left out in the cold. The reaction had come after the intense experiences of these past hours. She stood watching the glad procession set out with wistful eyes, and then she moved away in the direction of her solitary home, for she felt cold and weary enough now. Her father had gone to the kennels before the shooting party heard of the accident, and he now sat at home in the hut, wondering what had become of his little daughter.
"Papa, I remember it all now!" exclaimed Blanche, who had been lying pale and meditative in her father's arms, as he carried her home. "I slipped into the water just as I got hold of the lily. Morag wasn't in sight, I remember, and I got very frightened when I felt the dark water coming all round, and carrying me quite away from the bank. I recollect hearing myself scream quite well, and then, in a minute, Morag stood on the bank, stretching out her hand; but I couldn't reach it, and only got further away than before. And just as the water was going right over me, I sawMorag jump in, and then I don't remember anything more. Dear, brave Morag! it was just like her, wasn't it, papa? I'm sure I should have been much too frightened to jump into the water. But she must be as cold and tired as I was, papa! Where are you, Morag?" asked Blanche, looking round.
"Yes, to be sure, pussy; we should have thought of that before. You have been absorbing all our attention in a such troublesome manner, you see. Where are you, little black-eyes? I saw her flitting about quite briskly a little while ago, as if the ducking in her native waters had not affected her unpleasantly. I declare, if she hasn't redeveloped her propensity for scudding, Blanchie! She's nowhere to be seen," said Mr. Clifford, glancing round the group.
Blanche was so distressed at the disappearance of her friend, that one of the servants was despatched in quest of her, and the little girl being presently recaptured, she was, in spite of her entreaties, carried off to the castle, and put under the old housekeeper's care.
She was made quite a lion of in the servants' hall that evening, though she was somewhat at a loss to understand why. She recounted, quite eloquently for her, how Kirsty's grandson had saved them both, and seemedmuch surprised when somebody commended her for her efforts to save their little mistress; for it never occurred to her that any other course would have been possible than to die with her bonnie wee leddy.
Ellis had never taken the little native to her heart, in spite of her little mistress' frequent triumphant reminders that the ragged maiden of the fir-wood had proved no dangerous gypsy after all; but to-night she was most gracious, patting the trembling little Morag condescendingly on the head, as she led the way to Blanche's room, where Morag was summoned in the course of the evening.
The little bare, weather-beaten feet trod much more uneasily on the soft carpet than among the bracken; and the friendship which had sprung up and flourished among the woods and braes did not seem likely to thrive in the atmosphere of a luxuriantly-furnished apartment. Blanche was lying on the sofa, wrapped in a blue flannel dressing-gown, looking very feeble and subdued, when Morag entered the room. She looked wistfully at her little mountain friend, but did not speak, and Miss Prosser, who was seated at her pupil's side, noted the mutual shyness, and considerately withdrew.
Beckoning to Morag to come and sit beside her, she took the little brown hand into her fluttering fingers, and said, nervously, "Morag, dear, I want so much to speak to you. Do you know, though it was only such a moment of time, I thought so much when I felt going down, down among the dark moving water all alone. And you left the pleasant, sunny turf, and came to drown with me in that dreadful water. How could you venture, Morag? It was too brave and kind!" and Blanche's lip quivered.
Morag was going to interrupt her, but she went on. "Do you remember that chapter of the Bible we were reading to Kirsty yesterday, Morag? I'm afraid I didn't care much for it at the time, and only read it to please her; but since I've been lying here, I seem to hear one verse of it always. Wasn't it Jesus Christ who said that it was the greatest love to lay down one's life for a friend? Morag, that's what you did for me. I saw you do it. Oh, Morag, when I awoke and saw the rowan-wreath floating about in the water, and you not anywhere to be seen!" and Blanche covered her face and sobbed.
All Morag's shyness seemed to vanish when she had to take the part of a comforter.The little brown arm was quietly slipped round the bent head, and she whispered gently, "Ye mustna think nothing o' my slippin' in efter ye til the water. I couldna hae bidden ahin' for onything. But ye see if it hadna been for Kenneth, none o' us would hae been gotten oot o' the loch." And after a pause she continued, "I'm no thinkin' that word frae the Bible would even mean the like o' Kenneth, though. Will it no be meanin' the Lord Jesus Christ, that died o' the green hill,—as ye're bonnie hymn speaks o'? I weel min' the day I heard it;" and then she added, with an evident effort, "and I've aye been wantin' to tell ye that I love Him richt weel mysel' noo, sin' yon day i' the fir-wood."
"And is it because you love the Lord Jesus so much that you were so brave at the loch to-day, Morag?" said Blanche, looking questioningly at her.
"I'm no thinkin' that exactly," replied Morag, slowly, as if she were pondering her motives; "I'm thinkin' it was because I looed you, little leddy, and forby, life wouldna hae seemed muckle worth gin ye had been awa."
"D'ye min' the bonnie picter oot o' the 'Pilgrim's Progress?' I was jist thinkin' to mysel', on my road hame the nicht, that ginKenneth hadna come, we would hae gotten thegither to the bonnie toon lyin' i' the sun,—like the droonin' folk i' the picter," and Morag looked at Blanche, and smiled brightly.
The little girl shook her head sadly. "You would have gone to the Golden City, Morag; but I'm afraid I shouldn't. You see I never really thought I should like to go to heaven. It seemed to me that it would be so much nicer to stay always here, in this beautiful world we know and love, than to be sent away to an unknown land. Do you know, Morag, I thought of all that to-day, as I looked at the pleasant sunny banks of the loch, just before the cruel, creeping water covered me all up. It made me feel so terrified."
There was silence for a few minutes. At last, Morag said, quietly—
"But I'm no thinkin' heaven isna a kin' o' land we dinna ken, when Jesus is there Himsel', waitin' for us. He made ilka body so happy-like when he was i' the warl'; and though we canna see Him, I'm thinkin' He's jist the same yet. When we get til the golden gates o' the City we read aboot i' the hinner en' o' the Bible, he wad jist be puttin' His han's on us, and sayin' something kin' like, and we wad be feelin' at hame. He speaksthat plain like til folk here, tho' we canna see Him. I dinna think I would be feared to gang til get a sicht o' Him."
There was a light in Morag's eye that made Blanche feel she was speaking of what she knew.
"He never speaks to me like that, Morag. I don't think He can love me at all. I'm sure He doesn't. I'm so dreadfully wicked. Besides, I'm afraid I never cared to know about Him at all; indeed, I never felt as if He were a real person."
"I thocht that ance, till Kirsty telt me different," said Morag, interrupting her. "I'm weel sure He looes you richt weel, leddy. I'm thinking He's no far frae us, jist this minute. Will ye no speak til Him yersel' in yer ain bonnie words, leddy? I'm thinkin' He would like weel to be listening til the like o' you," whispered Morag, eagerly, as she knelt by Blanche's side.
"O Morag! do you mean that I should pray in my very own words? I couldn't, indeed. Of course I say my prayers every night—one of the Collects generally."
"I dinna ken what a Collec' is," replied Morag, looking perplexed.
"Oh, well, it's a written prayer we use inchurch. If you'll bring that case of books to me, I'll show it to you."
Blanche turned the leaves of her daintily-bound Church Service, and read some of its strong, thrilling words of prayer, which rang like the music of a psalm in Morag's ear.
"That's jist terrible bonnie—a hantle bonnier than onything a body would make up themsels. I like richt weel to hear't. Would ye jist read a bit more, gin ye please?" and the little girl's face glowed with pleasure as she sat listening.
After looking meditatively into the fire for some minutes when Blanche had finished reading, she said, slowly—
"Ay, that is richt bonnie; and I'm thinkin' sic sweet words maun please Him weel. But there's jist something mak's me think He wad like a body's verra ain words best o' a'. Now, d'ye no think, gin ye was wantin' onything frae yer father, it wouldna be sic nateral like to read it oot o' a bonnie buik as jist to pit your arms roun' his neck, and plead wi' him a bittie, as I've seen you do, whiles,—and ye ken fine ye aye get the thing ye're wantin'," she added, smiling archly; and then she continued—"Weel, I'm thinkin' that maun be what He would hae us to do, frae what Hesays Himsel'. D'ye no think that yersel', leddy?" asked Morag, looking earnestly into Blanche's troubled face.
"I think I understand what you mean, Morag; but I never thought of speaking to Jesus Christ like that. Why did you not ever tell me that you did till to-night, Morag?" asked Blanche, reproachfully. "You remember you wanted so very much to know all about Him when I knew you first. Dear me, Morag, you must have found out a great deal about these things since then," added Blanche, regretfully.
"Ay have I," replied Morag, smiling brightly. "But it was frae yersel' I first heard His name. D'ye mind on't, leddy? I'm thinkin' I'll min' upon't as lang as I live—and maybe efter-hin. Kirsty was jist sayin' yestreen, she's richt sure folk dosna forget the travellin' days when they win safe hame til the Golden City."
"Oh! I remember. You mean that morning when I was gathering cones in the fir-wood, and began singing a hymn. I had been singing for a long time before I looked up and saw you. I was so astonished to see you leaning against the tree, and so glad that I had found you again," and Blanche laughed merrilyat the recollection of the scene. Presently she became grave again, and taking Morag's hand in hers, she added, in a low tone—"But, Morag, you must not think I was singing about Jesus Christ because I loved Him, or cared for the words of the hymn. I think I chose them because they seemed to suit the air I wanted to sing. I think I do care now, though. O Morag! you might speak to Jesus Christ yourself just now, and I'll try, too. Perhaps he will listen to us both. Do ask Him to teach me to be good when I go back to London. I used to be so naughty often—you've no idea. Do, please," added Blanche beseechingly, for she knew Morag's extreme shyness, and feared that her request might not be complied with.
The little mountain maiden seemed quite lifted out of her reserve. At once the dark tangled locks went down among the bright chintz cushions, and Morag spoke in low, reverent tones to the listening friend she had come to know and love during these autumn days.
Morag was still kneeling when Ellis came bustling into the room to say that the keeper had come to fetch his little daughter. Blanche looked much disappointed. The time had passed so quickly, and there was still muchshe wanted to talk about, but she had to content herself with arranging a meeting at Kirsty's cottage on the following afternoon.
"We shall have so much to tell her, shan't we? And only fancy, Morag, papa is coming, too! He says he will drive me there—that he wants to see Kenneth to thank him. Is it not funny to think that papa has never seen Kirsty? He says he is quite anxious to be introduced to her. Won't it be fun to see them together? I have been telling him all the things I want himtolook at, and what chair it will be best to sit on—it would be a pity if he took Kirsty's chair, you know. I'm only afraid he may be too tall to get in at the door. I've been telling him he'll have to stoop ever so much." And Blanche laughed merrily at the idea, as Ellis hurried Morag away, saying that her father would be impatient.
The next day was cold, and wet, and scowling. Blanche seemed very tired and feverish, and was not allowed to leave her bed, to which, indeed, she made no resistance—the loch adventure seemed so completely to have exhausted her. She dozed comfortably till evening, when her papa came to sit beside her, and she became quite lively as she listenedto his account of his visit to Kirsty's cottage, which he had paid that afternoon.
"Now, Blanchie, is there anything more you can possibly think of asking concerning this visit?" said Mr. Clifford, laughingly, as he replied to Blanche's eager questioning. "I couldn't have endured a greater fire of cross-questioning if I had come from one of Her Majesty's drawing-rooms, and you wanted a description of each toilette. Did I see a stool called 'Thrummy?' Well, I was almost precipitated into the fire-place, just as I was going to make my bow to Kirsty, by stumbling over a bundle of rags which answers to your description, so I suppose I did see the historical 'Thrummy.'" Smiling, he continued: "Then I sat down—I hope on the right chair—but you may be sure I was dreadfully afraid of making afaux pasafter all your instructions, Blanchie. I ended by having quite a long talk with your friend Kirsty, though I had considerable difficulty in understanding her dialect. She is really a very fine specimen of a peasant woman. I quite admire your taste, pussy. There is a wonderful amount of sense and pathos in her way of viewing things in general, notwithstanding that atrocious northern dialect."
"Oh, papa! don't say it's atrocious! I like to listen to it so much now. I'm sure I could never like an old woman half so well if she did not speak like Kirsty. She is the first I have ever known,—and I love her so much," added Blanche with a sigh, when she thought how soon she would be far away from theben-endof Kirsty's cottage, where she had spent some of the pleasantest hours of her life.
"Yes; she is a first-rate old woman, I allow; but she has put me in the embarrassing position of absolutely refusing to accept any reward for her grandson's brave conduct yesterday. Unfortunately, one is not much accustomed to such delicacy of feeling, so perhaps I did not manage the matter rightly. I began to see what kind of stuff she was made of, and I did try to approach the subject as carefully as possible. But she shook her fine old head resolutely, and would not hear of anything more substantial than thanks."
"Ah! that was so like Kirsty! I don't really think she would care a bit for anything you might give her; only I do think she will be well pleased that you went to see her, and said nice things about Kenneth. She does always look so glad to see Morag and me," added Blanche, smiling at the recollection of the warmreception which they never failed to receive at the little cottage.
"But did you not see Kenneth himself, papa?"
"Yes, I did. The bright idea occurred to me that the grandson might be more amenable, and before the old woman went to fetch him, I took the precaution of asking her not to lay any commands on the boy, at all events. She replied, in that wonderful voice of hers, 'Na, na; I'se houp the laddie winna need nae comman's o' mine anent sic a maitter.' So Kenneth was produced, and I thanked the brave fellow, in your name and mine. His face quite glowed with pleasure, I saw; but when I added, 'Now, Kenneth, my little daughter wants to give you something more than thanks for saving her life and her little friend's, though we know money can't pay for a brave deed like that,'—or something to that effect, his countenance fell directly, and he was quite as inexorable on that point as his old grandmother. So we must set our wits to work to manage the matter. I'll speak to Dingwall about it."
"I'm so glad Kenneth didn't want to take anything," exclaimed Blanche. "I'm sure Kirsty will be glad. She is so very anxious he should grow up a really good man. Don't hergray eyes look so pretty when she smiles, papa?"
"Now, pussy, I'm not going to join in any more raptures concerning Kirsty's eyes, or her other perfections. Good-night, darling. You are looking quite feverish again. We shall have plenty of time to talk about Kirsty when we get back to London, you know," added Mr. Clifford, as he saw that Blanche looked disappointed to close the conversation.
At last Blanche went to sleep, thinking how very nice it was to have her papa all to herself, for a whole evening; and that, after all, though it was very sad to leave Glen Eagle, it could not be dull in London when her papa was to be there, as he evidently meant to be, when he spoke of having talks about Kirsty.
THE EMPTY HUT.
IT had been arranged that the journey southward should be postponed for a few days on account of the loch accident; but the next morning was so bright and pleasant, and Blanche looked so fresh and well, that there seemed no reason for departing from the original plan, and it was hastily decided that she and her governess should start for London, travelling by easy stages.
Great was Blanche's dismay when she heard of this arrangement. She had been rejoicing over another pleasant day in the Glen, and began to think that the loch adventure had some advantages after all, seeing it was going to secure a few more days in the Highlands.
"It can't possibly be true, Ellis. You had better not go on with that packing till you get further orders," said the little girl, in a tone more imperious than she almost ever used, as she found her maid in a state of pleasurablebustle and excitement over boxes that were being quickly filled.
"Yes, missie; it's quite true, I assure you," replied her maid, without looking up from the box over which she was stooping. "Miss Prosser says it's a hexcellent arrangement, and, for my part, I agree with her 'eartily. It quite sets one up to think of gettin' back to civilized existence. There's cook quite a henvyin' of me, because I'm going three days sooner."
"I wish I were cook, I'm sure," burst in Blanche. "But, Ellis, I'm sure papa can't mean me to go to-day. He can't, indeed! I shall go and ask him this minute. You'd better stop putting in those things, Ellis," she added, impatiently.
But Ellis smiled confidently, and went on with her work, while Blanche ran away down the great staircase, feeling rather faint-hearted, however, as she thought of the possibility of Ellis's tidings being true. Below, she found everybody in a state of the most unpleasant pre-occupation. Miss Prosser was in the midst of elaborate packings, and smilingly assured her little pupil that they were really going. The carriage was to be at the door exactly at twelve o'clock, so she must make haste to be ready in time; and was it not pleasant they were goingto have such a fine day to leave Glen Eagle?—and should they not be thankful that she was well enough to travel so soon after so serious an accident?
Blanche fled from Miss Prosser, along the winding passages towards the library, in the hope of finding her papa. There was still one last resource; she would beg him to allow her to remain, even one day, longer. There he was, seated in the library, to be sure; but surrounded by such piles of letters and papers, and with his most business-like expression on his face. Several people were waiting to speak to him and there seemed no hope of Blanche gaining an audience, unless she went boldly up to him, and made her petition before them all. She lingered about for a little time, trying to summon up courage, but at last glided away without uttering a word.
Then she wandered into the entrance-hall, and stood leaning on the old stuffed fox, watching the pile of boxes and portmanteaus in the court-yard, which increased in size every minute. The servants were hurrying to and fro in a state of bustle and excitement. Evidently, to Blanche alone these signs of departure brought a pang of regret. The thought of those pleasant vanished afternoons was toomuch to be borne. She had known that she must leave the Highland glen before long: but she did not dream it would be such a cruel tearing away as this.
After wandering aimlessly about for some time, she remembered that she must see Morag before the dreaded hour arrived. She could not surely have heard that they were really going to-day, or else she would have come, and there was no sign of her anywhere. Blanche wandered round the castle, among the grove of ash-trees, and into the old garden, but she did not find her friend at any of the usual trysting-places.
At last she made up her mind what she would do. Hurrying swiftly along the birk-walk, where the drooping boughs were quite golden now, she clambered up the steep ascent which led to the little shieling among the crags.
Blanche's spirits began to rise again. It would be so pleasant to give Morag a surprise. Probably she would find her at work inside the cottage. Perhaps she would be paring potatoes, as she had been on a previous occasion, which Blanche remembered well—for had she not sat down on a little stool beside her, and, being provided with a knife, had pared awaydelightedly. She thought it the most charming of amusements; but when she was dressing for the drawing-room that evening, Ellis had looked suspiciously at the stained fingers, which resisted ordinary ablutions, and Blanche, having been obliged to divulge to what culinary uses they had been devoted that day, had been forbidden by her governess to visit Morag again. It was therefore many weeks since she had been within the hut; but she felt sure that Miss Prosser could not be angry at her going on a farewell visit like this.
The door stood open, and Blanche walked in on tiptoe, smiling to think how astonished her little friend would be to see her. She glanced eagerly round the room, but no Morag was to be seen anywhere. The peat fire was burning brightly, and the potatoes lay among water in a nice wooden dish, all ready pared. But these traces of the absent inmate only made the disappointment keener. Blanche stood looking round, with a very dreary feeling. It was so hard not to find Morag, and she had evidently not been gone for long; if she had only thought of coming earlier, it would have been all right. The dreaded hour fixed for leaving the castle must be very near now, and what if she could not be found beforethen? Blanche's heart sank as she contemplated the possibility. Before she turned to go, she cast a lingering glance round the empty dwelling, and she could not help remarking how much nicer it looked than when she saw it first.
The roof was still far from being rainproof certainly, and the earthen floor was more undulating than was quite pleasant to walk upon; but the most had been made of everything that was capable of improvement. There was a sort of imitation of Kirsty's household arrangements which was very observable to Blanche, and she smiled through her tears as she noted it. On the shelf was ranged quite an imposing row of shining delf, where there used only to stand a stray broken dish or two. Everything was spotlessly clean and neat; and, in the little window, there flourished some of the old woman's favorite flowers, of which she had given slips to Morag. All this, and more, Blanche's quick eye took in at a glance; and the thought of its being the work of a pair of little, eager hands she knew well, brought quite a glow of pleasure, in the midst of her disappointment.
Blanche stood gazing at Morag's home till it was photographed in her memory. And asshe turned away to go down the hill, she thought that surely Morag must have sought and found help from her unseen Friend for all those home duties, which it must be so difficult for a little girl no bigger than herself to have to do; and she longed to hear more about that friendship, from the little mountain maiden.
Gazing wistfully in the direction of the fir-wood, she wondered if she would have time to go to see whether Morag was to be found at their old trysting-place, the flat grey rock; but she dreaded that she would not, so she hurried tearfully towards the castle, and only reached home as the carriage drove to the door. She found Ellis setting out to look for her in a state of great indignation and perplexity, having, in the midst of the bustle, only that minute missed her charge. Some luncheon had to be swallowed in great haste; and then, while Miss Prosser was seating herself in the carriage, Blanche took the opportunity of darting off on a farewell journey round the grey old keep, where she had spent so many happy days. Only at the last minute did her papa emerge from the library to say good-bye to his little daughter. He meant to go south by a different route, and would not rejoin her in London for several weeks.
Blanche felt as if all the waves and billows of trouble had gone over her head when she accidentally heard this piece of news, as she was at last compelled to seat herself in the carriage by Miss Prosser's side. She could not make any response to her father's cheerful waving to her as they were driven swiftly away. She felt the knot in her throat getting bigger every minute as they were whirled past the pleasant birk-walk and along the winding avenue, getting occasional glimpses through the boughs of the spruce fir-trees of the old grey turrets, or the moorland beyond.
At last they got upon the high road, and drove swiftly on between the sharply outlined mountains that reared themselves high and solemn all round—like sentinels keeping eternal watch over the Glen, amid all the changes that went on below.
Miss Prosser was busied with the index to "Bradshaw," so that, fortunately, or the reverse, Blanche was left to her own reflections. She kept an eager watch, as they drove swiftly on in the forlorn hope of catching a glimpse of Morag. But the familiar spots were quickly being left behind, and there was no trace of her anywhere; and Blanche's hope died quite away when they got into the wider range ofthe strath,—away in the direction of her southern home.
If only Blanche had not buried her face for a moment among the furs as she was passing the larch plantation, which at a certain point skirted the high road, her quick eye might have discovered the person she so longed to see.
Morag stood among the larch trees, bending under a heavy bundle of faggots, which she had been gathering, and which she had just managed to strap on her back. Hearing the sound of wheels on the road, she turned to look, but was only in time to catch a glimpse of the carriage, as it passed swiftly along by the old winding dyke. Some traces of luggage were visible, and Ellis was seated on the box. Morag's heart sank. Was it possible they were leaving the Glen, to-day, after all? And she had been going cheerily on with her work that morning, in the hope of another afternoon with Blanche. For had not Ellis told her, when she went to inquire at the castle the day before, that the southward journey had been postponed for several days. Only a short time ago she had been smiling as she gathered her fire-wood, thinking how pleased Kirsty would look when the wee leddy walked into the cottagethat afternoon. But now, the more she thought of it, the more sure she felt that those cruel, swift wheels were carrying her away beyond their reach, to a land that seemed terrible and unknown indeed to the little mountain maiden.
She ran to the edge of the wood, and climbing on the lichen-spotted dyke, she gazed wistfully along the winding road, where the shining carriage was rolling swiftly along. And after she had watched it till it could be seen no longer, the little girl sat down and wept bitterly. Her bonnie wee leddy had gone without one parting word. Surely she must have utterly forgotten her, or else she could not have acted thus. Gladly would she have walked miles across pathless hills to touch her wee leddy's hand, and now she had gone without ever sending to ask her to come. And, as she sat weeping on the old grey dyke, the friendship of these autumn days seemed to grow dreamlike all of a sudden. Had she ever really walked by Shag's side with the little lady of the castle among the moors, or sat with her in theben-endof Kirsty Macpherson's cottage?—or, had she been in fairyland all these weeks? The past seemed to grow so shadowy; and the bundle of dead sticks was so real and heavy, asshe wearily rose, at last, to take her solitary way to the hut among the crags.
She had only gone a few steps in the direction of home, when she saw coming towards her through the larch trees Kenneth Macpherson.
"Who would have thought of meeting you here, Morag?" he cheerily accosted her. "And with such a heavy bundle of sticks, too. Let me carry it for you—do! Why it's bigger than yourself!" he added, with a pleasant smile, as he unfastened it and threw it across his own broad shoulders.
"You're going home, I suppose, Morag; ar'nt you?" he asked as he walked by her side. "I didn't know you ever came here. I often do. I can hardly ever pass the place without crossing the dyke. You mind the tartan folds, Morag?" said the boy, smiling sadly, as he glanced at the lonely spot from whence his mother's soul had gone home to God.
"Ay do I! I mind upon't weel," replied Morag, with quivering lip. The remembrance brought such a rush of mingled recollections that she could not say more just then.
"Oh, by the by, Morag, I wish I had known a few minutes ago that you were tobe found here. I saw somebody who was very anxious to get a sight of you. Who do you think? The bonnie wee leddy, as you call her, on her way back to London!"
Morag stood still to listen, and as she looked earnestly into Kenneth's face, he noticed that she had been crying. "I never kent she was awa till I got a blink o' the cairage no lang syne. She never telt me she was goin' the day," and the little girl struggled vainly to keep back the tears.
"But I'm sure it wasn't her fault that you did not know she was leaving the Glen to-day, Morag. She seemed very sorry-like herself, and sent a message to you. When she noticed me on the road she jumped up from among a lot of furs, and stopped the carriage. The lady beside her was reading a book, and she looked up some angry like, and said something sharp. I think the wee leddy wanted to get out of the carriage to come and speak to me, but she wouldn't let her. Then she stretched her hand down and smiled very pleasantly, though I think she had been crying, too," added the kind-hearted Kenneth rather pathetically, as he glanced at Morag. "Then she began to thank me for what I did at the loch. I'm sure it wasn't anything to thank a bodyso much for. Such a pretty voice she has. It just sounded like the chimes of silver bells, Morag. And after she had thanked me, she stooped down quite low, and whispered as if she were afraid that the lady would hear, 'Oh, Kenneth, do you think you could find Morag anywhere? I'm sure she can't know I've gone, or else she would surely have come to see me.' But just then the lady rose very angry like, and said, sharply, 'Come now, Blanche, I cannot permit this. Drive on, Lucas!' she called out to the coachman; and then she sat down to her book again. The wee lady seemed very vexed, and when the horses started, she stretched down once again, and her curls came falling about her face and she cried, 'Give Morag my dearest love!'"
When Kenneth had finished his narration, Morag began to sob again, and he felt greatly at a loss to know how to comfort her. But they were tears of joy now. The feeling of bitterness was all gone. Her bonnie wee leddy had not forgotten her, and the friendship of those autumn days was no bit of fairyland after all.
Kenneth did not leave her till the bundle of firewood was deposited in the hut, andMorag had promised to come and pay them a visit at the cottage that afternoon.
And as he went sauntering down the hill with his hands in his pockets, whistling a tune, he thought what a very nice girl Morag was; and how glad he felt that it was not she who had gone away from the Glen. And he further decided that such a great bundle of sticks was much too heavy for a girl to carry, and resolved that, in future, he should always be in attendance to carry home the firewood.
As Morag re-entered the cottage, and glanced round the empty room, she saw something lying on the earthen floor which she had not dropped there; and stooping down, she picked up a little, half-worn glove, which told a tale. She looked eagerly round, as if some lingering presence of its owner must still pervade. Her bonnie wee leddy was leal and true after all, and she felt remorseful that she had doubted her for a moment. Kissing the token reverently, she opened the oldkist, and slipped it between the folds of her most precious book, where it remained a sacred relic of that morning's visitor for many a long year.