RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD

By

George MacDonald

1871

CONTENTS

Chap. 

I. INTRODUCTORY

II. THE GLIMMER OF TWILIGHT

III. MY FATHER

IV. KIRSTY

V. I BEGIN LIFE

VI. NO FATHER

VII. MRS. MITCHELL IS DEFEATED

VIII. A NEW SCHOOLMISTRESS

IX. WE LEARN OTHER THINGS

X. SIR WORM WYMBLE

XI. THE KELPIE

XII. ANOTHER KELPIE

XIII. WANDERING WILLIE

XIV. ELSIE DUFF

XV. A NEW COMPANION

XVI. I GO DOWN HILL

XVII. THE TROUBLE GROWS

XVIII. LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS

XIX. FORGIVENESS

XX. I HAVE A FALL AND A DREAM

XXI. THE BEES' NEST

XXII. VAIN INTERCESSION

XXIII. KNIGHT-ERRANTRY

XXIV. FAILURE

XXV. TURKEY PLOTS

XXVI. OLD JOHN JAMIESON

XXVII. TURKEY'S TRICK

XXVIII. I SCHEME TOO

XXIX. A DOUBLE EXPOSURE

XXX. TRIBULATION

XXXI. A WINTER'S RIDE

XXXII. THE PEAT-STACK

XXXIII. A SOLITARY CHAPTER

XXXIV. AN EVENING VISIT

XXXV. A BREAK IN MY STORY

XXXVI. I LEARN THAT I AM NOT A MAN

COLOURED PLATES

THE BILBERRY PICKERS

THE BABY BROTHER

THE DRESSING OF LITTLE DAVIE

MY ESCAPE

TURKEY LIGHTS A FIRE

I GO INTO THE FIELDS

MAKING THE SNOWBALL

READING TO ELSIE AND TURKEY

A SUDDEN STOP

HELPING ELSIE

A READING LESSON

I RETURN HOME

_Coloured Illustrations by A. V. Wheelhouse: and Other 36Black-and-White Illustrations by Arthur Hughes_. 

CHAPTER I

Introductory

I do not intend to carry my story one month beyond the hour when I sawthat my boyhood was gone and my youth arrived; a period determined tosome by the first tail-coat, to me by a different sign. My reason forwishing to tell this first portion of my history is, that when I lookback upon it, it seems to me not only so pleasant, but so full ofmeaning, that, if I can only tell it right, it must prove ratherpleasant and not quite unmeaning to those who will read it. It willprove a very poor story to such as care only for stirring adventures, and like them all the better for a pretty strong infusion of theimpossible; but those to whom their own history is interesting--towhom, young as they may be, it is a pleasant thing to be in theworld--will not, I think, find the experience of a boy born in a verydifferent position from that of most of them, yet as much a boy as anyof them, wearisome because ordinary. 

If I did not mention that I, Ranald Bannerman, am a Scotchman, Ishould be found out before long by the kind of thing I have to tell;for although England and Scotland are in all essentials one, there aresuch differences between them that one could tell at once, on openinghis eyes, if he had been carried out of the one into the other duringthe night. I do not mean he might not be puzzled, but except there wasan intention to puzzle him by a skilful selection of place, the veryair, the very colours would tell him; or if he kept his eyes shut, hisears would tell him without his eyes. But I will not offend fastidiousears with any syllable of my rougher tongue. I will tell my story inEnglish, and neither part of the country will like it the worse forthat. 

I will clear the way for it by mentioning that my father was theclergyman of a country parish in the north of Scotland--a humbleposition, involving plain living and plain ways altogether. There wasa glebe or church-farm attached to the manse or clergyman's house, andmy father rented a small farm besides, for he needed all he could makeby farming to supplement the smallness of the living. My mother was aninvalid as far back as I can remember. We were four boys, and had nosister. But I must begin at the beginning, that is, as far back as itis possible for me to begin. 

CHAPTER II

The Glimmer of Twilight

I cannot tell any better than most of my readers how and when I beganto come awake, or what it was that wakened me. I mean, I cannotremember when I began to remember, or what first got set down in mymemory as worth remembering. Sometimes I fancy it must have been atremendous flood that first made me wonder, and so made me begin toremember. At all events, I do remember one flood that seems about asfar off as anything--the rain pouring so thick that I put out my handin front of me to try whether I could see it through the veil of thefalling water. The river, which in general was to be seen only inglimpses from the house--for it ran at the bottom of a hollow--wasoutspread like a sea in front, and stretched away far on eitherhand. It was a little stream, but it fills so much of my memory withits regular recurrence of autumnal floods, that I can have noconfidence that one of these is in reality the oldest thing Iremember. Indeed, I have a suspicion that my oldest memories are ofdreams, --where or when dreamed, the good One who made me only knows. They are very vague to me now, but were almost all made up of brightthings. One only I can recall, and it I will relate, or more properlydescribe, for there was hardly anything done in it. I dreamed itoften. It was of the room I slept in, only it was narrower in thedream, and loftier, and the window was gone. But the ceiling was aceiling indeed; for the sun, moon, and stars lived there. The sun wasnot a scientific sun at all, but one such as you see in pennypicture-books--a round, jolly, jocund man's face, with flashes ofyellow frilling it all about, just what a grand sunflower would lookif you set a countenance where the black seeds are. And the moon wasjust such a one as you may see the cow jumping over in the picturednursery rhyme. She was a crescent, of course, that she might have aface drawn in the hollow, and turned towards the sun, who seemed to beher husband. He looked merrily at her, and she looked trustfully athim, and I knew that they got on very well together. The stars weretheir children, of course, and they seemed to run about the ceilingjust as they pleased; but the sun and the moon had regularmotions--rose and set at the proper times, for they were steady oldfolks. I do not, however, remember ever seeing them rise or set; theywere always up and near the centre before the dream dawned on me. Itwould always come in one way: I thought I awoke in the middle of thenight, and lo! there was the room with the sun and the moon and thestars at their pranks and revels in the ceiling--Mr. Sun nodding andsmiling across the intervening space to Mrs. Moon, and she noddingback to him with a knowing look, and the corners of her mouth drawndown. I have vague memories of having heard them talk. At times I feelas if I could yet recall something of what they said, but it vanishesthe moment I try to catch it. It was very queer talk, indeed--aboutme, I fancied--but a thread of strong sense ran through it all. Whenthe dream had been very vivid, I would sometimes think of it in themiddle of the next day, and look up to the sun, saying to myself: He'sup there now, busy enough. I wonder what he is seeing to talk to hiswife about when he comes down at night? I think it sometimes made me alittle more careful of my conduct. When the sun set, I thought he wasgoing in the back way; and when the moon rose, I thought she was goingout for a little stroll until I should go to sleep, when they mightcome and talk about me again. It was odd that, although I neverfancied it of the sun, I thought I could make the moon follow me as Ipleased. I remember once my eldest brother giving me great offence bybursting into laughter, when I offered, in all seriousness, to bringher to the other side of the house where they wanted light to go onwith something they were about. But I must return to my dream; for themost remarkable thing in it I have not yet told you. In one corner ofthe ceiling there was a hole, and through that hole came down a ladderof sun-rays--very bright and lovely. Where it came from I neverthought, but of course it could not come from the sun, because therehe was, with his bright coat off, playing the father of his family inthe most homely Old-English-gentleman fashion possible. That it was aladder of rays there could, however, be no doubt: if only I couldclimb upon it! I often tried, but fast as I lifted my feet to climb, down they came again upon the boards of the floor. At length I didsucceed, but this time the dream had a setting. 

[Illustration]

I have said that we were four boys; but at this time we werefive--there was a little baby. He was very ill, however, and I knew hewas not expected to live. I remember looking out of my bed one nightand seeing my mother bending over him in her lap;--it is one of thefew things in which I do remember my mother. I fell asleep, but by andby woke and looked out again. No one was there. Not only were motherand baby gone, but the cradle was gone too. I knew that my littlebrother was dead. I did not cry: I was too young and ignorant to cryabout it. I went to sleep again, and seemed to wake once more; but itwas into my dream this time. There were the sun and the moon and thestars. But the sun and the moon had got close together and weretalking very earnestly, and all the stars had gathered round them. Icould not hear a word they said, but I concluded that they weretalking about my little brother. "I suppose I ought to be sorry, " Isaid to myself; and I tried hard, but I could not feel sorry. MeantimeI observed a curious motion in the heavenly host. They kept looking atme, and then at the corner where the ladder stood, and talking on, forI saw their lips moving very fast; and I thought by the motion of themthat they were saying something about the ladder. I got out of bed andwent to it. If I could only get up it! I would try once more. To mydelight I found it would bear me. I climbed and climbed, and the sunand the moon and the stars looked more and more pleased as I got upnearer to them, till at last the sun's face was in a broad smile. Butthey did not move from their places, and my head rose above them, andgot out at the hole where the ladder came in. What I saw there, Icannot tell. I only know that a wind such as had never blown upon mein my waking hours, blew upon me now. I did not care much for kissesthen, for I had not learned how good they are; but somehow I fanciedafterwards that the wind was made of my baby brother's kisses, and Ibegan to love the little man who had lived only long enough to be ourbrother and get up above the sun and the moon and the stars by theladder of sun-rays. But this, I say, I thought afterwards. Now allthat I can remember of my dream is that I began to weep for verydelight of something I have forgotten, and that I fell down the ladderinto the room again and awoke, as one always does with a fall in adream. Sun, moon, and stars were gone; the ladder of light hadvanished; and I lay sobbing on my pillow. 

I have taken up a great deal of room with this story of a dream, butit clung to me, and would often return. And then the time of life towhich this chapter refers is all so like one, that a dream comes inwell enough in it. There is a twilight of the mind, when all thingsare strange, and when the memory is only beginning to know that it hasgot a notebook, and must put things down in it. 

It was not long after this before my mother died, and I was sorrierfor my father than for myself--he looked so sad. I have said that asfar back as I can remember, she was an invalid. Hence she was unableto be much with us. She is very beautiful in my memory, but during thelast months of her life we seldom saw her, and the desire to keep thehouse quiet for her sake must have been the beginning of that freedomwhich we enjoyed during the whole of our boyhood. So we were out everyday and all day long, finding our meals when we pleased, and that, asI shall explain, without going home for them. I remember her deathclearly, but I will not dwell upon that. It is too sad to write muchabout, though she was happy, and the least troubled of us all. Hersole concern was at leaving her husband and children. But the will ofGod was a better thing to her than to live with them. My sorrow atleast was soon over, for God makes children so that grief cannotcleave to them. They must not begin life with a burden of loss. Heknows it is only for a time. When I see my mother again, she will notreproach me that my tears were so soon dried. "Little one, " I think Ihear her saying, "how could you go on crying for your poor mother whenGod was mothering you all the time, and breathing life into you, andmaking the world a blessed place for you? You will tell me all aboutit some day. " Yes, and we shall tell our mothers--shall we not?--howsorry we are that we ever gave them any trouble. Sometimes we werevery naughty, and sometimes we did not know better. My mother was verygood, but I cannot remember a single one of the many kisses she musthave given me. I remember her holding my head to her bosom when shewas dying--that is all. 

CHAPTER III

My Father

My father was a tall, staid, solemn man, who walked slowly with longstrides. He spoke very little, and generally looked as if he werepondering next Sunday's sermon. His head was grey, and a little bent, as if he were gathering truth from the ground. Once I came upon him inthe garden, standing with his face up to heaven, and I thought he wasseeing something in the clouds; but when I came nearer, I saw that hiseyes were closed, and it made me feel very solemn. I crept away as ifI had been peeping where I ought not. He did not talk much to us. Whathe said was very gentle, and it seemed to me it was his solemnity thatmade him gentle. I have seen him look very angry. He used to walk muchabout his fields, especially of a summer morning before the sun wasup. This was after my mother's death. I presume he felt nearer to herin the fields than in the house. There was a kind of grandeur abouthim, I am sure; for I never saw one of his parishioners salute him inthe road, without a look of my father himself passing like a solemncloud over the face of the man or woman. For us, we feared and lovedhim both at once. I do not remember ever being punished by him, butKirsty (of whom I shall have to speak by and by) has told me that hedid punish us when we were very small children. Neither did he teachus much himself, except on the occasions I am about to mention; and Icannot say that I learned much from his sermons. These gave entiresatisfaction to those of his parishioners whom I happened to hearspeak of them; but, although I loved the sound of his voice, and likedto look at his face as he stood up there in the ancient pulpit clad inhis gown and bands, I never cared much about what he said. Of courseit was all right, and a better sermon than any other clergymanwhatever could have preached, but what it was all about was of noconsequence to me. I may as well confess at once that I never had theleast doubt that my father was the best man in the world. Nay, to thisvery hour I am of the same opinion, notwithstanding that the son ofthe village tailor once gave me a tremendous thrashing for saying so, on the ground that I was altogether wrong, seeing _his_ father was thebest man in the world--at least I have learned to modify the assertiononly to this extent--that my father was the best man I have everknown. 

The church was a very old one--had seen candles burning, heard thelittle bell ringing, and smelt the incense of the old Catholicservice. It was so old, that it seemed settling down again into theearth, especially on one side, where great buttresses had been builtto keep it up. It leaned against them like a weary old thing thatwanted to go to sleep. It had a short square tower, like so many ofthe churches in England; and although there was but one old crackedbell in it, although there was no organ to give out its glorioussounds, although there was neither chanting nor responses, I assure myEnglish readers that the awe and reverence which fell upon me as Icrossed its worn threshold were nowise inferior, as far as I canjudge, to the awe and respect they feel when they enter the morebeautiful churches of their country. There was a hush in it whichdemanded a refraining of the foot, a treading softly as upon holyground; and the church was inseparably associated with my father. 

The pew we sat in was a square one, with a table in the middle of itfor our books. My brother David generally used it for laying his headupon, that he might go to sleep comfortably. My brother Tom put hisfeet on the cross-bar of it, leaned back in his corner--for you see wehad a corner apiece--put his hands in his trousers pockets, and staredhard at my father--for Tom's corner was well in front of the pulpit. My brother Allister, whose back was to the pulpit, used to learn the_paraphrases_ all the time of the sermon. I, happiest of all in myposition, could look up at my father, if I pleased, a little sideways;or, if I preferred, which I confess I often did, study--a rare sightin Scotch churches--the figure of an armed knight, carved in stone, which lay on the top of the tomb of Sir Worm Wymble--at least that isthe nearest I can come to the spelling of the name they gave him. Thetomb was close by the side of the pew, with only a flagged passagebetween. It stood in a hollow in the wall, and the knight lay underthe arch of the recess, so silent, so patient, with folded palms, asif praying for some help which he could not name. From the presence ofthis labour of the sculptor came a certain element into the feeling ofthe place, which it could not otherwise have possessed: organ andchant were not altogether needful while that carved knight lay therewith face upturned, as if looking to heaven. 

[Illustration]

But from gazing at the knight I began to regard the wall about him, and the arch over him; and from the arch my eye would seek the roof, and descending, rest on the pillars, or wander about the windows, searching the building of the place, discovering the points of itsstrength, and how it was upheld. So that while my father was talkingof the church as a company of believers, and describing how it washeld together by faith, I was trying to understand how the stone andlime of the old place was kept from falling asunder, and thusbeginning to follow what has become my profession since; for I am anarchitect. 

But the church has led me away from my father. He always spoke inrather a low voice, but so earnestly that every eye, as it seemed tome, but mine and those of two of my brothers, was fixed upon him. Ithink, however, that it was in part the fault of certain teaching ofhis own, better fitted for our understanding, that we paid so littleheed. Even Tom, with all his staring, knew as little about the sermonas any of us. But my father did not question us much concerning it; hedid what was far better. On Sunday afternoons, in the warm, peacefulsunlight of summer, with the honeysuckle filling the air of the littlearbour in which we sat, and his one glass of wine set on the table inthe middle, he would sit for an hour talking away to us in his gentle, slow, deep voice, telling us story after story out of the NewTestament, and explaining them in a way I have seldom heard equalled. Or, in the cold winter nights, he would come into the room where I andmy two younger brothers slept--the nursery it was--and, sitting downwith Tom by his side before the fire that burned bright in the frostyair, would open the great family Bible on the table, turn his facetowards the two beds where we three lay wide awake, and tell us storyafter story out of the Old Testament, sometimes reading a few verses, sometimes turning the bare facts into an expanded and illustratednarrative of his own, which, in Shakspere fashion, he presented afterthe modes and ways of our own country and time. I shall never forgetJoseph in Egypt hearing the pattering of the asses' hoofs in thestreet, and throwing up the window, and looking out, and seeing allhis own brothers coming riding towards him; or the grand rush of thesea waves over the bewildered hosts of the Egyptians. We lay andlistened with all the more enjoyment, that while the fire was burningso brightly, and the presence of my father filling the room withsafety and peace, the wind was howling outside, and the snow driftingup against the window. Sometimes I passed into the land of sleep withhis voice in my ears and his love in my heart; perhaps into the landof visions--once certainly into a dream of the sun and moon and starsmaking obeisance to the too-favoured son of Jacob. 

CHAPTER IV

Kirsty

My father had a housekeeper, a trusty woman, he considered her. Wethought her _very_ old. I suppose she was about forty. She was notpleasant, for she was grim-faced and censorious, with a very straightback, and a very long upper lip. Indeed the distance from her nose toher mouth was greater than the length of her nose. When I think of herfirst, it is always as making some complaint to my father againstus. Perhaps she meant to speak the truth, or rather, perhaps took itfor granted that she always did speak the truth; but certainly shewould exaggerate things, and give them quite another look. The bonesof her story might be true, but she would put a skin over it after herown fashion, which was not one of mildness and charity. Theconsequence was that the older we grew, the more our minds werealienated from her, and the more we came to regard her as our enemy. If she really meant to be our friend after the best fashion she knew, it was at least an uncomely kind of friendship, that showed itself inconstant opposition, fault-finding, and complaint. The real mistakewas that we were boys. There was something in her altogetherantagonistic to the boy-nature. You would have thought that to be aboy was in her eyes to be something wrong to begin with; that boysought never to have been made; that they must always, by their verynature, be about something amiss. I have occasionally wondered how shewould have behaved to a girl. On reflection, I think a little better;but the girl would have been worse off, because she could not haveescaped from her as we did. My father would hear her complaints to theend without putting in a word, except it were to ask her a question, and when she had finished, would turn again to his book or his sermon, saying--

"Very well, Mrs. Mitchell; I will speak to them about it. "

My impression is that he did not believe the half she told him. At allevents, when he had sent for us, he would ask our version of theaffair, and listen to that as he had listened to hers. Then he wouldset forth to us where we had been wrong, if we were wrong, and send usaway with an injunction not to provoke Mrs. Mitchell, who couldn'thelp being short in her temper, poor thing! Somehow or other we got itinto our heads that the shortness of her temper was mysteriouslyassociated with the shortness of her nose. 

She was saving even to stinginess. She would do her best to providewhat my father liked, but for us she thought almost anything goodenough. She would, for instance, give us the thinnest of milk--we saidshe skimmed it three times before she thought it blue enough for us. My two younger brothers did not mind it so much as I did, for I wasalways rather delicate, and if I took a dislike to anything, wouldrather go without than eat or drink of it. But I have told you enoughabout her to make it plain that she could be no favourite with us; andenough likewise to serve as a background to my description of Kirsty. 

Kirsty was a Highland woman who had the charge of the house in whichthe farm servants lived. She was a cheerful, gracious, kind woman--awoman of God's making, one would say, were it not that, howevermysterious it may look, we cannot deny that he made Mrs. Mitchell too. It is very puzzling, I confess. I remember once that my youngestbrother Davie, a very little fellow then, for he could not speakplainly, came running in great distress to Kirsty, crying, "Fee, fee!"by which he meant to indicate that a flea was rendering his lifemiserable. Kirsty at once undressed him and entered on the pursuit. After a successful search, while she was putting on his garmentsagain, little Davie, who had been looking very solemn and thoughtfulfor some time, said, not in a questioning, but in a concluding tone--

"God didn't make the fees, Kirsty!"

"Oh yes, Davie! God made everything. God did make the fleas, " saidKirsty. 

Davie was silent for a while. Then he opened his mouth and spake likea discontented prophet of old:

"Why doesn't he give them something else to eat, then?"

"You must ask himself that, " said Kirsty, with a wisdom I have sincelearned to comprehend, though I remember it shocked me a little at thetime. 

All this set me thinking. Before the dressing of little Davie wasover, I had _my_ question to put to Kirsty. It was, in fact, the samequestion, only with a more important object in the eye of it. 

"_Then_ I suppose God made Mrs. Mitchell, as well as you and the restof us, Kirsty?" I said. 

"Certainly, Ranald, " returned Kirsty. 

"Well, I wish he hadn't, " was my remark, in which I only imitated mybaby brother, who was always much cleverer than I. 

"Oh! she's not a bad sort, " said Kirsty; "though I must say, if I washer, I would try to be a little more agreeable. "

To return to Kirsty: she was our constant resort. The farmhouse was afurlong or so from the manse, but with the blood pouring from a cutfinger, the feet would of themselves devour that furlong rather thanapply to Mrs. Mitchell. Oh! she was dear, and good, and kind, ourKirsty!

In person she was short and slender, with keen blue eyes and darkhair; an uncommonly small foot, which she claimed for all Highlandfolk; a light step, a sweet voice, and a most bounteous hand--butthere I come into the moral nature of her, for it is the mind thatmakes the hand bountiful. For her face, I think that was rather queer, but in truth I can hardly tell, so entirely was it the sign of good tome and my brothers; in short, I loved her so much that I do not knownow, even as I did not care then, whether she was nice-looking or not. She was quite as old as Mrs. Mitchell, but we never thought of _her_being old. She was our refuge in all time of trouble and necessity. Itwas she who gave us something to eat as often and as much as wewanted. She used to say it was no cheating of the minister to feedthe minister's boys. 

And then her stories! There was nothing like them in all thatcountryside. It was rather a dreary country in outward aspect, havingmany bleak moorland hills, that lay about like slow-stiffened waves, of no great height but of much desolation; and as far as theimagination was concerned, it would seem that the minds of formergenerations had been as bleak as the country, they had left such smallstore of legends of any sort. But Kirsty had come from a region wherethe hills were hills indeed--hills with mighty skeletons of stoneinside them; hills that looked as if they had been heaped over hugemonsters which were ever trying to get up--a country where everycliff, and rock, and well had its story--and Kirsty's head was full ofsuch. It was delight indeed to sit by her fire and listen to them. That would be after the men had had their supper, early of a winternight, and had gone, two of them to the village, and the other toattend to the horses. Then we and the herd, as we called the boy whoattended to the cattle, whose work was over for the night, would sitby the fire, and Kirsty would tell us stories, and we were in ourheaven. 

CHAPTER V

I Begin Life

I began life, and that after no pleasant fashion, as near as I canguess, about the age of six years. One glorious morning in earlysummer I found myself led by the ungentle hand of Mrs. Mitchelltowards a little school on the outside of the village, kept by an oldwoman called Mrs. Shand. In an English village I think she would havebeen called Dame Shand: we called her Luckie Shand. Half dragged alongthe road by Mrs. Mitchell, from whose rough grasp I attempted in vainto extricate my hand, I looked around at the shining fields and up atthe blue sky, where a lark was singing as if he had just found outthat he could sing, with something like the despair of a man going tothe gallows and bidding farewell to the world. We had to cross alittle stream, and when we reached the middle of the foot-bridge, Itugged yet again at my imprisoned hand, with a half-formed intentionof throwing myself into the brook. But my efforts were stillunavailing. Over a half-mile or so, rendered weary by unwillingness, I was led to the cottage door--no such cottage as some of my readerswill picture, with roses and honeysuckle hiding its walls, but adreary little house with nothing green to cover the brown stones ofwhich it was built, and having an open ditch in front of it with astone slab over it for a bridge. Did I say there was nothing on thewalls? This morning there was the loveliest sunshine, and that I wasgoing to leave behind. It was very bitter, especially as I hadexpected to go with my elder brother to spend the day at aneighbouring farm. 

Mrs. Mitchell opened the door, and led me in. It was an awfulexperience. Dame Shand stood at her table ironing. She was as tall asMrs. Mitchell, and that was enough to prejudice me against her atonce. She wore a close-fitting widow's cap, with a black ribbon roundit. Her hair was grey, and her face was as grey as her hair, and herskin was gathered in wrinkles about her mouth, where they twitched andtwitched, as if she were constantly meditating something unpleasant. She looked up inquiringly. 

"I've brought you a new scholar, " said Mrs. Mitchell. 

"Well. Very well, " said the dame, in a dubious tone. "I hope he's agood boy, for he must be good if he comes here. "

"Well, he's just middling. His father spares the rod, Mrs. Shand, andwe know what comes of that. "

They went on with their talk, which, as far as I can recall it, wascomplimentary to none but the two women themselves. Meantime I wasmaking what observations my terror would allow. About a dozen childrenwere seated on forms along the walls, looking over the tops of theirspelling-books at the newcomer. In the farther corner two were kickingat each other as opportunity offered, looking very angry, but notdaring to cry. My next discovery was terribly disconcerting. Somemovement drew my eyes to the floor; there I saw a boy of my own age onall-fours, fastened by a string to a leg of the table at which thedame was ironing, while--horrible to relate!--a dog, not very big butvery ugly, and big enough to be frightened at, lay under the tablewatching him. I gazed in utter dismay. 

"Ah, you may look!" said the dame. "If you're not a good boy, that ishow you shall be served. The dog shall have you to look after. "

I trembled, and was speechless. After some further confabulation, Mrs. Mitchell took her leave, saying--

"I'll come back for him at one o'clock, and if I don't come, just keephim till I do come. "

The dame accompanied her to the door, and then I discovered that shewas lame, and hobbled very much. A resolution arose full-formed in mybrain. 

I sat down on the form near the door, and kept very quiet. Had it notbeen for the intention I cherished, I am sure I should have cried. When the dame returned, she resumed her box-iron, in which the heaterwent rattling about, as, standing on one leg--the other was so muchshorter--she moved it to and fro over the garment on the table. Thenshe called me to her by name in a would-be pompous manner. I obeyed, trembling. 

"Can you say your letters?" she asked. 

Now, although I could not read, I could repeat the alphabet; how I hadlearned it I do not know. I did repeat it. 

"How many questions of your catechism can you say?" she asked next. 

Not knowing with certainty what she meant, I was silent. 

"No sulking!" said the dame; and opening a drawer in the table, shetook out a catechism. Turning back the cover she put it in my hand, and told me to learn the first question. She had not even inquiredwhether I could read. I took the catechism, and stood as before. 

"Go to your seat, " she said. 

I obeyed, and with the book before me pondered my plan. 

Everything depended on whether I could open the door before she couldreach me. Once out of the house, I was sure of running faster than shecould follow. And soon I had my first experience of how those arehelped who will help themselves. 

The ironing of course required a fire to make the irons hot, and asthe morning went on, the sunshine on the walls, conspiring with thefire on the hearth, made the place too hot for the comfort of the olddame. She went and set the door wide open. I was instantly on thealert, watching for an opportunity. One soon occurred. 

A class of some five or six was reading, if reading it could becalled, out of the Bible. At length it came to the turn of one whoblundered dreadfully. It was the same boy who had been tied under thetable, but he had been released for his lesson. The dame hobbled tohim, and found he had his book upside down; whereupon she turned inwrath to the table, and took from the drawer a long leather strap, with which she proceeded to chastise him. As his first cry reached myears I was halfway to the door. On the threshold I stumbled and fell. 

"The new boy's running away!" shrieked some little sycophant inside. 

I heard with horror, but I was up and off in a moment. I had not, however, got many yards from the cottage before I heard the voice ofthe dame screaming after me to return. I took no heed--only sped thefaster. But what was my horror to find her command enforced by thepursuing bark of her prime minister. This paralysed me. I turned, andthere was the fiendish-looking dog close on my heels. I could run nolonger. For one moment I felt as if I should sink to the earth forsheer terror. The next moment a wholesome rage sent the blood to mybrain. From abject cowardice to wild attack--I cannot call itcourage--was the change of an instant. I rushed towards the littlewretch. I did not know how to fight him, but in desperation I threwmyself upon him, and dug my nails into him. They had fortunately foundtheir way to his eyes. He was the veriest coward of his species. Heyelped and howled, and struggling from my grasp ran with his tailmerged in his person back to his mistress, who was hobbling after me. But with the renewed strength of triumph I turned again for home, andran as I had never run before. When or where the dame gave in, I donot know; I never turned my head until I laid it on Kirsty's bosom, and there I burst out sobbing and crying. It was all the utterance Ihad left. 

As soon as Kirsty had succeeded in calming me, I told her the wholestory. She said very little, but I could see she was very angry. Nodoubt she was pondering what could be done. She got me some milk--halfcream I do believe, it was so nice--and some oatcake, and went on withher work. 

While I ate I reflected that any moment Mrs. Mitchell might appear todrag me back in disgrace to that horrible den. I knew that Kirsty'sauthority was not equal to hers, and that she would be compelled togive me up. So I watched an opportunity to escape once more and hidemyself, so that Kirsty might be able to say she did not know where Iwas. 

When I had finished, and Kirsty had left the kitchen for a moment, Isped noiselessly to the door, and looked out into the farmyard. Therewas no one to be seen. Dark and brown and cool the door of the barnstood open, as if inviting me to shelter and safety; for I knew thatin the darkest end of it lay a great heap of oat-straw. I sped acrossthe intervening sunshine into the darkness, and began burrowing in thestraw like a wild animal, drawing out handfuls and laying themcarefully aside, so that no disorder should betray my retreat. When Ihad made a hole large enough to hold me, I got in, but kept drawingout the straw behind me, and filling the hole in front. This Icontinued until I had not only stopped up the entrance, but placed agood thickness of straw between me and the outside. By the time I hadburrowed as far as I thought necessary, I was tired, and lay down atfull length in my hole, delighting in such a sense of safety as I hadnever before experienced. I was soon fast asleep. 

CHAPTER VI

No Father

[Illustration]

I woke, and creeping out of my lair, and peeping from the door of thebarn, which looked into the cornyard, found that the sun was goingdown. I had already discovered that I was getting hungry. I went outat the other door into the close or farmyard, and ran across to thehouse. No one was there. Something moved me to climb on the form andlook out of a little window, from which I could see the manse and theroad from it. To my dismay, there was Mrs. Mitchell coming towards thefarm. I possessed my wits sufficiently to run first to Kirsty's pressand secure a good supply of oatcake, with which I then sped like ahunted hare to her form. I had soon drawn the stopper of straw intothe mouth of the hole, where, hearing no one approach, I began to eatmy oatcake, and fell asleep again before I had finished. 

And as I slept I dreamed my dream. The sun was looking very grave, andthe moon reflected his concern. They were not satisfied with me. Atlength the sun shook his head; that is, his whole self oscillated onan axis, and the moon thereupon shook herself in response. Then theynodded to each other as much as to say, "That is entirely my ownopinion. " At last they began to talk; not as men converse, but both atonce, yet each listening while each spoke. I heard no word, but theirlips moved most busily; their eyebrows went up and down; their eyelidswinked and winked, and their cheeks puckered and relaxed incessantly. There was an absolute storm of expression upon their faces; their verynoses twisted and curled. It seemed as if, in the agony of their talk, their countenances would go to pieces. For the stars, they dartedabout hither and thither, gathered into groups, dispersed, and formednew groups, and having no faces yet, but being a sort of celestialtadpoles, indicated by their motions alone that they took an activeinterest in the questions agitating their parents. Some of them keptdarting up and down the ladder of rays, like phosphorescent sparks inthe sea foam. 

I could bear it no longer, and awoke. I was in darkness, but not in myown bed. When I proceeded to turn, I found myself hemmed in on allsides. I could not stretch my arms, and there was hardly room for mybody between my feet and my head. I was dreadfully frightened atfirst, and felt as if I were being slowly stifled. As my brain awoke, I recalled the horrible school, the horrible schoolmistress, and themost horrible dog, over whose defeat, however, I rejoiced with thepride of a dragon-slayer. Next I thought it would be well to lookabroad and reconnoitre once more. I drew away the straw from theentrance to my lair; but what was my dismay to find that even when myhand went out into space no light came through the opening. What couldit mean? Surely I had not grown blind while I lay asleep. Hurriedly Ishot out the remainder of the stopper of straw, and crept from thehole. In the great barn there was but the dullest glimmer of light; Ihad almost said the clumsiest reduction of darkness. I tumbled at oneof the doors rather than ran to it. I found it fast, but this one Iknew was fastened on the inside by a wooden bolt or bar, which I coulddraw back. The open door revealed the dark night. Before me was thecornyard, as we called it, full of ricks. Huge and very positivealthough dim, they rose betwixt me and the sky. Between their tops Isaw only stars and darkness. I turned and looked back into the barn. It appeared a horrible cave filled with darkness. I remembered therewere rats in it. I dared not enter it again, even to go out at theopposite door: I forgot how soundly and peacefully I had slept in it. I stepped out into the night with the grass of the corn-yard under myfeet, the awful vault of heaven over my head, and those shadowy ricksaround me. It was a relief to lay my hand on one of them, and feelthat it was solid. I half groped my way through them, and got out intothe open field, by creeping through between the stems of what had oncebeen a hawthorn hedge, but had in the course of a hundred years growninto the grimmest, largest, most grotesque trees I have ever seen ofthe kind. I had always been a little afraid of them, even in thedaytime, but they did me no hurt, and I stood in the vast hall of thesilent night--alone: there lay the awfulness of it. I had never beforeknown what the night was. The real sting of its fear lay in this--thatthere was nobody else in it. Everybody besides me was asleep all overthe world, and had abandoned me to my fate, whatever might come out ofthe darkness to seize me. When I got round the edge of the stone wall, which on another side bounded the corn-yard, there was themoon--crescent, as I saw her in my dream, but low down towards thehorizon, and lying almost upon her rounded back. She looked verydisconsolate and dim. Even she would take no heed of me, abandonedchild! The stars were high up, away in the heavens. They did not looklike the children of the sun and moon at all, and _they_ took no heedof me. Yet there was a grandeur in my desolation that would haveelevated my heart but for the fear. If I had had one living creaturenigh me--if only the stupid calf, whose dull sleepy low startled me sodreadfully as I stood staring about me! It was not dark out here inthe open field, for at this season of the year it is not dark thereall night long, when the sky is unclouded. Away in the north was theGreat Bear. I knew that constellation, for by it one of the men hadtaught me to find the pole-star. Nearly under it was the light of thesun, creeping round by the north towards the spot in the east where hewould rise again. But I learned only afterwards to understand this. Igazed at that pale faded light, and all at once I remembered that Godwas near me. But I did not know what God is then as I know now, andwhen I thought about him then, which was neither much nor often, myidea of him was not like him; it was merely a confused mixture ofother people's fancies about him and my own. I had not learned howbeautiful God is; I had only learned that he is strong. I had beentold that he was angry with those that did wrong; I had not understoodthat he loved them all the time, although he was displeased with them, and must punish them to make them good. When I thought of him now inthe silent starry night, a yet greater terror seized me, and I ranstumbling over the uneven field. 

Does my reader wonder whither I fled? Whither should I fly but home?True, Mrs. Mitchell was there, but there was another there as well. Even Kirsty would not do in this terror. Home was the only refuge, formy father was there. I sped for the manse. 

But as I approached it a new apprehension laid hold of my tremblingheart. I was not sure, but I thought the door was always locked atnight. I drew nearer. The place of possible refuge rose before me. Istood on the grass-plot in front of it. There was no light in itseyes. Its mouth was closed. It was silent as one of the ricks. Aboveit shone the speechless stars. Nothing was alive. Nothing wouldspeak. I went up the few rough-hewn granite steps that led to thedoor. I laid my hand on the handle, and gently turned it. Joy of joys!the door opened. I entered the hall. Ah! it was more silent than thenight. No footsteps echoed; no voices were there. I closed the doorbehind me, and, almost sick with the misery of a being where no otherbeing was to comfort it, I groped my way to my father's room. When Ionce had my hand on his door, the warm tide of courage began again toflow from my heart. I opened this door too very quietly, for was notthe dragon asleep down below?

"Papa! papa!" I cried, in an eager whisper. "Are you awake, papa?"

No voice came in reply, and the place was yet more silent than thenight or the hall. He must be asleep. I was afraid to call louder. Icrept nearer to the bed. I stretched out my hands to feel for him. Hemust be at the farther side. I climbed up on the bed. I felt allacross it. Utter desertion seized my soul--my father was not there!Was it a horrible dream? Should I ever awake? My heart sank totallywithin me. I could bear no more. I fell down on the bed weepingbitterly, and wept myself asleep. 

Years after, when I was a young man, I read Jean Paul's terrible dreamthat there was no God, and the desolation of this night was my key tothat dream. 

Once more I awoke to a sense of misery, and stretched out my arms, crying, "Papa! papa!" The same moment I found my father's arms aroundme; he folded me close to him, and said--

"Hush, Ranald, my boy! Here I am! You are quite safe. "

I nestled as close to him as I could go, and wept for blessedness. 

"Oh, papa!" I sobbed, "I thought I had lost you. "

"And I thought I had lost you, my boy. Tell me all about it. "

Between my narrative and my replies to his questionings he had soongathered the whole story, and I in my turn learned the dismay of thehousehold when I did not appear. Kirsty told what she knew. Theysearched everywhere, but could not find me; and great as my misery hadbeen, my father's had been greater than mine. While I stood forsakenand desolate in the field, they had been searching along the banks ofthe river. But the herd had had an idea, and although they had alreadysearched the barn and every place they could think of, he left themand ran back for a further search about the farm. Guided by thescattered straw, he soon came upon my deserted lair, and sped back tothe riverside with the news, when my father returned, and afterfailing to find me in my own bed, to his infinite relief found me fastasleep on his; so fast, that he undressed me and laid me in the bedwithout my once opening my eyes--the more strange, as I had alreadyslept so long. But sorrow is very sleepy. 

Having thus felt the awfulness and majesty of the heavens at night, itwas a very long time before I again dreamed my childish dream. 

CHAPTER VII

Mrs. Mitchell is Defeated

After this talk with my father I fell into a sleep of perfectcontentment, and never thought of what might be on the morrow till themorrow came. Then I grew aware of the danger I was in of being carriedoff once more to school. Indeed, except my father interfered, thething was almost inevitable. I thought he would protect me, but I hadno assurance. He was gone again, for, as I have mentioned already, hewas given to going out early in the mornings. It was not early now, however; I had slept much longer than usual. I got up at once, intending to find him; but, to my horror, before I was half dressed, my enemy, Mrs. Mitchell, came into the room, looking triumphant andrevengeful. 

"I'm glad to see you're getting up, " she said; "it's nearlyschool-time. "

The tone, and the emphasis she laid on the word _school_, would havesufficed to reveal the state of her mind, even if her eyes had notbeen fierce with suppressed indignation. 

"I haven't had my porridge, " I said. 

"Your porridge is waiting you--as cold as a stone, " she answered. "Ifboys will lie in bed so late, what can they expect?"

"Nothing from you, " I muttered, with more hardihood than I had yetshown her. 

"What's that you're saying?" she asked angrily. 

I was silent. 

"Make haste, " she went on, "and don't keep me waiting all day. "

"You needn't wait, Mrs. Mitchell. I am dressing as fast as I can. Ispapa in his study yet?"

"No. And you needn't think to see him. He's angry enough with you, I'll warrant"

She little knew what had passed between my father and me already. Shecould not imagine what a talk we had had. 

"You needn't think to run away as you did yesterday. I know all aboutit Mrs. Shand told me all about it I shouldn't wonder if your papa'sgone to see her now, and tell her how sorry he is you were sonaughty. "

"I'm not going, to school. "

"We'll see about that"

"I tell you I won't go. "

"And I tell you we'll see about it"

"I won't go till I've seen papa. If he says I'm to go, I will ofcourse; but I won't go for you. "

"You _will_, and you _won't_!" she repeated, standing staring at me, as I leisurely, but with hands trembling partly with fear, partly withrage, was fastening my nether garments to my waistcoat. "That's allvery fine, but I know something a good deal finer. Now wash yourface. "

"I won't, so long as you stand there, " I said, and sat down on thefloor. She advanced towards me. 

"If you touch me, I'll scream, " I cried. 

She stopped, thought for a moment, and bounced out of the room. But Iheard her turn the key of the door. 

I proceeded with my dressing as fast as I could then; and the moment Iwas ready, opened the window, which was only a few feet from theground, scrambled out, and dropped. I hurt myself a little, but notmuch, and fled for the harbour of Kirsty's arms. But as I turned thecorner of the house I ran right into Mrs. Mitchell's, who received mewith no soft embrace. In fact I was rather severely scratched witha. Pin in the bosom of her dress. 

"There! that serves you right, " she cried. "That's a judgment on youfor trying to run away again. After all the trouble you gave usyesterday too! You are a bad boy. "

"Why am I a bad boy?" I retorted. 

"It's bad not to do what you are told. "

"I will do what my papa tells me. "

"Your papa! There are more people than your papa in the world. "

"I'm to be a bad boy if I don't do what anybody like you chooses totell me, am I?"

"None of your impudence!"

This was accompanied by a box on the ear. She was now dragging me intothe kitchen. There she set my porridge before me, which I declined toeat. 

"Well, if you won't eat good food, you shall go to school without it. "

"I tell you I won't go to school. "

She caught me up in her arms. She was very strong, and I could notprevent her carrying me out of the house. If I had been the bad boyshe said I was, I could by biting and scratching have soon compelledher to set me down; but I felt that I must not do that, for then Ishould be ashamed before my father. I therefore yielded for the time, and fell to planning. Nor was I long in coming to a resolution. I drewthe pin that had scratched me from her dress. I believed she would notcarry me very far; but if she did not set me down soon, I resolved tomake her glad to do so. Further I resolved, that when we came to thefoot-bridge, which had but one rail to it, I would run the pin intoher and make her let me go, when I would instantly throw myself intothe river, for I would run the risk of being drowned rather than go tothat school. Were all my griefs of yesterday, overcome and on thepoint of being forgotten, to be frustrated in this fashion? My wholeblood was boiling. I was convinced my father did not want me to go. Hecould not have been so kind to me during the night, and then send meto such a place in the morning. But happily for the general peace, things did not arrive at such a desperate pass. Before we were out ofthe gate, my heart leaped with joy, for I heard my father calling, "Mrs. Mitchell! Mrs. Mitchell!" I looked round, and seeing him comingafter us with his long slow strides, I fell to struggling so violentlyin the strength of hope that she was glad to set me down. I broke fromher, ran to my father, and burst out crying. 

"Papa! papa!" I sobbed, "don't send me to that horrid school. I canlearn to read without that old woman to teach me. "

"Really, Mrs. Mitchell, " said my father, taking me by the hand andleading me towards her, where she stood visibly flaming with rage andannoyance, "really, Mrs. Mitchell, you are taking too much upon you! Inever said the child was to go to that woman's school. In fact I don'tapprove of what I hear of her, and I have thought of consulting someof my brethren in the presbytery on the matter before taking stepsmyself. I won't have the young people in my parish oppressed in such afashion. Terrified with dogs too! It is shameful. "

"She's a very decent woman, Mistress Shand, " said the housekeeper. 

[Illustration]

"I don't dispute her decency, Mrs. Mitchell; but I doubt very muchwhether she is fit to have the charge of children; and as she is afriend of yours, you will be doing her a kindness to give her a hintto that effect. It _may_ save the necessity for my taking further andmore unpleasant steps. "

"Indeed, sir, by your leave, it would be hard lines to take the breadout of the mouth of a lone widow woman, and bring her upon the parishwith a bad name to boot. She's supported herself for years with herschool, and been a trouble to nobody. "

"Except the lambs of the flock, Mrs. Mitchell. --I like you forstanding up for your friend; but is a woman, because she is lone and awidow, to make a Moloch of herself, and have the children sacrificedto her in that way? It's enough to make idiots of some of them. Shehad better see to it. You tell her that--from me, if you like. Anddon't you meddle with school affairs. I'll take my young men, " headded with a smile, "to school when I see fit. "

"I'm sure, sir, " said Mrs. Mitchell, putting her blue striped apron toher eyes, "I asked your opinion before I took him. "

"I believe I did say something about its being time he were able toread, but I recollect nothing more. --You must have misunderstood me, "he added, willing to ease her descent to the valley of herhumiliation. 

She walked away without another word, sniffing the air as she went, and carrying her hands folded under her apron. From that hour Ibelieve she hated me. 

My father looked after her with a smile, and then looked down on me, saying--

"She's short in the temper, poor woman! and we mustn't provoke her. "

I was too well satisfied to urge my victory by further complaint. Icould afford to let well alone, for I had been delivered as from thefiery furnace, and the earth and the sky were laughing around me. Oh!what a sunshine filled the world! How glad the larks, which are thepraisers amongst the birds, were that blessed morning! The demon ofoppression had hidden her head ashamed, and fled to her den!

CHAPTER VIII

A New Schoolmistress

"But, Ranald, " my father continued, "what are we to do about thereading? I fear I have let you go too long. I didn't want to makelearning a burden to you, and I don't approve of children learning toread too soon; but really, at your age, you know, it is time you werebeginning. I have time to teach you some things, but I can't teach youeverything. I have got to read a great deal and think a great deal, and go about my parish a good deal. And your brother Tom has heavylessons to learn at school, and I have to help him. So what's to bedone, Ranald, my boy? You can't go to the parish school before you'velearned your letters. "

"There's Kirsty, papa, " I suggested. 

"Yes; there's Kirsty, " he returned with a sly smile. "Kirsty can doeverything, can't she?"

"She can speak Gaelic, " I said with a tone of triumph, bringing herrarest accomplishment to the forefront. 

"I wish you could speak Gaelic, " said my father, thinking of his wife, I believe, whose mother tongue it was. "But that is not what you wantmost to learn. Do you think Kirsty could teach you to read English?"

"Yes, I do. "

My father again meditated. 

"Let us go and ask her, " he said at length, taking my hand. 

I capered with delight, nor ceased my capering till we stood onKirsty's earthen floor. I think I see her now, dusting one of her dealchairs, as white as soap and sand could make it, for the minister tosit on. She never called him _the master_, but always _the minister_. She was a great favourite with my father, and he always behaved as avisitor in her house. 

"Well, Kirsty, " he said, after the first salutations were over, "haveyou any objection to turn schoolmistress?"

"I should make a poor hand at that, " she answered, with a smile to mewhich showed she guessed what my father wanted. "But if it were toteach Master Ranald there, I should like dearly to try what I coulddo. "

She never omitted the _Master_ to our names; Mrs. Mitchell by nochance prefixed it. The natural manners of the Celt and Saxon arealmost diametrically opposed in Scotland. And had Kirsty's speech beenin the coarse dialect of Mrs. Mitchell, I am confident my father wouldnot have allowed her to teach me. But Kirsty did not speak a word ofScotch, and although her English was a little broken and odd, beingformed somewhat after Gaelic idioms, her tone was pure and her phraseswere refined. The matter was very speedily settled between them. 

"And if you want to beat him, Kirsty, you can beat him in Gaelic, andthen he won't feel it, " said my father, trying after a joke, which wasno common occurrence with him, whereupon Kirsty and I laughed in greatcontentment. 

The fact was, Kirsty had come to the manse with my mother, and myfather was attached to her for the sake of his wife as well as for herown, and Kirsty would have died for the minister or any one of hisboys. All the devotion a Highland woman has for the chief of her clan, Kirsty had for my father, not to mention the reverence due to theminister. 

After a little chat about the cows and the calves, my father rose, saying--

"Then I'll just make him over to you, Kirsty. Do you think you canmanage without letting it interfere with your work, though?"

"Oh yes, sir--well that! I shall soon have him reading to me while I'mbusy about. If he doesn't know the word, he can spell it, and then Ishall know it--at least if it's not longer than Hawkie's tail. "

Hawkie was a fine milker, with a bad temper, and a comically shorttail. It had got chopped off by some accident when she was a calf. 

"There's something else short about Hawkie--isn't there, Kirsty?" saidmy father. 

"And Mrs. Mitchell, " I suggested, thinking to help Kirsty to myfather's meaning. 

"Come, come, young gentleman! We don't want your remarks, " said myfather pleasantly. 

"Why, papa, you told me so yourself, just before we came up. "

"Yes, I did; but I did not mean you to repeat it. What if Kirsty wereto go and tell Mrs. Mitchell?"

Kirsty made no attempt at protestation. She knew well enough that myfather knew there was no danger. She only laughed, and I, seeingKirsty satisfied, was satisfied also, and joined in the laugh. 

The result was that before many weeks were over, Allister and weeDavie were Kirsty's pupils also, Allister learning to read, and weeDavie to sit still, which was the hardest task within his capacity. They were free to come or keep away, but not to go: if they did come, Kirsty insisted on their staying out the lesson. It soon became aregular thing. Every morning in summer we might be seen perched on aform, under one of the tiny windows, in that delicious brown lightwhich you seldom find but in an old clay-floored cottage. In afir-wood I think you have it; and I have seen it in an old castle; butbest of all in the house of mourning in an Arab cemetery. In thewinter, we seated ourselves round the fire--as near it as Kirsty'scooking operations, which were simple enough, admitted. It wasdelightful to us boys, and would have been amusing to anyone, to seehow Kirsty behaved when Mrs. Mitchell found occasion to pay her avisit during lesson hours. She knew her step and darted to the door. Not once did she permit her to enter. She was like a hen with herchickens. 

"No, you'll not come in just now, Mrs. Mitchell, " she would say, asthe housekeeper attempted to pass. "You know we're busy. "

"I want to hear how they're getting on. "

"You can try them at home, " Kirsty would answer. 

We always laughed at the idea of our reading to her. Once I believeshe heard the laugh, for she instantly walked away, and I do notremember that she ever came again. 

CHAPTER IX

We Learn Other Things

We were more than ever at the farm now. During the summer, from thetime we got up till the time we went to bed, we seldom approached themanse. I have heard it hinted that my father neglected us. But thatcan hardly be, seeing that then his word was law to us, and now Iregard his memory as the symbol of the love unspeakable. My elderbrother Tom always had his meals with him, and sat at his lessons inthe study. But my father did not mind the younger ones running wild, so long as there was a Kirsty for them to run to; and indeed the menalso were not only friendly to us, but careful over us. No doubt wewere rather savage, very different in our appearance from town-bredchildren, who are washed and dressed every time they go out for awalk: that we should have considered not merely a hardship, but anindignity. To be free was all our notion of a perfect existence. Butmy father's rebuke was awful indeed, if he found even the youngestguilty of untruth, or cruelty, or injustice. At all kinds ofescapades, not involving disobedience, he smiled, except indeed therewere too much danger, when he would warn and limit. 

A town boy may wonder what we could find to amuse us all day long; butthe fact is almost everything was an amusement, seeing that when wecould not take a natural share in what was going on, we generallymanaged to invent some collateral employment fictitiously related toit. But he must not think of our farm as at all like some great farmhe may happen to know in England; for there was nothing done bymachinery on the place. There may be great pleasure in watchingmachine-operations, but surely none to equal the pleasure we had. Ifthere had been a steam engine to plough my father's fields, how couldwe have ridden home on its back in the evening? To ride thehorses home from the plough was a triumph. Had there been athrashing-machine, could its pleasures have been comparable to that oflying in the straw and watching the grain dance from the sheaves underthe skilful flails of the two strong men who belaboured them? There wasa winnowing-machine, but quite a tame one, for its wheel I could drivemyself--the handle now high as my head, now low as my knee--and watch atthe same time the storm of chaff driven like drifting snowflakes fromits wide mouth. Meantime the oat-grain was flowing in a silent slowstream from the shelving hole in the other side, and the wind, rushingthrough the opposite doors, aided the winnower by catching at theexpelled chaff, and carrying it yet farther apart. I think I see oldEppie now, filling her sack with what the wind blew her; not with thegrain: Eppie did not covet that; she only wanted her bed filled withfresh springy chaff, on which she would sleep as sound as her rheumatismwould let her, and as warm and dry and comfortable as any duchess in theland that happened to have the rheumatism too. For comfort is insidemore than outside; and eider down, delicious as it is, has less to dowith it than some people fancy. How I wish all the poor people in thegreat cities could have good chaff beds to lie upon! Let me see: whatmore machines are there now? More than I can tell. I saw one going inthe fields the other day, at the use of which I could only guess. Strange, wild-looking, mad-like machines, as the Scotch would call them, are growling and snapping, and clinking and clattering over our fields, so that it seems to an old boy as if all the sweet poetic twilight ofthings were vanishing from the country; but he reminds himself that Godis not going to sleep, for, as one of the greatest poets that ever livedsays, _he slumbereth not nor sleepeth_; and the children of the earthare his, and he will see that their imaginations and feelings have foodenough and to spare. It is his business this--not ours. So the work mustbe done as well as it can. Then, indeed, there will be no fear of thepoetry. 

I have just alluded to the pleasure of riding the horses, that is, thework-horses: upon them Allister and I began to ride, as far as I canremember, this same summer--not from the plough, for the ploughing wasin the end of the year and the spring. First of all we were allowed totake them at watering-time, watched by one of the men, from the stableto the long trough that stood under the pump. There, going hurriedlyand stopping suddenly, they would drop head and neck and shoulderslike a certain toy-bird, causing the young riders a vague fear offalling over the height no longer defended by the uplifted crest; andthen drink and drink till the riders' legs felt the horses' bodiesswelling under them; then up and away with quick refreshed stride ortrot towards the paradise of their stalls. But for us came first thesomewhat fearful pass of the stable door, for they never stopped, likebetter educated horses, to let their riders dismount, but walked rightin, and there was just room, by stooping low, to clear the top of thedoor. As we improved in equitation, we would go afield, to ride themhome from the pasture, where they were fastened by chains to shortstakes of iron driven into the earth. There was more of adventurehere, for not only was the ride longer, but the horses were morefrisky, and would sometimes set off at the gallop. Then the chiefdanger was again the door, lest they should dash in, and knock kneesagainst posts and heads against lintels, for we had only halters tohold them with. But after I had once been thrown from back to neck, and from neck to ground in a clumsy but wild gallop extemporized byDobbin, I was raised to the dignity of a bridle, which I alwayscarried with me when we went to fetch them. It was my father's expressdesire that until we could sit well on the bare back we should not beallowed a saddle. It was a whole year before I was permitted to mounthis little black riding mare, called Missy. She was old, it istrue--nobody quite knew how old she was--but if she felt a lightweight on her back, either the spirit of youth was contagious, or shefancied herself as young as when she thought nothing of twelve stone, and would dart off like the wind. In after years I got so found ofher, that I would stand by her side flacking the flies from her as shegrazed; and when I tired of that, would clamber upon her back, and liethere reading my book, while she plucked on and ground and mashed awayat the grass as if nobody were near her. 

Then there was the choice, if nothing else were found more attractive, of going to the field where the cattle were grazing. Oh! the rich hotsummer afternoons among the grass and the clover, the littlelamb-daisies, and the big horse-daisies, with the cattle feedingsolemnly, but one and another straying now to the corn, now to theturnips, and recalled by stern shouts, or, if that were unavailing, byvigorous pursuit and even blows! If I had been able to think of amother at home, I should have been perfectly happy. Not that I missedher then; I had lost her too young for that. I mean that the memory ofthe time wants but that to render it perfect in bliss. Even in thecold days of spring, when, after being shut up all the winter, thecattle were allowed to revel again in the springing grass and theventuresome daisies, there was pleasure enough in the company anddevices of the cowherd, a freckle-faced, white-haired, weak-eyed boyof ten, named--I forget his real name: we always called him Turkey, because his nose was the colour of a turkey's egg. Who but Turkey knewmushrooms from toadstools? Who but Turkey could detect earth-nuts--andthat with the certainty of a truffle-hunting dog? Who but Turkey knewthe note and the form and the nest and the eggs of every bird in thecountry? Who but Turkey, with his little whip and its lash of brasswire, would encounter the angriest bull in Christendom, provided hecarried, like the bulls of Scotland, his most sensitive part, thenose, foremost? In our eyes Turkey was a hero. Who but Turkey coulddiscover the nests of hens whose maternal anxiety had eluded the_finesse_ of Kirsty? and who so well as he could roast the egg withwhich she always rewarded such a discovery? Words are feeble beforethe delight we experienced on such an occasion, when Turkey, proceeding to light a fire against one of the earthen walls whichdivided the fields, would send us abroad to gather sticks and strawsand whatever outcast combustibles we could find, of which there was agreat scarcity, there being no woods or hedges within reach. Who likeTurkey could rob a wild bee's nest? And who could be more just than hein distributing the luscious prize? In fine, his accomplishments wereinnumerable. Short of flying, we believed him capable of everythingimaginable. 

What rendered him yet dearer to us, was that there was enmity betweenhim and Mrs. Mitchell. It came about in this way. Although a goodmilker, and therefore of necessity a good feeder, Hawkie was yet upontemptation subject to the inroads of an unnatural appetite. When shefound a piece of an old shoe in the field, she would, if not compelledto drop the delicious mouthful, go on, the whole morning or afternoon, in the impossibility of a final deglutition, chewing and chewing atthe savoury morsel. Should this have happened, it was in vain forTurkey to hope escape from the discovery of his inattention, for themilk-pail would that same evening or next morning reveal the fact toKirsty's watchful eyes. But fortunately for us, in so far as it waswell to have an ally against our only enemy, Hawkie's morbid cravingwas not confined to old shoes. One day when the cattle were feedingclose by the manse, she found on the holly-hedge which surrounded it, Mrs. Mitchell's best cap, laid out to bleach in the sun. It was atempting morsel--more susceptible of mastication than shoe-leather. Mrs. Mitchell, who had gone for another freight of the linen withwhich she was sprinkling the hedge, arrived only in time to see theend of one of its long strings gradually disappearing into Hawkie'smouth on its way after the rest of the cap, which had gone the lengthof the string farther. With a wild cry of despair she flew at Hawkie, so intent on the stolen delicacy as to be more open to a surprise thanusual, and laying hold of the string, drew from her throat thedeplorable mass of pulp to which she had reduced the valued gaud. Thesame moment Turkey, who had come running at her cry, received full inhis face the slimy and sloppy extract. Nor was this all, for Mrs. Mitchell flew at him in her fury, and with an outburst of abuse boxedhis ears soundly, before he could recover his senses sufficiently torun for it. The degradation of this treatment had converted Turkeyinto an enemy before ever he knew that we also had good grounds fordisliking her. His opinion concerning her was freely expressed to usif to no one else, generally in the same terms. He said she was as badas she was ugly, and always spoke of her as _the old witch_. 

But what brought Turkey and us together more than anything else, wasthat he was as fond of Kirsty's stories as we were; and in the winterespecially we would sit together in the evening, as I have alreadysaid, round her fire and the great pot upon it full of the mostdelicious potatoes, while Kirsty knitted away vigorously at her bluebroad-ribbed stockings, and kept a sort of time to her story with thesound of her needles. When the story flagged, the needles went slower;in the more animated passages they would become invisible forswiftness, save for a certain shimmering flash that hovered about herfingers like a dim electric play; but as the story approached somecrisis, their motion would at one time become perfectly frantic, atanother cease altogether, as finding the subject beyond their power ofaccompanying expression. When they ceased, we knew that somethingawful indeed was at hand. 

[Illustration]

In my next chapter I will give a specimen of her stories, choosing onewhich bears a little upon an after adventure. 

CHAPTER X

Sir Worm Wymble

It was a snowy evening in the depth of winter. Kirsty had promised totell us the tale of the armed knight who lay in stone upon the tomb inthe church; but the snow was so deep, that Mrs. Mitchell, always gladwhen nature put it in her power to exercise her authority in a waydisagreeable to us, had refused to let the little ones go out all day. Therefore Turkey and I, when the darkness began to grow thick enough, went prowling and watching about the manse until we found anopportunity when she was out of the way. The moment this occurred wedarted into the nursery, which was on the ground floor, and catchingup my two brothers, I wee Davie, he Allister, we hoisted them on ourbacks and rushed from the house. It was snowing. It came down in hugeflakes, but although it was only half-past four o'clock, they did notshow any whiteness, for there was no light to shine upon them. Youmight have thought there had been mud in the cloud they came from, which had turned them all a dark grey. How the little ones did enjoyit, spurring their horses with suppressed laughter, and urging us onlest the old witch should hear and overtake us! But it was hard workfor one of the horses, and that was myself. Turkey scudded away withhis load, and made nothing of it; but wee Davie pulled so hard withhis little arms round my neck, especially when he was bobbing up anddown to urge me on, half in delight, half in terror, that he nearlychoked me; while if I went one foot off the scarcely beaten path, Isunk deep in the fresh snow. 

"Doe on, doe on, Yanal!" cried Davie; and Yanal did his very best, butwas only halfway to the farm, when Turkey came bounding back to takeDavie from him. In a few moments we had shaken the snow off our shoesand off Davie's back, and stood around Kirsty's "booful baze", asDavie called the fire. Kirsty seated herself on one side with Davie onher lap, and we three got our chairs as near her as we could, withTurkey, as the valiant man of the party, farthest from the centre ofsafety, namely Kirsty, who was at the same time to be the source ofall the delightful horror. I may as well say that I do not believeKirsty's tale had the remotest historical connection with Sir WormWymble, if that was anything like the name of the dead knight. It wasan old Highland legend, which she adorned with the flowers of her ownCeltic fancy, and swathed around the form so familiar to us all. 

"There is a pot in the Highlands, " began Kirsty, "not far from ourhouse, at the bottom of a little glen. It is not very big, butfearfully deep; so deep that they do say there is no bottom to it. "

"An iron pot, Kirsty?" asked Allister. 

"No, goosey, " answered Kirsty. "A pot means a great hole full ofwater--black, black, and deep, deep. "

"Oh!" remarked Allister, and was silent. 

"Well, in this pot there lived a kelpie. "

"What's a kelpie, Kirsty?" again interposed Allister, who in generalasked all the necessary questions and at least as many unnecessary. 

"A kelpie is an awful creature that eats people. "

"But what is it like, Kirsty?"

"It's something like a horse, with a head like a cow. "

"How big is it? As big as Hawkie?"

"Bigger than Hawkie; bigger than the biggest ox you ever saw. "

"Has it a great mouth?"

"Yes, a terrible mouth. "

"With teeth?"

"Not many, but dreadfully big ones. "

"Oh!"

"Well, there was a shepherd many years ago, who lived not far from thepot. He was a knowing man, and understood all about kelpies andbrownies and fairies. And he put a branch of the rowan-tree(_mountain-ash_), with the red berries in it, over the door of hiscottage, so that the kelpie could never come in. 

"Now, the shepherd had a very beautiful daughter--so beautiful thatthe kelpie wanted very much to eat her. I suppose he had lifted up hishead out of the pot some day and seen her go past, but he could notcome out of the pot except after the sun was down. "

"Why?" asked Allister. 

"I don't know. It was the nature of the beast. His eyes couldn't bearthe light, I suppose; but he could see in the dark quite well. --Onenight the girl woke suddenly, and saw his great head looking in at herwindow. "

"But how could she see him when it was dark?" said Allister. 

"His eyes were flashing so that they lighted up all his head, "answered Kirsty. 

"But he couldn't get in!"

"No; he couldn't get in. He was only looking in, and thinking how he_should_ like to eat her. So in the morning she told her father. Andher father was very frightened, and told her she must never be out onemoment after the sun was down. And for a long time the girl was verycareful. And she had need to be; for the creature never made anynoise, but came up as quiet as a shadow. One afternoon, however, shehad gone to meet her lover a little way down the glen; and theystopped talking so long, about one thing and another, that the sun wasalmost set before she bethought herself. She said good-night at once, and ran for home. Now she could not reach home without passing thepot, and just as she passed the pot, she saw the last sparkle of thesun as he went down. "

"I should think she ran!" remarked our mouthpiece, Allister. 

"She did run, " said Kirsty, "and had just got past the awful blackpot, which was terrible enough day or night without such a beast init, when--"

"But there _was_ the beast in it, " said Allister. 

"When, " Kirsty went on without heeding him, "she heard a great _whish_of water behind her. That was the water tumbling off the beast's backas he came up from the bottom. If she ran before, she flew now. Andthe worst of it was that she couldn't hear him behind her, so as totell whereabouts he was. He might be just opening his mouth to takeher every moment. At last she reached the door, which her father, whohad gone out to look for her, had set wide open that she might run inat once; but all the breath was out of her body, and she fell downflat just as she got inside. "

[Illustration]

Here Allister jumped from his seat, clapping his hands and crying--

"Then the kelpie didn't eat her!--Kirsty! Kirsty!"

"No. But as she fell, one foot was left outside the threshold, so thatthe rowan branch could not take care of it. And the beast laid hold ofthe foot with his great mouth, to drag her out of the cottage and eather at his leisure. "

Here Allister's face was a picture to behold! His hair was almoststanding on end, his mouth was open, and his face as white as mypaper. 

"Make haste, Kirsty, " said Turkey, "or Allister will go in a fit. "

"But her shoe came off in his mouth, and she drew in her foot and wassafe. "

Allister's hair subsided. He drew a deep breath, and sat downagain. But Turkey must have been a very wise or a very unimaginativeTurkey, for here he broke in with--

"I don't believe a word of it, Kirsty. "

"What!" said Kirsty--"don't believe it!"

"No. She lost her shoe in the mud. It was some wild duck she heard inthe pot, and there was no beast after her. She never saw it, youknow. "

"She saw it look in at her window. "

"Yes, yes. That was in the middle of the night. I've seen as muchmyself when I waked up in the middle of the night. I took a rat for atiger once. "

Kirsty was looking angry, and her needles were going even faster thanwhen she approached the climax of the shoe. 

"Hold your tongue, Turkey, " I said, "and let us hear the rest of thestory. "

But Kirsty kept her eyes on her knitting, and did not resume. 

"Is that all, Kirsty?" said Allister. 

Still Kirsty returned no answer. She needed all her force to overcomethe anger she was busy stifling. For it would never do for one in herposition to lose her temper because of the unbelieving criticism of aherd-boy. It was a curious instance of the electricity flashed out inthe confluence of unlike things--the Celtic faith and the Saxonworks. For anger is just the electric flash of the mind, and requiresto have its conductor of common sense ready at hand. After a fewmoments she began again as if she had never stopped and no remarks hadbeen made, only her voice trembled a little at first. 

"Her father came home soon after, in great distress, and there hefound her lying just within the door. He saw at once how it was, andhis anger was kindled against her lover more than the beast. Not thathe had any objection to her going to meet him; for although he was agentleman and his daughter only a shepherd's daughter, they were bothof the blood of the MacLeods. "

This was Kirsty's own clan. And indeed I have since discovered thatthe original legend on which her story was founded belongs to theisland of Rasay, from which she came. 

"But why was he angry with the gentleman?" asked Allister. 

"Because he liked her company better than he loved herself, " saidKirsty. "At least that was what the shepherd said, and that he oughtto have seen her safe home. But he didn't know that MacLeod's fatherhad threatened to kill him if ever he spoke to the girl again. "

"But, " said Allister, "I thought it was about Sir Worm Wymble--notMr. MacLeod. "

"Sure, boy, and am I not going to tell you how he got the new name ofhim?" returned Kirsty, with an eagerness that showed her fear lest thespirit of inquiry should spread. "He wasn't Sir Worm Wymble then. Hisname was--"

Here she paused a moment, and looked full at Allister. 

"His name was Allister--Allister MacLeod. "

"Allister!" exclaimed my brother, repeating the name as an incrediblecoincidence. 

"Yes, Allister, " said Kirsty. "There's been many an Allister, and notall of them MacLeods, that did what they ought to do, and didn't knowwhat fear was. And you'll be another, my bonnie Allister, I hope, " sheadded, stroking the boy's hair. 

Allister's face flushed with pleasure. It was long before he askedanother question. 

"Well, as I say, " resumed Kirsty, "the father of her was very angry, and said she should never go and meet Allister again. But the girlsaid she ought to go once and let him know why she could not come anymore; for she had no complaint to make of Allister; and she had agreedto meet him on a certain day the week after; and there was nopost-office in those parts. And so she did meet him, and told him allabout it. And Allister said nothing much then. But next day he camestriding up to the cottage, at dinner-time, with his claymore(_gladius major_) at one side, his dirk at the other, and his littleskene dubh (_black knife_) in his stocking. And he was grand tosee--such a big strong gentleman I And he came striding up to thecottage where the shepherd was sitting at his dinner. 

"'Angus MacQueen, ' says he, 'I understand the kelpie in the pot hasbeen rude to your Nellie. I am going to kill him. ' 'How will you dothat, sir?' said Angus, quite short, for he was the girl's father. 'Here's a claymore I could put in a peck, ' said Allister, meaning itwas such good steel that he could bend it round till the hilt met thepoint without breaking; 'and here's a shield made out of the hide ofold Rasay's black bull; and here's a dirk made of a foot and a half ofan old Andrew Ferrara; and here's a skene dubh that I'll drive throughyour door, Mr. Angus. And so we're fitted, I hope. ' 'Not at all, ' saidAngus, who as I told you was a wise man and a knowing; 'not one bit, 'said Angus. 'The kelpie's hide is thicker than three bull-hides, andnone of your weapons would do more than mark it. ' 'What am I to dothen, Angus, for kill him I will somehow?' 'I'll tell you what to do;but it needs a brave man to do that. ' 'And do you think I'm not braveenough for that, Angus?' 'I know one thing you are not brave enoughfor. ' 'And what's that?' said Allister, and his face grew red, only hedid not want to anger Nelly's father. 'You're not brave enough tomarry my girl in the face of the clan, ' said Angus. 'But you shan't goon this way. If my Nelly's good enough to talk to in the glen, she'sgood enough to lead into the hall before the ladies and gentlemen. '

"Then Allister's face grew redder still, but not with anger, and heheld down his head before the old man, but only for a few moments. When he lifted it again, it was pale, not with fear but withresolution, for he had made up his mind like a gentleman. 'Mr. AngusMacQueen, ' he said, 'will you give me your daughter to be my wife?''If you kill the kelpie, I will, ' answered Angus; for he knew that theman who could do that would be worthy of his Nelly. "

"But what if the kelpie ate him?" suggested Allister. 

"Then he'd have to go without the girl, " said Kirsty, coolly. "But, "she resumed, "there's always some way of doing a difficult thing; andAllister, the gentleman, had Angus, the shepherd, to teach him. 

"So Angus took Allister down to the pot, and there they began. Theytumbled great stones together, and set them up in two rows at a littledistance from each other, making a lane between the rows big enoughfor the kelpie to walk in. If the kelpie heard them, he could not seethem, and they took care to get into the cottage before it was dark, for they could not finish their preparations in one day. And they satup all night, and saw the huge head of the beast looking in now at onewindow, now at another, all night long. As soon as the sun was up, they set to work again, and finished the two rows of stones all theway from the pot to the top of the little hill on which the cottagestood. Then they tied a cross of rowan-tree twigs on every stone, sothat once the beast was in the avenue of stones he could only get outat the end. And this was Nelly's part of the job. Next they gathered aquantity of furze and brushwood and peat, and piled it in the end ofthe avenue next the cottage. Then Angus went and killed a little pig, and dressed it ready for cooking. 

"'Now you go down to my brother Hamish, ' he said to Mr. MacLeod; 'he'sa carpenter, you know, --and ask him to lend you his longest wimble. '"

"What's a wimble?" asked little Allister. 

[Illustration]

"A wimble is a long tool, like a great gimlet, with a cross handle, with which you turn it like a screw. And Allister ran and fetched it, and got back only half an hour before the sun went down. Then they putNelly into the cottage, and shut the door. But I ought to have toldyou that they had built up a great heap of stones behind thebrushwood, and now they lighted the brushwood, and put down the pig toroast by the fire, and laid the wimble in the fire halfway up to thehandle. Then they laid themselves down behind the heap of stones andwaited. 

"By the time the sun was out of sight, the smell of the roasting pighad got down the avenue to the side of the pot, just where the kelpiealways got out. He smelt it the moment he put up his head, and hethought it smelt so nice that he would go and see where it was. Themoment he got out he was between the stones, but he never thought ofthat, for it was the straight way to the pig. So up the avenue hecame, and as it was dark, and his big soft web feet made no noise, themen could not see him until he came into the light of the fire. 'Therehe is!' said Allister. 'Hush!' said Angus, 'he can hear well enough. 'So the beast came on. Now Angus had meant that he should be busy withthe pig before Allister should attack him; but Allister thought it wasa pity he should have the pig, and he put out his hand and got hold ofthe wimble, and drew it gently out of the fire. And the wimble was sohot that it was as white as the whitest moon you ever saw. The pig wasso hot also that the brute was afraid to touch it, and before ever heput his nose to it Allister had thrust the wimble into his hide, behind the left shoulder, and was boring away with all his might. Thekelpie gave a hideous roar, and turned away to run from the wimble. But he could not get over the row of crossed stones, and he had toturn right round in the narrow space before he could run. Allister, however, could run as well as the kelpie, and he hung on to the handleof the wimble, giving it another turn at every chance as the beastwent floundering on; so that before he reached his pot the wimble hadreached his heart, and the kelpie fell dead on the edge of thepot. Then they went home, and when the pig was properly done they hadit for supper. And Angus gave Nelly to Allister, and they weremarried, and lived happily ever after. "

"But didn't Allister's father kill him?"

"No. He thought better of it, and didn't. He was very angry for awhile, but he got over it in time. And Allister became a great man, and because of what he had done, he was called Allister MacLeod nomore, but Sir Worm Wymble. And when he died, " concluded Kirsty, "hewas buried under the tomb in your father's church. And if you lookclose enough, you'll find a wimble carved on the stone, but I'm afraidit's worn out by this time. "

CHAPTER XI

The Kelpie

Silence followed the close of Kirsty's tale. Wee Davie had taken noharm, for he was fast asleep with his head on her bosom. Allister wasstaring into the fire, fancying he saw the whorls of the wimbleheating in it. Turkey was cutting at his stick with a bluntpocket-knife, and a silent whistle on his puckered lips. I was sorrythe story was over, and was growing stupid under the reaction from itsexcitement. I was, however, meditating a strict search for the wimblecarved on the knight's tomb. All at once came the sound of a latchlifted in vain, followed by a thundering at the outer door, whichKirsty had prudently locked. Allister, Turkey, and I started to ourfeet, Allister with a cry of dismay, Turkey grasping his stick. 

"It's the kelpie!" cried Allister. 

But the harsh voice of the old witch followed, something deadened bythe intervening door. 

"Kirsty! Kirsty!" it cried; "open the door directly. "

"No, no, Kirsty!" I objected. "She'll shake wee Davie to bits, andhaul Allister through the snow. She's afraid to touch me. "

Turkey thrust the poker in the fire; but Kirsty snatched it out, threwit down, and boxed his ears, which rough proceeding he took with thepleasantest laugh in the world. Kirsty could do what she pleased, forshe was no tyrant. She turned to us. 

"Hush!" she said, hurriedly, with a twinkle in her eyes that showedthe spirit of fun was predominant--"Hush!--Don't speak, wee Davie, "she continued, as she rose and carried him from the kitchen into thepassage between it and the outer door. He was scarcely awake. 

Now, in that passage, which was wide, and indeed more like a hall inproportion to the cottage, had stood on its end from time immemorial ahuge barrel, which Kirsty, with some housewifely intent or other, hadlately cleaned out. Setting Davie down, she and Turkey lifted first meand popped me into it, and then Allister, for we caught the design atonce. Finally she took up wee Davie, and telling him to lie as stillas a mouse, dropped him into our arms. I happened to find the openbung-hole near my eye, and peeped out. The knocking continued. 

"Wait a bit, Mrs. Mitchell, " screamed Kirsty; "wait till I get mypotatoes off the fire. "

As she spoke, she took the great bow-pot in one hand and carried it tothe door, to pour away the water. When she unlocked and opened thedoor, I saw through the bung-hole a lovely sight; for the moon wasshining, and the snow was falling thick. In the midst of it stoodMrs. Mitchell, one mass of whiteness. She would have rushed in, butKirsty's advance with the pot made her give way, and from behindKirsty Turkey slipped out and round the corner without being seen. There he stood watching, but busy at the same time kneading snowballs. 

"And what may you please to want to-night, Mrs. Mitchell?" saidKirsty, with great civility. 

"What should I want but my poor children? They ought to have been inbed an hour ago. Really, Kirsty, you ought to have more sense at youryears than to encourage any such goings on. "

"At my years!" returned Kirsty, and was about to give a sharp retort, but checked herself, saying, "Aren't they in bed then, Mrs. Mitchell?"

"You know well enough they are not. "

"Poor things! I would recommend you to put them to bed at once. "

"So I will. Where are they?"

"Find them yourself, Mrs. Mitchell. You had better ask a civil tongueto help you. I'm not going to do it. "

They were standing just inside the door. Mrs. Mitchell advanced. Itrembled. It seemed impossible she should not see me as well as I sawher. I had a vague impression that by looking at her I should draw hereyes upon me; but I could not withdraw mine from the bung-hole. I wasfascinated; and the nearer she came, the less could I keep fromwatching her. When she turned into the kitchen, it was a great relief;but it did not last long, for she came out again in a moment, searching like a hound. She was taller than Kirsty, and by standing onher tiptoes could have looked right down into the barrel. She wasapproaching it with that intent--those eyes were about to overshadowus with their baleful light. Already her apron hid all other visionfrom my one eye, when a whizz, a dull blow, and a shriek from Mrs. Mitchell came to my ears together. The next moment, the field of myvision was open, and I saw Mrs. Mitchell holding her head with bothhands, and the face of Turkey grinning round the corner of the opendoor. Evidently he wanted to entice her to follow him; but she hadbeen too much astonished by the snowball in the back of her neck evento look in the direction whence the blow had come. So Turkey steppedout, and was just poising himself in the delivery of a second missile, when she turned sharp round. 

The snowball missed her, and came with a great bang against thebarrel. Wee Davie gave a cry of alarm, but there was no danger now, for Mrs. Mitchell was off after Turkey. In a moment, Kirsty loweredthe barrel on its side, and we all crept out. I had wee Davie on myback instantly, while Kirsty caught up Allister, and we were off forthe manse. As soon as we were out of the yard, however, we met Turkey, breathless. He had given Mrs. Mitchell the slip, and left hersearching the barn for him. He took Allister from Kirsty, and we spedaway, for it was all downhill now. When Mrs. Mitchell got back to thefarmhouse, Kirsty was busy as if nothing had happened, and when, aftera fruitless search, she returned to the manse, we were all snug inbed, with the door locked. After what had passed about the school, Mrs. Mitchell did not dare make any disturbance. 

From that night she always went by the name of _the Kelpie_. 

CHAPTER XII

Another Kelpie

In the summer we all slept in a large room in the wide sloping roof. It had a dormer window, at no great distance above the eaves. One daythere was something doing about the ivy, which covered all the gableand half the front of the house, and the ladder they had been usingwas left leaning against the back. It reached a little above theeaves, right under the dormer window. That night I could not sleep, aswas not unfrequently the case with me. On such occasions I used to gowandering about the upper part of the house. I believe the servantsthought I walked in my sleep, but it was not so, for I always knewwhat I was about well enough. I do not remember whether this beganafter that dreadful night when I woke in the barn, but I do think theenjoyment it gave me was rooted in the starry loneliness in which Ihad then found myself. I wonder if I can explain my feelings. Thepleasure arose from a sort of sense of protected danger. On thatmemorable night, I had been as it were naked to all the silence, alonein the vast universe, which kept looking at me full of something itknew but would not speak. Now, when wandering about sleepless, I couldgaze as from a nest of safety out upon the beautiful fear. From windowto window I would go in the middle of the night, now staring into ablank darkness out of which came, the only signs of its being, theraindrops that bespattered or the hailstones that berattled the panes;now gazing into the deeps of the blue vault, gold-bespangled with itsworlds; or, again, into the mysteries of soft clouds, all gatheredinto an opal tent by the centre-clasp of the moon, thinking out herlight over its shining and shadowy folds. 

This, I have said, was one of those nights on which I could not sleep. It was the summer after the winter-story of the kelpie, I believe; butthe past is confused, and its chronology worthless, to the continuous_now_ of childhood. The night was hot; my little brothers weresleeping loud, as wee Davie called _snoring_; and a great moth had gotwithin my curtains somewhere, and kept on fluttering and whirring. Igot up, and went to the window. It was such a night! The moon wasfull, but rather low, and looked just as if she were thinking--"Nobodyis heeding me: I may as well go to bed. " All the top of the sky wascovered with mackerel-backed clouds, lying like milky ripples on ablue sea, and through them the stars shot, here and there, sharplittle rays like sparkling diamonds. There was no awfulness about it, as on the night when the gulfy sky stood over me, flashing with theheavenly host, and nothing was between me and the farthest world. Theclouds were like the veil that hid the terrible light in the Holy ofHolies--a curtain of God's love, to dim with loveliness the grandeurof their own being, and make his children able to bear it. My eye fellupon the top rounds of the ladder, which rose above the edge of theroof like an invitation. I opened the window, crept through, and, holding on by the ledge, let myself down over the slates, feeling withmy feet for the top of the ladder. In a moment I was upon it. Down Iwent, and oh, how tender to my bare feet was the cool grass on which Ialighted! I looked up. The dark housewall rose above me. I couldascend again when I pleased. There was no hurry. I would walk about alittle. I would put my place of refuge yet a little farther off, nibble at the danger, as it were--a danger which existed only in myimagination. I went outside the high holly hedge, and the house washidden. A grassy field was before me, and just beyond the field rosethe farm buildings. Why should not I run across and wake Turkey? I wasoff like a shot, the expectation of a companion in my delightovercoming all the remnants of lingering apprehension. I knew therewas only one bolt, and that a manageable one, between me and Turkey, for he slept in a little wooden chamber partitioned off from a loft inthe barn, to which he had to climb a ladder. The only fearful part wasthe crossing of the barn-floor. But I was man enough for that. Ireached and crossed the yard in safety, searched for and found the keyof the barn, which was always left in a hole in the wall by thedoor, --turned it in the lock, and crossed the floor as fast as thedarkness would allow me. With outstretched groping hands I found theladder, ascended, and stood by Turkey's bed. 

"Turkey! Turkey! wake up, " I cried. "It's such a beautiful night! It'sa shame to lie sleeping that way. "

Turkey's answer was immediate. He was wide awake and out of bed withall his wits by him in a moment. 

"Sh! sh!" he said, "or you'll wake Oscar. "

Oscar was a colley (_sheep dog_) which slept in a kennel in thecornyard. He was not much of a watch-dog, for there was no greatoccasion for watching, and he knew it, and slept like a human child;but he was the most knowing of dogs. Turkey was proceeding to dress. 

"Never mind your clothes, Turkey, " I said. "There's nobody up. "

Willing enough to spare himself trouble, Turkey followed me in hisshirt. But once we were out in the cornyard, instead of findingcontentment in the sky and the moon, as I did, he wanted to know whatwe were going to do. 

"It's not a bad sort of night, " he said; "what shall we do with it?"

He was always wanting to do something. 

"Oh, nothing, " I answered; "only look about us a bit. "

"You didn't hear robbers, did you?" he asked. 

"Oh dear, no! I couldn't sleep, and got down the ladder, and came towake you--that's all. "

"Let's have a walk, then, " he said. 

Now that I had Turkey, there was scarcely more terror in the nightthan in the day. I consented at once. That we had no shoes on was notof the least consequence to Scotch boys. I often, and Turkey always, went barefooted in summer. 

As we left the barn, Turkey had caught up his little whip. He wasnever to be seen without either that or his club, as we called thestick he carried when he was herding the cattle. Finding him thusarmed, I begged him to give me his club. He ran and fetched it, and, thus equipped, we set out for nowhere in the middle of the night. Myfancy was full of fragmentary notions of adventure, in which shadowsfrom The Pilgrim's Progress predominated. I shouldered my club, tryingto persuade my imagination that the unchristian weapon had been wonfrom some pagan giant, and therefore was not unfittingly carried. ButTurkey was far better armed with his lash of wire than I was with theclub. His little whip was like that fearful weapon called the morningstar in the hand of some stalwart knight. 

We took our way towards the nearest hills, thinking little of where wewent so that we were in motion. I guess that the story I have justrelated must, notwithstanding his unbelief, have been working inTurkey's brain that night, for after we had walked for a mile or morealong the road, and had arrived at the foot of a wooded hill, wellknown to all the children of the neighbourhood for its bilberries, heturned into the hollow of a broken track, which lost itself in a fieldas yet only half-redeemed from the moorland. It was plain to me nowthat Turkey had some goal or other in his view; but I followed hisleading, and asked no questions. All at once he stopped, and said, pointing a few yards in front of him:

"Look, Ranald!"

I did look, but the moon was behind the hill, and the night was so dimthat I had to keep looking for several moments ere I discovered thathe was pointing to the dull gleam of dark water. Very horrible itseemed. I felt my flesh creep the instant I saw it. It lay in a hollowleft by the digging out of peats, drained thither from the surroundingbog. My heart sank with fear. The almost black glimmer of its surfacewas bad enough, but who could tell what lay in its unknown depth? But, as I gazed, almost paralysed, a huge dark figure rose up on theopposite side of the pool. For one moment the scepticism of Turkeyseemed to fail him, for he cried out, "The kelpie! The kelpie!" andturned and ran. 

I followed as fast as feet utterly unconscious of the ground they trodupon could bear me. We had not gone many yards before a great roarfilled the silent air. That moment Turkey slackened his pace, andburst into a fit of laughter. 

"It's nothing but Bogbonny's bull, Ranald!" he cried. 

Kelpies were unknown creatures to Turkey, but a bull was no more thana dog or a sheep, or any other domestic animal. I, however, did notshare his equanimity, and never slackened my pace till I got up withhim. 

"But he's rather ill-natured, " he went on, the instant I joined him, "and we had better make for the hill. "

Another roar was a fresh spur to our speed. We could not have been inbetter trim for running. But it was all uphill, and had it not beenthat the ground for some distance between us and the animal was boggy, so that he had to go round a good way, one of us at least would havebeen in evil case. 

"He's caught sight of our shirts, " said Turkey, panting as he ran, "and he wants to see what they are. But we'll be over the fence beforehe comes up with us. I wouldn't mind for myself; I could dodge himwell enough; but he might go after you, Ranald. "

What with fear and exertion I was unable to reply. Another bellowsounded nearer, and by and by we could hear the dull stroke of hishoofs on the soft ground as he galloped after us. But the fence of drystones, and the larch wood within it, were close at hand. 

"Over with you, Ranald!" cried Turkey, as if with his last breath; andturned at bay, for the brute was close behind him. 

But I was so spent, I could not climb the wall; and when I saw Turkeyturn and face the bull, I turned too. We were now in the shadow of thehill, but I could just see Turkey lift his arm. A short sharp hiss, and a roar followed. The bull tossed his head as in pain, left Turkey, and came towards me. He could not charge at any great speed, for theground was steep and uneven. I, too, had kept hold of my weapon; andalthough I was dreadfully frightened, I felt my courage rise atTurkey's success, and lifted my club in the hope that it might proveas good at need as Turkey's whip. It was well for me, however, thatTurkey was too quick for the bull. He got between him and me, and asecond stinging cut from the brass wire drew a second roar from histhroat, and no doubt a second red streamlet from his nose, while myclub descended on one of his horns with a bang which jarred my arm tothe elbow, and sent the weapon flying over the fence. The animalturned tail for a moment--long enough to place us, enlivened by oursuccess, on the other side of the wall, where we crouched so that hecould not see us. Turkey, however, kept looking up at the line of thewall against the sky; and as he looked, over came the nose of thebull, within a yard of his head. Hiss went the little whip, and bellowwent the bull. 

"Get up among the trees, Ranald, for fear he come over, " said Turkey, in a whisper. 

I obeyed. But as he could see nothing of his foes, the animal had hadenough of it, and we heard no more of him. 

After a while, Turkey left his lair and joined me. We rested for alittle, and would then have clambered to the top of the hill, but wegave up the attempt as awkward after getting into a furze bush. In ourcondition, it was too dark. I began to grow sleepy, also, and thoughtI should like to exchange the hillside for my bed. Turkey made noobjection, so we trudged home again; not without sundry starts andquick glances to make sure that the bull was neither after us on theroad, nor watching us from behind this bush or that hillock. Turkeynever left me till he saw me safe up the ladder; nay, after I was inbed, I spied his face peeping in at the window from the topmost roundof it. By this time the east had begun to begin to glow, as Allister, who was painfully exact, would have said; but I was fairly tired now, and, falling asleep at once, never woke until Mrs. Mitchell pulled theclothes off me, an indignity which I keenly felt, but did not yet knowhow to render impossible for the future. 

CHAPTER XIII

Wandering Willie

[illustration]

At that time there were a good many beggars going about the country, who lived upon the alms of the charitable. Among these were somehalf-witted persons, who, although not to be relied upon, were seldomto any extent mischievous. We were not much afraid of them, for thehome-neighbourhood is a charmed spot round which has been drawn amagic circle of safety, and we seldom roamed far beyond it. There was, however, one occasional visitor of this class, of whom we stood insome degree of awe. He was commonly styled Foolish Willie. Hisapproach to the manse was always announced by a wailful strain uponthe bagpipes, a set of which he had inherited from his father, who hadbeen piper to some Highland nobleman: at least so it was said. Willienever went without his pipes, and was more attached to them than toany living creature. He played them well, too, though in what cornerhe kept the amount of intellect necessary to the mastery of them was apuzzle. The probability seemed that his wits had not decayed untilafter he had become in a measure proficient in the use of the chanter, as they call that pipe by means of whose perforations the notes areregulated. However this may be, Willie could certainly play the pipes, and was a great favourite because of it--with children especially, notwithstanding the mixture of fear which his presence alwaysoccasioned them. Whether it was from our Highland blood or fromKirsty's stories, I do not know, but we were always delighted when thefar-off sound of his pipes reached us: little Davie would dance andshout with glee. Even the Kelpie, Mrs. Mitchell that is, wasbenignantly inclined towards Wandering Willie, as some people calledhim after the old song; so much so that Turkey, who always tried toaccount for things, declared his conviction that Willie must be Mrs. Mitchell's brother, only she was ashamed and wouldn't own him. I donot believe he had the smallest atom of corroboration for theconjecture, which therefore was bold and worthy of the inventor. Onething we all knew, that she would ostentatiously fill the canvas bagwhich he carried by his side, with any broken scraps she could gather, would give him as much milk to drink as he pleased, and would speakkind, almost coaxing, words to the poor _natural_--words which soundedthe stranger in our ears, that they were quite unused to like soundsfrom the lips of the Kelpie. 

It is impossible to describe Willie's dress: the agglomeration ofill-supplied necessity and superfluous whim was never exceeded. Hispleasure was to pin on his person whatever gay-coloured cottonhandkerchiefs he could get hold of; so that, with one of these behindand one before, spread out across back and chest, he always lookedlike an ancient herald come with a message from knight or nobleman. Soincongruous was his costume that I could never tell whether kilt ortrousers was the original foundation upon which it had beenconstructed. To his tatters add the bits of old ribbon, list, andcoloured rag which he attached to his pipes wherever there was room, and you will see that he looked all flags and pennons--a moving groveof raggery, out of which came the screaming chant and drone of hisinstrument. When he danced, he was like a whirlwind that had caught upthe contents of an old-clothes-shop. It is no wonder that he shouldhave produced in our minds an indescribable mixture of awe anddelight--awe, because no one could tell what he might do next, anddelight because of his oddity, agility, and music. The first sensationwas always a slight fear, which gradually wore off as we became anewaccustomed to the strangeness of the apparition. Before the visit wasover, wee Davie would be playing with the dangles of his pipes, andlaying his ear to the bag out of which he thought the music cameready-made. And Willie was particularly fond of Davie, and tried tomake himself agreeable to him after a hundred grotesque fashions. Theawe, however, was constantly renewed in his absence, partly by thethreats of the Kelpie, that, if so and so, she would give this one orthat to Foolish Willie to take away with him--a threat which now fellalmost powerless upon me, but still told upon Allister and Davie. 

One day, in early summer--it was after I had begun to go to school--Icame home as usual at five o'clock, to find the manse in greatcommotion. Wee Davie had disappeared. They were looking for himeverywhere without avail. Already all the farmhouses had beenthoroughly searched. An awful horror fell upon me, and the mostfrightful ideas of Davie's fate arose in my mind. I remember giving ahowl of dismay the moment I heard of the catastrophe, for which Ireceived a sound box on the ear from Mrs. Mitchell. I was toomiserable, however, to show any active resentment, and only sat downupon the grass and cried. In a few minutes, my father, who had beenaway visiting some of his parishioners, rode up on his little blackmare. Mrs. Mitchell hurried to meet him, wringing her hands, andcrying--

"Oh, sir! oh, sir! Davie's away with Foolish Willie!"

This was the first I had heard of Willie in connection with theaffair. My father turned pale, but kept perfectly quiet. 

"Which way did he go?" he asked. 

Nobody knew. 

"How long is it ago?"

"About an hour and a half, I think, " said Mrs. Mitchell. 

To me the news was some relief. Now I could at least do something. Ileft the group, and hurried away to find Turkey. Except my father, Itrusted more in Turkey than in anyone. I got on a rising ground nearthe manse, and looked all about until I found where the cattle werefeeding that afternoon, and then darted off at full speed. They wereat some distance from home, and I found that Turkey had heard nothingof the mishap. When I had succeeded in conveying the dreadful news, heshouldered his club, and said--

"The cows must look after themselves, Ranald!"

With the words he set off at a good swinging trot in the direction ofa little rocky knoll in a hollow about half a mile away, which he knewto be a favourite haunt of Wandering Willie, as often as he came intothe neighbourhood. On this knoll grew some stunted trees, gnarled andold, with very mossy stems. There was moss on the stones too, andbetween them grew lovely harebells, and at the foot of the knoll therewere always in the season tall foxgloves, which had imparted a certainfear to the spot in my fancy. For there they call them _Dead Man'sBells_, and I thought there was a murdered man buried somewherethereabout. I should not have liked to be there alone even in thebroad daylight. But with Turkey I would have gone at any hour, evenwithout the impulse which now urged me to follow him at my bestspeed. There was some marshy ground between us and the knoll, but wefloundered through it; and then Turkey, who was some distance ahead ofme, dropped into a walk, and began to reconnoitre the knoll with somecaution. I soon got up with him. 

"He's there, Ranald!" he said. 

"Who? Davie?"

"I don't know about Davie; but Willie's there. "

"How do you know?"

"I heard his bagpipes grunt. Perhaps Davie sat down upon them. "

"Oh, run, Turkey!" I said, eagerly. 

"No hurry, " he returned. "If Willie has him, he won't hurt him, but itmayn't be easy to get him away. We must creep up and see what can bedone. "

Half dead as some of the trees were, there was foliage enough uponthem to hide Willie, and Turkey hoped it would help to hide ourapproach. He went down on his hands and knees, and thus crept towardsthe knoll, skirting it partly, because a little way round it wassteeper. I followed his example, and found I was his match at crawlingin four-footed fashion. When we reached the steep side, we lay stilland listened. 

"He's there!" I cried in a whisper. 

"Sh!" said Turkey; "I hear him. It's all right. We'll soon have ahold of him. "

A weary whimper as of a child worn out with hopeless crying hadreached our ears. Turkey immediately began to climb the side of theknoll. 

"Stay where you are, Ranald, " he said. "I can go up quieter than you. "

I obeyed. Cautious as a deer-stalker, he ascended, still on his handsand knees. I strained my eyes after his every motion. But when he wasnear the top he lay perfectly quiet, and continued so till I couldbear it no longer, and crept up after him. When I came behind him, helooked round angrily, and made a most emphatic contortion of his face;after which I dared not climb to a level with him, but lay tremblingwith expectation. The next moment I heard him call in a low whisper:

"Davie! Davie! wee Davie!"

But there was no reply. He called a little louder, evidently trying toreach by degrees just the pitch that would pierce to Davie's ears andnot arrive at Wandering Willie's, who I rightly presumed was fartheroff. His tones grew louder and louder--but had not yet risen above asharp whisper, when at length a small trembling voice cried "Turkey!Turkey!" in prolonged accents of mingled hope and pain. There was asound in the bushes above me--a louder sound and a rush. Turkey sprangto his feet and vanished. I followed. Before I reached the top, therecame a despairing cry from Davie, and a shout and a gabble fromWillie. Then followed a louder shout and a louder gabble, mixed witha scream from the bagpipes, and an exulting laugh from Turkey. Allthis passed in the moment I spent in getting to the top, the last stepof which was difficult. There was Davie alone in the thicket, Turkeyscudding down the opposite slope with the bagpipes under his arm, andWandering Willie pursuing him in a foaming fury. I caught Davie in myarms from where he lay sobbing and crying "Yanal! Yanal!" and stoodfor a moment not knowing what to do, but resolved to fight with teethand nails before Willie should take him again. Meantime Turkey ledWillie towards the deepest of the boggy ground, in which both werevery soon floundering, only Turkey, being the lighter, had theadvantage. When I saw that, I resolved to make for home. I got Davieon my back, and slid down the farther side to skirt the bog, for Iknew I should stick in it with Davie's weight added to my own. I hadnot gone far, however, before a howl from Willie made me aware that hehad caught sight of us; and looking round, I saw him turn from Turkeyand come after us. Presently, however, he hesitated, then stopped, andbegan looking this way and that from the one to the other of histreasures, both in evil hands. Doubtless his indecision would havebeen very ludicrous to anyone who had not such a stake in the turn ofthe scale. As it was, he made up his mind far too soon, for he choseto follow Davie. I ran my best in the very strength of despair forsome distance, but, seeing very soon that I had no chance, I set Daviedown, telling him to keep behind me, and prepared, like the Knight ofthe Red Cross, "sad battle to darrayne". Willie came on in fury, hisrags fluttering like ten scarecrows, and he waving his arms in theair, with wild gestures and grimaces and cries and curses. He was moreterrible than the bull, and Turkey was behind him. I was just, like anegro, preparing to run my head into the pit of his stomach, and soupset him if I could, when I saw Turkey running towards us at fullspeed, blowing into the bagpipes as he ran. How he found breath forboth I cannot understand. At length, he put the bag under his arm, andforth issued such a combination of screeching and grunting andhowling, that Wandering Willie, in the full career of his rage, turnedat the cries of his companion. Then came Turkey's masterpiece. Hedashed the bagpipes on the ground, and commenced kicking them beforehim like a football, and the pipes cried out at every kick. IfTurkey's first object had been their utter demolition, he could nothave treated them more unmercifully. It was no time for gentlemeasures: my life hung in the balance. But this was more than Williecould bear. He turned from us, and once again pursued his pipes. Whenhe had nearly overtaken him, Turkey gave them a last masterly kick, which sent them flying through the air, caught them as they fell, andagain sought the bog, while I, hoisting Davie on my back, hurried, with more haste than speed, towards the manse. 

[Illustration]

What took place after I left them, I have only from Turkey's report, for I never looked behind me till I reached the little green beforethe house, where, setting Davie down, I threw myself on the grass. Iremember nothing more till I came to myself in bed. 

When Turkey reached the bog, and had got Wandering Willie well intothe middle of it, he threw the bagpipes as far beyond him as he could, and then made his way out. Willie followed the pipes, took them, heldthem up between him and the sky as if appealing to heaven against thecruelty, then sat down in the middle of the bog upon a solitary hump, and cried like a child. Turkey stood and watched him, at first withfeelings of triumph, which by slow degrees cooled down until at lengththey passed over into compassion, and he grew heartily sorry for thepoor fellow, although there was no room for repentance. After Williehad cried for a while, he took the instrument as if it had been themangled corpse of his son, and proceeded to examine it. Turkeydeclared his certainty that none of the pipes were broken; but when atlength Willie put the mouthpiece to his lips, and began to blow intothe bag, alas! it would hold no wind. He flung it from him in angerand cried again. Turkey left him crying in the middle of the bog. Hesaid it was a pitiful sight. 

It was long before Willie appeared in that part of the country again;but, about six months after, some neighbours who had been to a fairtwenty miles off, told my father that they had seen him looking muchas usual, and playing his pipes with more energy than ever. This was agreat relief to my father, who could not bear the idea of the poorfellow's loneliness without his pipes, and had wanted very much to getthem repaired for him. But ever after my father showed a great regardfor Turkey. I heard him say once that, if he had had the chance, Turkey would have made a great general. That he should be judgedcapable of so much, was not surprising to me; yet he became inconsequence a still greater being in my eyes. 

When I set Davie down, and fell myself on the grass, there was nobodynear. Everyone was engaged in a new search for Davie. My father hadrode off at once without dismounting, to inquire at the neighbouringtoll-gate whether Willie had passed through. It was not very likely, for such wanderers seldom take to the hard high road; but he couldthink of nothing else, and it was better to do something. Havingfailed there, he had returned and ridden along the country road whichpassed the farm towards the hills, leaving Willie and Davie far behindhim. It was twilight before he returned. How long, therefore, I layupon the grass, I do not know. When I came to myself, I found a sharppain in my side. Turn how I would, there it was, and I could draw buta very short breath for it. I was in my father's bed, and there was noone in the room. I lay for some time in increasing pain; but in alittle while my father came in, and then I felt that all was as itshould be. Seeing me awake, he approached with an anxious face. 

"Is Davie all right, father?" I asked. 

"He is quite well, Ranald, my boy. How do you feel yourself now?"

"I've been asleep, father?"

"Yes; we found you on the grass, with Davie pulling at you and tryingto wake you, crying, 'Yanal won't peak to me. Yanal! Yanal!' I amafraid you had a terrible run with him. Turkey, as you call him, toldme all about it. He's a fine lad Turkey!"

"Indeed he is, father!" I cried with a gasp which betrayed mysuffering. 

"What is the matter, my boy?" he asked. 

"Lift me up a little, please, " I said, "I have _such_ a pain in myside!"

"Ah!" he said, "it catches your breath. We must send for the olddoctor. "

The old doctor was a sort of demigod in the place. Everybody believedand trusted in him; and nobody could die in peace without him any morethan without my father. I was delighted at the thought of being hispatient. I think I see him now standing with his back to the fire, andtaking his lancet from his pocket, while preparations were being madefor bleeding me at the arm, which was a far commoner operation thenthan it is now. 

That night I was delirious, and haunted with bagpipes. WanderingWillie was nowhere, but the atmosphere was full of bagpipes. It was anunremitting storm of bagpipes--silent, but assailing me bodily fromall quarters--now small as motes in the sun, and hailing upon me; nowlarge as feather-beds, and ready to bang us about, only they nevertouched us; now huge as Mount Ætna, and threatening to smother usbeneath their ponderous bulk; for all the time I was toiling on withlittle Davie on my back. Next day I was a little better, but veryweak, and it was many days before I was able to get out of bed. Myfather soon found that it would not do to let Mrs. Mitchell attendupon me, for I was always worse after she had been in the room for anytime; so he got another woman to take Kirsty's duties, and set her tonurse me, after which illness became almost a luxury. With Kirstynear, nothing could go wrong. And the growing better was pureenjoyment. 

Once, when Kirsty was absent for a little while, Mrs. Mitchell broughtme some gruel. 

"The gruel's not nice, " I said. 

"It's perfectly good, Ranald, and there's no merit in complaining wheneverybody's trying to make you as comfortable as they can, " said theKelpie. 

"Let me taste it, " said Kirsty, who that moment entered theroom. --"It's not fit for anybody to eat, " she said, and carried itaway, Mrs. Mitchell following her with her nose horizontal. 

Kirsty brought the basin back full of delicious gruel, well boiled, and supplemented with cream. I am sure the way in which shetransformed that basin of gruel has been a lesson to me ever since asto the quality of the work I did. No boy or girl can have a muchbetter lesson than--to do what must be done as well as it can bedone. Everything, the commonest, well done, is something for theprogress of the world; that is, lessens, if by the smallesthair's-breadth, the distance between it and God. 

Oh, what a delight was that first glowing summer afternoon upon whichI was carried out to the field where Turkey was herding the cattle! Icould not yet walk. That very morning, as I was being dressed byKirsty, I had insisted that I could walk quite well, and Kirsty hadbeen over-persuaded into letting me try. Not feeling steady on mylegs, I set off running, but tumbled on my knees by the first chair Icame near. I was so light from the wasting of my illness, that Kirstyherself, little woman as she was, was able to carry me. I rememberwell how I saw everything double that day, and found it at first veryamusing. Kirsty set me down on a plaid in the grass, and the nextmoment, Turkey, looking awfully big, and portentously healthy, stoodby my side. I wish I might give the conversation in the dialect of mynative country, for it loses much in translation; but I have promised, and I will keep my promise. 

"Eh, Ranald!" said Turkey, "it's not yourself?"

"It's me, Turkey, " I said, nearly crying with pleasure. 

"Never mind, Ranald, " he returned, as if consoling me in somedisappointment; "we'll have rare fun yet. "

"I'm frightened at the cows, Turkey. Don't let them come near me. "

"No, that I won't, " answered Turkey, brandishing his club to give meconfidence, "_I_'ll give it them, if they look at you from betweentheir ugly horns. "

"Turkey, " I said, for I had often pondered the matter during myillness, "how did Hawkie behave while you were away with me--that day, you know?"

"She ate about half a rick of green corn, " answered Turkey, coolly. "But she had the worst of it. They had to make a hole in her side, orshe would have died. There she is off to the turnips!"

He was after her with shout and flourish. Hawkie heard and obeyed, turning round on her hind-legs with a sudden start, for she knew fromhis voice that he was in a dangerously energetic mood. 

"You'll be all right again soon, " he said, coming quietly back tome. Kirsty had gone to the farmhouse, leaving me with injunctions toTurkey concerning me. 

"Oh yes, I'm nearly well now; only I can't walk yet. "

"Will you come on my back?" he said. 

When Kirsty returned to take me home, there was I following the cowson Turkey's back, riding him about wherever I chose; for my horse wasobedient as only a dog, or a horse, or a servant from love canbe. From that day I recovered very rapidly. 

CHAPTER XIV

Elsie Duff

How all the boys and girls stared at me, as timidly, yet with a senseof importance derived from the distinction of having been so ill, Ientered the parish school one morning, about ten o'clock! For as Isaid before, I had gone to school for some months before I was takenill. It was a very different affair from Dame Shand's tyrannicallittle kingdom. Here were boys of all ages, and girls likewise, ruledover by an energetic young man, with a touch of genius, manifestedchiefly in an enthusiasm for teaching. He had spoken to me kindly thefirst day I went, and had so secured my attachment that it neverwavered, not even when, once, supposing me guilty of a certain breachof orders committed by my next neighbour, he called me up, and, withmore severity than usual, ordered me to hold up my hand. The lashstung me dreadfully, but I was able to smile in his facenotwithstanding. I could not have done that had I been guilty. Hedropped his hand, already lifted for the second blow, and sent me backto my seat. I suppose either his heart interfered, or he saw that Iwas not in need of more punishment. The greatest good he did me, onefor which I shall be ever grateful, was the rousing in me of a lovefor English literature, especially poetry. But I cannot linger uponthis at present, tempting although it be. I have led a busy life inthe world since, but it has been one of my greatest comforts when thework of the day was over--dry work if it had not been that I had it todo--to return to my books, and live in the company of those who weregreater than myself, and had had a higher work in life than mine. Themaster used to say that a man was fit company for any man whom hecould understand, and therefore I hope often that some day, in somefuture condition of existence, I may look upon the faces of Milton andBacon and Shakspere, whose writings have given me so much strength andhope throughout my life here. 

The moment he saw me, the master came up to me and took me by thehand, saying he was glad to see me able to come to school again. 

"You must not try to do too much at first, " he added. 

This set me on my mettle, and I worked hard and with some success. Butbefore the morning was over I grew very tired, and fell fast asleepwith my head on the desk. I was informed afterwards that the masterhad interfered when one of my class-fellows was trying to wake me, andtold him to let me sleep. 

When one o'clock came, I was roused by the noise of dismissal for thetwo hours for dinner. I staggered out, still stupid with sleep, andwhom should I find watching for me by the door-post but Turkey!

"Turkey!" I exclaimed; "you here!"

"Yes, Ranald, " he said; "I've put the cows up for an hour or two, forit was very hot; and Kirsty said I might come and carry you home. "

So saying he stooped before me, and took me on his strong back. Assoon as I was well settled, he turned his head, and said:

"Ranald, I should like to go and have a look at my mother. Will youcome? There's plenty of time. "

"Yes, please, Turkey, " I answered. "I've never seen your mother. "

He set off at a slow easy trot, and bore me through street and laneuntil we arrived at a two-storey house, in the roof of which hismother lived. She was a widow, and had only Turkey. What a curiousplace her little garret was! The roof sloped down on one side to thevery floor, and there was a little window in it, from which I couldsee away to the manse, a mile off, and far beyond it. Her bed stood inone corner, with a check curtain hung from a rafter in front of it. Inanother was a chest, which contained all their spare clothes, including Turkey's best garments, which he went home to put on everySunday morning. In the little grate smouldered a fire of oak-bark, from which all the astringent virtue had been extracted in the pits atthe lanyard, and which was given to the poor for nothing. 

Turkey's mother was sitting near the little window, spinning. She wasa spare, thin, sad-looking woman, with loving eyes and slow speech. 

"Johnnie!" she exclaimed, "what brings you here? and who's thisyou've brought with you?"

Instead of stopping her work as she spoke, she made her wheel gofaster than before; and I gazed with admiration at her deft fingeringof the wool, from which the thread flowed in a continuous line, as ifit had been something plastic, towards the revolving spool. 

"It's Ranald Bannerman, " said Turkey quietly. "I'm his horse. I'mtaking him home from the school. This is the first time he's beenthere since he was ill. "

Hearing this, she relaxed her labour, and the hooks which had beenrevolving so fast that they were invisible in a mist of motion, beganto dawn into form, until at length they revealed their shape, and atlast stood quite still. She rose, and said:

"Come, Master Ranald, and sit down. You'll be tired of riding such arough horse as that. "

"No, indeed, " I said; "Turkey is not a rough horse; he's the besthorse in the world. "

"He always calls me Turkey, mother, because of my nose, " said Turkey, laughing. 

"And what brings you here?" asked his mother. "This is not on the roadto the manse. "

"I wanted to see if you were better, mother. "

"But what becomes of the cows?"

"Oh! they're all safe enough. They know I'm here. "

"Well, sit down and rest you both, " she said, resuming her own placeat the wheel. "I'm glad to see you, Johnnie, so be your work is notneglected. I must go on with mine. "

Thereupon Turkey, who had stood waiting his mother's will, depositedme upon her bed, and sat down beside me. 

"And how's your papa, the good man?" she said to me. 

I told her he was quite well. 

"All the better that you're restored from the grave, I don't doubt, "she said. 

I had never known before that I had been in any danger. 

"It's been a sore time for him and you too, " she added. "You must be agood son to him, Ranald, for he was in a great way about you, theytell me. "

Turkey said nothing, and I was too much surprised to know what to say;for as often as my father had come into my room, he had always lookedcheerful, and I had had no idea that he was uneasy about me. 

After a little more talk, Turkey rose, and said we must be going. 

"Well, Ranald, " said his mother, "you must come and see me any timewhen you're tired at the school, and you can lie down and restyourself a bit. Be a good lad, Johnnie, and mind your work. "

"Yes, mother, I'll try, " answered Turkey cheerfully, as he hoisted meonce more upon his back. "Good day, mother, " he added, and left theroom. 

I mention this little incident because it led to other thingsafterwards. I rode home upon Turkey's back; and with my father'sleave, instead of returning to school that day, spent the afternoon inthe fields with Turkey. 

In the middle of the field where the cattle were that day, there was alarge circular mound. I have often thought since that it must havebeen a barrow, with dead men's bones in the heart of it, but no suchsuspicion had then crossed my mind. Its sides were rather steep, andcovered with lovely grass. On the side farthest from the manse, andwithout one human dwelling in sight, Turkey and I lay that afternoon, in a bliss enhanced to me, I am afraid, by the contrasted thought ofthe close, hot, dusty schoolroom, where my class-fellows were talking, laughing, and wrangling, or perhaps trying to work in spite of thedifficulties of after-dinner disinclination. A fitful little breeze, as if itself subject to the influence of the heat, would wake up for afew moments, wave a few heads of horse-daisies, waft a few strains ofodour from the blossoms of the white clover, and then die awayfatigued with the effort. Turkey took out his Jews' harp, anddiscoursed soothing if not eloquent strains. 

At our feet, a few yards from the mound, ran a babbling brook, whichdivided our farm from the next. Those of my readers whose ears areopen to the music of Nature, must have observed how different are thesongs sung by different brooks. Some are a mere tinkling, others aresweet as silver bells, with a tone besides which no bell ever had. Some sing in a careless, defiant tone. This one sung in a veiledvoice, a contralto muffled in the hollows of overhanging banks, with alow, deep, musical gurgle in some of the stony eddies, in which astraw would float for days and nights till a flood came, borne roundand round in a funnel-hearted whirlpool. The brook was deep for itssize, and had a good deal to say in a solemn tone for such a smallstream. We lay on the side of the hillock, I say, and Turkey's Jews'harp mingled its sounds with those of the brook. After a while he laidit aside, and we were both silent for a time. 

At length Turkey spoke. 

"You've seen my mother, Ranald. "

"Yes, Turkey. "

"She's all I've got to look after. "

"I haven't got any mother to look after, Turkey. "

"No. You've a father to look after you. I must do it, you know. Myfather wasn't over good to my mother. He used to get drunk sometimes, and then he was very rough with her. I must make it up to her as wellas I can. She's not well off, Ranald. "

"Isn't she, Turkey?"

"No. She works very hard at her spinning, and no one spins better thanmy mother. How could they? But it's very poor pay, you know, andshe'll be getting old by and by. "

"Not to-morrow, Turkey. "

"No, not to-morrow, nor the day after, " said Turkey, looking up withsome surprise to see what I meant by the remark. 

He then discovered that my eyes had led my thoughts astray, and thatwhat he had been saying about his mother had got no farther than intomy ears. For on the opposite side of the stream, on the grass, like ashepherdess in an old picture, sat a young girl, about my own age, inthe midst of a crowded colony of daisies and white clover, knitting sothat her needles went as fast as Kirsty's, and were nearly asinvisible as the thing with the hooked teeth in it that looked sodangerous and ran itself out of sight upon Turkey's mother'sspinning-wheel. A little way from her was a fine cow feeding, with along iron chain dragging after her. The girl was too far off for me tosee her face very distinctly; but something in her shape, her posture, and the hang of her head, I do not know what, had attracted me. 

"Oh! there's Elsie Duff, " said Turkey, himself forgetting his motherin the sight--"with her granny's cow! I didn't know she was cominghere to-day. "

[Illustration]

"How is it, " I asked, "that she is feeding her on old James Joss'sland?"

"Oh! they're very good to Elsie, you see. Nobody cares much about hergrandmother; but Elsie's not her grandmother, and although the cowbelongs to the old woman, yet for Elsie's sake, this one here and thatone there gives her a bite for it--that's a day's feed generally. Ifyou look at the cow, you'll see she's not like one that feeds by theroadsides. She's as plump as needful, and has a good udderful of milkbesides. "

"I'll run down and tell her she may bring the cow into this fieldto-morrow, " I said, rising. 

"I would if it were _mine_" said Turkey, in a marked tone, which Iunderstood. 

"Oh! I see, Turkey, " I said. "You mean I ought to ask my father. "

"Yes, to be sure, I do mean that, " answered Turkey. 

"Then it's as good as done, " I returned. "I will ask him to-night. "

"She's a good girl, Elsie, " was all Turkey's reply. 

How it happened I cannot now remember, but I know that, after all, Idid not ask my father, and Granny Gregson's cow had no bite either offthe glebe or the farm. And Turkey's reflections concerning the motherhe had to take care of having been interrupted, the end to which theywere moving remained for the present unuttered. 

I soon grew quite strong again, and had neither plea nor desire forexemption from school labours. My father also had begun to take me inhand as well as my brother Tom; and what with arithmetic and Latintogether, not to mention geography and history, I had quite enough todo, and quite as much also as was good for me. 

CHAPTER XV

A New Companion

[Illustration]

During this summer, I made the acquaintance at school of a boy calledPeter Mason. Peter was a clever boy, from whose merry eye a sparklewas always ready to break. He seldom knew his lesson well, but, when_kept in_ for not knowing it, had always learned it before any of therest had got more than half through. Amongst those of his own standinghe was the acknowledged leader in the playground, and was besidesoften invited to take a share in the amusements of the older boys, bywhom he was petted because of his cleverness and obligingdisposition. Beyond school hours, he spent his time in all manner ofpranks. In the hot summer weather he would bathe twenty times a day, and was as much at home in the water as any dabchick. And that was howI came to be more with him than was good for me. 

There was a small river not far from my father's house, which at acertain point was dammed back by a weir of large stones to turn partof it aside into a mill-race. The mill stood a little way down, undera steep bank. It was almost surrounded with trees, willows by thewater's edge, and birches and larches up the bank. Above the dam was afine spot for bathing, for you could get any depth you liked--from twofeet to five or six; and here it was that most of the boys of thevillage bathed, and I with them. I cannot recall the memory of thosesummer days without a gush of delight gurgling over my heart, just asthe water used to gurgle over the stones of the dam. It was a quietplace, particularly on the side to which my father's farm went down, where it was sheltered by the same little wood which farther onsurrounded the mill. The field which bordered the river was kept innatural grass, thick and short and fine, for here on the bank it grewwell, although such grass was not at all common in that part of thecountry: upon other parts of the same farm, the grass was sown everyyear along with the corn. Oh the summer days, with the hot sun drawingthe odours from the feathery larches and the white-stemmed birches, when, getting out of the water, I would lie in the warm soft grass, where now and then the tenderest little breeze would creep over myskin, until the sun baking me more than was pleasant, I would rousemyself with an effort, and running down to the fringe of rushes thatbordered the full-brimmed river, plunge again headlong into the quietbrown water, and dabble and swim till I was once more weary! Forinnocent animal delight, I know of nothing to match those days--sowarm, yet so pure-aired--so clean, so glad. I often think how God mustlove his little children to have invented for them such delights!For, of course, if he did not love the children and delight in theirpleasure, he would not have invented the two and brought themtogether. Yes, my child, I know what you would say, --"How many thereare who have no such pleasures!" I grant it sorrowfully; but you mustremember that God has not done with them yet; and, besides, that thereare more pleasures in the world than you or I know anything about. And if we had it _all_ pleasure, I know I should not care so muchabout what is better, and I would rather be made good than have anyother pleasure in the world; and so would you, though perhaps you donot know it yet. 

One day, a good many of us were at the water together. I was somebodyamongst them in my own estimation because I bathed off my father'sground, while they were all on a piece of bank on the other side whichwas regarded as common to the village. Suddenly upon the latter spot, when they were all undressed, and some already in the water, appeareda man who had lately rented the property of which that was part, accompanied by a dog, with a flesh-coloured nose and a villainouslook--a mongrel in which the bull predominated. He ordered everyoneoff his premises. Invaded with terror, all, except a big boy whotrusted that the dog would be more frightened at his naked figure thanhe was at the dog, plunged into the river, and swam or waded from theinhospitable shore. Once in the embrace of the stream, some of themthoughtlessly turned and mocked the enemy, forgetting how much theywere still in his power. Indignant at the tyrant, I stood up in the"limpid wave", and assured the aquatic company of a welcome to theopposite bank. So far all was very well. But their clothes! They, alas! were upon the bank they had left!

The spirit of a host was upon me, for now I regarded them all as myguests. 

"You come ashore when you like, " I said; "I will see what can be doneabout your clothes. "

I knew that just below the dam lay a little boat built by the miller'ssons. It was clumsy enough, but in my eyes a marvel of engineeringart. On the opposite side stood the big boy braving the low-bred curwhich barked and growled at him with its ugly head stretched out likea serpent's; while his owner, who was probably not so unkind as wethought him, stood enjoying the fun of it all. Reckoning upon the bigboy's assistance, I scrambled out of the water, and sped, likeAchilles of the swift foot, for the boat. I jumped in and seized theoars, intending to row across, and get the big boy to throw theclothes of the party into the boat. But I had never handled an oar inmy life, and in the middle passage--how it happened I cannot tell--Ifound myself floundering in the water. 

Now, although you might expect that the water being dammed back justhere, it would be shallow below the dam, it was just the opposite. Hadthe bottom been hard, it would have been shallow; but as the bottomwas soft and muddy, the rush of the water over the dam in thewinter-floods had here made a great hollow. There was besides anotherweir a very little way below which again dammed the water back; sothat the depth was greater here than in almost any other part withinthe ken of the village boys. Indeed there were horrors afloatconcerning its depth. I was but a poor swimmer, for swimming is anatural gift, and is not equally distributed to all. I might have donebetter, however, but for those stories of the awful gulf beneath me. I was struggling and floundering, half-blind, and quite deaf, with asense of the water constantly getting up and stopping me, whatever Iwanted to do, when I felt myself laid hold of by the leg, draggedunder water, and a moment after landed safe on the bank. Almost thesame moment I heard a plunge, and getting up, staggering andbewildered, saw, as through the haze of a dream, a boy swimming afterthe boat, which had gone down with the slow current. I saw himovertake it, scramble into it in midstream, and handle the oars as tothe manner born. When he had brought it back to the spot where Istood, I knew that Peter Mason was my deliverer. Quite recovered bythis time from my slight attack of drowning, I got again into theboat, and leaving the oars to Peter, was rowed across and landed. There was no further difficulty. The man, alarmed, I suppose, at thedanger I had run, recalled his dog; we bundled in the clothes; Peterrowed them across; Rory, the big boy, took the water after the boat, and I plunged in again above the dam. For the whole of that summer andpart of the following winter, Peter was my hero, to the forgettingeven of my friend Turkey. I took every opportunity of joining him inhis games, partly from gratitude, partly from admiration, but morethan either from the simple human attraction of the boy. It was sometime before he led me into any real mischief, but it came at last. 

CHAPTER XVI

I Go Down Hill

It came in the following winter. 

My father had now begun to teach me as well as Tom, but I confess Idid not then value the privilege. I had got much too fond of thesociety of Peter Mason, and all the time I could command I spent withhim. Always full of questionable frolic, the spirit of mischiefgathered in him as the dark nights drew on. The sun, and the wind, andthe green fields, and the flowing waters of summer kept him withinbounds; but when the ice and the snow came, when the sky was grey withone cloud, when the wind was full of needle-points of frost and theground was hard as a stone, when the evenings were dark, and the sunat noon shone low down and far away in the south, then the demon ofmischief awoke in the bosom of Peter Mason, and, this winter, I amashamed to say, drew me also into the net. 

Nothing very bad was the result before the incident I am about torelate. There must have been, however, a gradual declension towardsit, although the pain which followed upon this has almost obliteratedthe recollection of preceding follies. Nobody does anything bad all atonce. Wickedness needs an apprenticeship as well as more difficulttrades. 

It was in January, not long after the shortest day, the sun settingabout half-past three o'clock. At three school was over, and just aswe were coming out, Peter whispered to me, with one of his merriesttwinkles in his eyes:

"Come across after dark, Ranald, and we'll have some fun. "

I promised, and we arranged when and where to meet. It was Friday, andI had no Latin to prepare for Saturday, therefore my father did notwant me. I remember feeling very jolly as I went home to dinner, andmade the sun set ten times at least, by running up and down theearthen wall which parted the fields from the road; for as often as Iran up I saw him again over the shoulder of the hill, behind which hewas going down. When I had had my dinner, I was so impatient to joinPeter Mason that I could not rest, and from very idleness began totease wee Davie. A great deal of that nasty teasing, so common amongboys, comes of idleness. Poor Davie began to cry at last, and I, getting more and more wicked, went on teasing him, until at length heburst into a howl of wrath and misery, whereupon the Kelpie, who hadsome tenderness for him, burst into the room, and boxed my earssoundly. I was in a fury of rage and revenge, and had I been nearanything I could have caught up, something serious would have been theresult. In spite of my resistance, she pushed me out of the room andlocked the door. I would have complained to my father, but I wasperfectly aware that, although _she_ had no right to strike me, I haddeserved chastisement for my behaviour to my brother. I was stillboiling with anger when I set off for the village to join Mason. Imention all this to show that I was in a bad state of mind, and thusprepared for the wickedness which followed. I repeat, a boy neverdisgraces himself all at once. He does not tumble from the top to thebottom of the cellar stair. He goes down the steps himself till hecomes to the broken one, and then he goes to the bottom with arush. It will also serve to show that the enmity between Mrs. Mitchelland me had in nowise abated, and that however excusable she might bein the case just mentioned, she remained an evil element in thehousehold. 

When I reached the village, I found very few people about. The nightwas very cold, for there was a black frost. There had been a thaw theday before which had carried away the most of the snow, but in thecorners lay remnants of dirty heaps which had been swept up there. Iwas waiting near one of these, which happened to be at the spot wherePeter had arranged to meet me, when from a little shop near a girlcame out and walked quickly down the street. I yielded to thetemptation arising in a mind which had grown a darkness with slimythings crawling in it. I kicked a hole in the frozen crust of theheap, scraped out a handful of dirty snow, kneaded it into a snowball, and sent it after the girl. It struck her on the back of the head. Shegave a cry and ran away, with her hand to her forehead. Brute that Iwas, I actually laughed. I think I must have been nearer the devilthen than I have been since. At least I hope so. For you see it wasnot with me as with worse-trained boys. I knew quite well that I wasdoing wrong, and refused to think about it. I felt bad inside. Petermight have done the same thing without being half as wicked as Iwas. He did not feel the wickedness of that kind of thing as I did. Hewould have laughed over it merrily. But the vile dregs of my wrathwith the Kelpie were fermenting in my bosom, and the horrid pleasure Ifound in annoying an innocent girl because the wicked Kelpie had mademe angry, could never have been expressed in a merry laugh likeMason's. The fact is, I was more displeased with myself than withanybody else, though I did not allow it, and would not take thetrouble to repent and do the right thing. If I had even said to weeDavie that I was sorry, I do not think I should have done the otherwicked things that followed; for this was not all by any means. In alittle while Peter joined me. He laughed, of course, when I told himhow the girl had run like a frighted hare, but that was poor fun inhis eyes. 

"Look here, Ranald, " he said, holding out something like a piece ofwood. 

"What is it, Peter?" I asked. 

"It's the stalk of a cabbage, " he answered. "I've scooped out theinside and filled it with tow. We'll set fire to one end, and blow thesmoke through the keyhole. "

"Whose keyhole, Peter?"

"An old witch's that I know of. She'll be in such a rage! It'll be funto hear her cursing and swearing. We'd serve the same to every housein the row, but that would be more than we could get off with. Comealong. Here's a rope to tie her door with first. "

I followed him, not without inward misgivings, which I kept down aswell as I could. I argued with myself, "_I_ am not doing it; I am onlygoing with Peter: what business is that of anybody's so long as Idon't touch the thing myself?" Only a few minutes more, and I washelping Peter to tie the rope to the latch-handle of a poor littlecottage, saying now to myself, "This doesn't matter. This won't do herany harm. This isn't smoke. And after all, smoke won't hurt the nastyold thing. It'll only make her angry. It may do her cough good: I daresay she's got a cough. " I knew all I was saying was false, and yet Iacted on it. Was not that as wicked as wickedness could be? One momentmore, and Peter was blowing through the hollow cabbage stalk in at thekeyhole with all his might. Catching a breath of the stifling smokehimself, however, he began to cough violently, and passed the wickedinstrument to me. I put my mouth to it, and blew with all my might. Ibelieve now that there was some far more objectionable stuff mingledwith the tow. In a few moments we heard the old woman begin tocough. Peter, who was peeping in at the window, whispered--

"She's rising. Now we'll catch it, Ranald!"

Coughing as she came, I heard her with shuffling steps approach thedoor, thinking to open it for air. When she failed in opening it, andfound besides where the smoke was coming from, she broke into atorrent of fierce and vengeful reproaches, mingled with epithets by nomeans flattering. She did not curse and swear as Peter had led me toexpect, although her language was certainly far enough from refined;but therein I, being, in a great measure, the guilty cause, was moreto blame than she. I laughed because I would not be unworthy of mycompanion, who was genuinely amused; but I was, in reality, shocked atthe tempest I had raised. I stopped blowing, aghast at what I haddone; but Peter caught the tube from my hand and recommenced theassault with fresh vigour, whispering through the keyhole, every nowand then between the blasts, provoking, irritating, even insultingremarks on the old woman's personal appearance and supposed ways ofliving. This threw her into paroxysms of rage and of coughing, bothincreasing in violence; and the war of words grew, she tugging at thedoor as she screamed, he answering merrily, and with pretendedsympathy for her sufferings, until I lost all remaining delicacy inthe humour of the wicked game, and laughed loud and heartily. 

[Illustration]

Of a sudden the scolding and coughing ceased. A strange sound andagain silence followed. Then came a shrill, suppressed scream; and weheard the voice of a girl, crying:

"Grannie! grannie! What's the matter with you? Can't you speak to me, grannie? They've smothered my grannie!"

Sobs and moans were all we heard now. Peter had taken fright at last, and was busy undoing the rope. Suddenly he flung the door wide andfled, leaving me exposed to the full gaze of the girl. To my horror itwas Elsie Duff! She was just approaching the door, her eyes streamingwith tears, and her sweet face white with agony. I stood unable tomove or speak. She turned away without a word, and began again to busyherself with the old woman, who lay on the ground not two yards fromthe door. I heard a heavy step approaching. Guilt awoke fear andrestored my powers of motion. I fled at full speed, not to find Mason, but to leave everything behind me. 

When I reached the manse, it stood alone in the starry blue night. Somehow I could not help thinking of the time when I came home afterwaking up in the barn. That, too, was a time of misery, but, oh! howdifferent from this! Then I had only been cruelly treated myself; nowI had actually committed cruelty. Then I sought my father's bosom asthe one refuge; now I dreaded the very sight of my father, for I couldnot look him in the face. He was my father, but I was not his son. Ahurried glance at my late life revealed that I had been behaving verybadly, growing worse and worse. I became more and more miserable as Istood, but what to do I could not tell. The cold at length drove meinto the house. I generally sat with my father in his study of awinter night now, but I dared not go near it. I crept to the nursery, where I found a bright fire burning, and Allister reading by theblaze, while Davie lay in bed at the other side of the room. I satdown and warmed myself, but the warmth could not reach the lump of iceat my heart. I sat and stared at the fire. Allister was too muchoccupied with his book to take any heed of me. All at once I felt apair of little arms about my neck, and Davie was trying to climb uponmy knees. Instead of being comforted, however, I spoke very crossly, and sent him back to his bed whimpering. You see I was only miserable;I was not repentant. I was eating the husks with the swine, and didnot relish them; but I had not said, "I will arise and go to myfather". 

How I got through the rest of that evening I hardly know. I tried toread, but could not. I was rather fond of arithmetic; so I got myslate and tried to work a sum; but in a few moments I was sick of it. At family prayers I never lifted my head to look at my father, andwhen they were over, and I had said good night to him, I felt that Iwas sneaking out of the room. But I had some small sense of protectionand safety when once in bed beside little Davie, who was sound asleep, and looked as innocent as little Samuel when the voice of God wasgoing to call him. I put my arm round him, hugged him close to me, andbegan to cry, and the crying brought me sleep. 

It was a very long time now since I had dreamt my old childish dream;but this night it returned. The old sunny-faced sun looked down uponme very solemnly. There was no smile on his big mouth, no twinkleabout the corners of his little eyes. He looked at Mrs. Moon as muchas to say, "What is to be done? The boy has been going the wrong way:must we disown him?" The moon neither shook her head nor moved herlips, but turned as on a pivot, and stood with her back to herhusband, looking very miserable. Not one of the star-children movedfrom its place. They shone sickly and small. In a little while theyfaded out; then the moon paled and paled until she too vanishedwithout ever turning her face to her husband; and last the sun himselfbegan to change, only instead of paling he drew in all his beams, andshrunk smaller and smaller, until no bigger than a candle-flame. ThenI found that I was staring at a candle on the table; and that Tom waskneeling by the side of the other bed, saying his prayers. 

CHAPTER XVII

The Trouble Grows

When I woke in the morning, I tried to persuade myself that I had madea great deal too much of the whole business; that if not a dignifiedthing to do, it was at worst but a boy's trick; only I would have nomore to say to Peter Mason, who had betrayed me at the last momentwithout even the temptation of any benefit to himself. I went toschool as usual. It was the day for the Shorter Catechism. None failedbut Peter and me; and we two were kept in alone, and left in theschoolroom together. I seated myself as far from him as I could. Inhalf an hour he had learned his task, while I had not mastered thehalf of mine. Thereupon he proceeded, regardless of my entreaties, toprevent me learning it. I begged, and prayed, and appealed to hispity, but he would pull the book away from me, gabble bits of balladsin my ear as I was struggling with _Effectual Calling_, tip up theform on which I was seated, and, in short, annoy me in twentydifferent ways. At last I began to cry, for Mason was a bigger andstronger boy than I, and I could not help myself against him. Liftingmy head after the first vexation was over, I thought I saw a shadowpass from the window. Although I could not positively say I saw it, Ihad a conviction it was Turkey, and my heart began to turn againtowards him. Emboldened by the fancied proximity, I attempted mylesson once more, but that moment Peter was down upon me like aspider. At last, however, growing suddenly weary of the sport, hedesisted, and said:

"Ran, you can stay if you like. I've learned my catechism, and I don'tsee why I should wait _his_ time. "

As he spoke he drew a picklock from his pocket--his father was anironmonger--deliberately opened the schoolroom door, slipped out, andlocked it behind him. Then he came to one of the windows, and beganmaking faces at me. But vengeance was nigher than he knew. A deepershadow darkened my page, and when I looked up, there was Turkeytowering over Mason, with his hand on his collar, and his whip lifted. The whip did not look formidable. Mason received the threat as a joke, and laughed in Turkey's face. Perceiving, however, that Turkey lookeddangerous, with a sudden wriggle, at which he was an adept, he brokefree, and, trusting to his tried speed of foot, turned his head andmade a grimace as he took to his heels. Before, however, he couldwiden the space between them sufficiently, Turkey's whip came downupon him. With a howl of pain Peter doubled himself up, and Turkeyfell upon him, and, heedless of his yells and cries, pommelled himseverely. Although they were now at some distance, too great for thedistinguishing of words, I could hear that Turkey mingled admonitionwith punishment. A little longer, and Peter crept past the window, amiserable mass of collapsed and unstrung impudence, his face blearedwith crying, and his knuckles dug into his eyes. And this was the boyI had chosen for my leader! He had been false to me, I said to myself;and the noble Turkey, seeing his behaviour through the window, hadwatched to give him his deserts. My heart was full of gratitude. 

Once more Turkey drew near the window. What was my dismay andindignation to hear him utter the following words:

"If you weren't your father's son, Ranald, and my own old friend, Iwould serve you just the same. "

Wrath and pride arose in me at the idea of Turkey, who used to callhimself my horse, behaving to me after this fashion; and, my evil wayshaving half made a sneak of me, I cried out:

"I'll tell my father, Turkey. "

"I only wish you would, and then I should be no tell-tale if he askedme why, and I told him all about it. You young blackguard! You're nogentleman! To sneak about the streets and hit girls with snowballs! Iscorn you!"

"You must have been watching, then, Turkey, and you had no business todo that, " I said, plunging at any defence. 

"I was not watching you. But if I had been, it would have been just asright as watching Hawkie. You ill-behaved creature! You're a trueminister's son. "

"It's a mean thing to do, Turkey, " I persisted, seeking to stir up myown anger and blow up my self-approval. 

"I tell you I did not do it. I met Elsie Duff crying in the streetbecause you had hit her with a dirty snowball. And then to go andsmoke her and her poor grannie, till the old woman fell down in afaint or a fit, I don't know which! You deserve a good pommellingyourself, I can tell you, Ranald. I'm ashamed of you. "

He turned to go away. 

"Turkey, Turkey, " I cried, "isn't the old woman better?"

"I don't know. I'm going to see, " he answered. 

"Come back and tell me, Turkey, " I shouted, as he disappeared from thefield of my vision. 

"Indeed I won't. I don't choose to keep company with such as you. Butif ever I hear of you touching them again, you shall have more of methan you'll like, and you may tell your father so when you please. "

I had indeed sunk low when Turkey, who had been such a friend, wouldhave nothing to say to me more. In a few minutes the master returned, and finding me crying, was touched with compassion. He sent me home atonce, which was well for me, as I could not have repeated a singlequestion. He thought Peter had crept through one of the panes thatopened for ventilation, and did not interrogate me about hisdisappearance. 

The whole of the rest of that day was miserable enough. I evenhazarded one attempt at making friends with Mrs. Mitchell, but sherepelled me so rudely that I did not try again. I could not bear thecompany of either Allister or Davie. I would have gone and toldKirsty, but I said to myself that Turkey must have already prejudicedher against me. I went to bed the moment prayers were over, and slepta troubled sleep. I dreamed that Turkey had gone and told my father, and that he had turned me out of the house. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Light out of Darkness

I woke early on the Sunday morning, and a most dreary morning itwas. I could not lie in bed, and, although no one was up yet, rose anddressed myself. The house was as waste as a sepulchre. I opened thefront door and went out. The world itself was no better. The day hadhardly begun to dawn. The dark dead frost held it in chains of iron. The sky was dull and leaden, and cindery flakes of snow were thinlyfalling. Everywhere life looked utterly dreary and hopeless. What wasthere worth living for? I went out on the road, and the ice in theruts crackled under my feet like the bones of dead things. I wanderedaway from the house, and the keen wind cut me to the bone, for I hadnot put on plaid or cloak. I turned into a field, and stumbled alongover its uneven surface, swollen into hard frozen lumps, so that itwas like walking upon stones. The summer was gone and the winter washere, and my heart was colder and more miserable than any winter inthe world. I found myself at length at the hillock where Turkey and Ihad lain on that lovely afternoon the year before. The stream belowwas dumb with frost. The wind blew wearily but sharply across the barefield. There was no Elsie Duff, with head drooping over her knitting, seated in the summer grass on the other side of a singing brook. Herhead was aching on her pillow because I had struck her with that vilelump; and instead of the odour of white clover she was breathing thedregs of the hateful smoke with which I had filled the cottage. I satdown, cold as it was, on the frozen hillock, and buried my face in myhands. Then my dream returned upon me. This was how I sat in my dreamwhen my father had turned me out-of-doors. Oh how dreadful it wouldbe! I should just have to lie down and die. 

I could not sit long for the cold. Mechanically I rose and pacedabout. But I grew so wretched in body that it made me forget for awhile the trouble of my mind, and I wandered home again. The house wasjust stirring. I crept to the nursery, undressed, and lay down besidelittle Davie, who cried out in his sleep when my cold feet touchedhim. But I did not sleep again, although I lay till all the rest hadgone to the parlour. I found them seated round a blazing fire waitingfor my father. He came in soon after, and we had our breakfast, andDavie gave his crumbs as usual to the robins and sparrows which camehopping on the window-sill. I fancied my father's eyes were oftenturned in my direction, but I could not lift mine to make sure. I hadnever before known what misery was. 

Only Tom and I went to church that day: it was so cold. My fatherpreached from the text, "Be sure your sin shall find you out". Ithought with myself that he had found out my sin, and was preparing topunish me for it, and I was filled with terror as well as dismay. Icould scarcely keep my seat, so wretched was I. But when after manyinstances in which punishment had come upon evil-doers when they leastexpected it, and in spite of every precaution to fortify themselvesagainst it, he proceeded to say that a man's sin might find him outlong before the punishment of it overtook him, and drew a picture ofthe misery of the wicked man who fled when none pursued him, andtrembled at the rustling of a leaf, then I was certain that he knewwhat I had done, or had seen through my face into my conscience. Whenat last we went home, I kept waiting the whole of the day for thestorm to break, expecting every moment to be called to his study. Idid not enjoy a mouthful of my food, for I felt his eyes upon me, andthey tortured me. I was like a shy creature of the woods whose holehad been stopped up: I had no place of refuge--nowhere to hide myhead; and I felt so naked!

My very soul was naked. After tea I slunk away to the nursery, and satstaring into the fire. Mrs. Mitchell came in several times and scoldedme for sitting there, instead of with Tom and the rest in the parlour, but I was too miserable even to answer her. At length she broughtDavie, and put him to bed; and a few minutes after, I heard my fathercoming down the stair with Allister, who was chatting away to him. Iwondered how he could. My father came in with the big Bible under hisarm, as was his custom on Sunday nights, drew a chair to the table, rang for candles, and with Allister by his side and me seated oppositeto him, began to find a place from which to read to us. To my yetstronger conviction, he began and read through without a word ofremark the parable of the Prodigal Son. When he came to the father'sdelight at having him back, the robe, and the shoes, and the ring, Icould not repress my tears. "If I could only go back, " I thought, "andset it all right! but then I've never gone away. " It was a foolishthought, instantly followed by a longing impulse to tell my father allabout it. How could it be that I had not thought of this before? I hadbeen waiting all this time for my sin to find me out; why should I notfrustrate my sin, and find my father first?

As soon as he had done reading, and before he had opened his mouth tomake any remark, I crept round the table to his side, and whispered inhis ear, --

"Papa, I want to speak to you. "

"Very well, Ranald, " he said, more solemnly, I thought, than usual;"come up to the study. "

[Illustration]

He rose and led the way, and I followed. A whimper of disappointmentcame from Davie's bed. My father went and kissed him, and said hewould soon be back, whereupon Davie nestled down satisfied. 

When we reached the study, he closed the door, sat down by the fire, and drew me towards him. 

I burst out crying, and could not speak for sobs. He encouraged memost kindly. He said--

"Have you been doing anything wrong, my boy?"

"Yes, papa, very wrong, " I sobbed. "I'm disgusted with myself. "

"I am glad to hear it, my dear, " he returned. "There is some hope ofyou, then. "

"Oh! I don't know that, " I rejoined. "Even Turkey despises me. "

"That's very serious, " said my father. "He's a fine fellow, Turkey. Ishould not like him to despise me. But tell me all about it. "

It was with great difficulty I could begin, but with the help ofquestioning me, my father at length understood the whole matter. Hepaused for a while plunged in thought; then rose, saying, --

"It's a serious affair, my dear boy; but now you have told me, I shallbe able to help you. "

"But you knew about it before, didn't you, papa? Surely you did!"

"Not a word of it, Ranald. You fancied so because your sin had foundyou out. I must go and see how the poor woman is. I don't want toreproach you at all, now you are sorry, but I should like you just tothink that you have been helping to make that poor old woman wicked. She is naturally of a sour disposition, and you have made it sourerstill, and no doubt made her hate everybody more than she was alreadyinclined to do. You have been working against God in this parish. "

I burst into fresh tears. It was too dreadful. 

"What _am_ I to do?" I cried. 

"Of course you must beg Mrs. Gregson's pardon, and tell her that youare both sorry and ashamed. "

"Yes, yes, papa. Do let me go with you. "

"It's too late to find her up, I'm afraid; but we can just go andsee. We've done a wrong, a very grievous wrong, my boy, and I cannotrest till I at least know the consequences of it. "

He put on his long greatcoat and muffler in haste, and having seenthat I too was properly wrapped up, he opened the door and steppedout. But remembering the promise he had made to Davie, he turned andwent down to the nursery to speak to him again, while I awaited him onthe doorsteps. It would have been quite dark but for the stars, andthere was no snow to give back any of their shine. The earth swallowedall their rays, and was no brighter for it. But oh, what a change tome from the frightful morning! When my father returned, I put my handin his almost as fearlessly as Allister or wee Davie might have done, and away we walked together. 

"Papa, " I said, "why did you say _we_ have done a wrong? You did notdo it. "

"My dear boy, persons who are so near each other as we are, must notonly bear the consequences together of any wrong done by one of them, but must, in a sense, bear each other's iniquities even. If I sin, youmust suffer; if you sin, you being my own boy, I must suffer. But thisis not all: it lies upon both of us to do what we can to get rid ofthe wrong done; and thus we have to bear each other's sin. I amaccountable to make amends as far as I can; and also to do what I canto get you to be sorry and make amends as far as you can. "

"But, papa, isn't that hard?" I asked. 

"Do you think I should like to leave you to get out of your sin as youbest could, or sink deeper and deeper into it? Should I grudgeanything to take the weight of the sin, or the wrong to others, offyou? Do you think I should want not to be troubled about it? Or if Iwere to do anything wrong, would you think it very hard that you hadto help me to be good, and set things right? Even if people lookeddown upon you because of me, would you say it was hard? Would you notrather say, 'I'm glad to bear anything for my father: I'll share withhim'?"

"Yes, indeed, papa. I would rather share with you than not, whateverit was. "

"Then you see, my boy, how kind God is in tying us up in one bundlethat way. It is a grand and beautiful thing that the fathers shouldsuffer for the children, and the children for the fathers. Comealong. We must step out, or I fear we shall not be able to make ourapology to-night. When we've got over this, Ranald, we must be a gooddeal more careful what company we keep. "

"Oh, papa, " I answered, "if Turkey would only forgive me!"

"There's no fear. Turkey is sure to forgive you when you've done whatyou can to make amends. He's a fine fellow, Turkey. I have a highopinion of Turkey--as you call him. "

"If he would, papa, I should not wish for any other company than his. "

"A boy wants various kinds of companions, Ranald, but I fear you havebeen neglecting Turkey. You owe him much. "

"Yes, indeed I do, papa, " I answered; "and I have been neglectinghim. If I had kept with Turkey, I should never have got into such adreadful scrape as this. "

"That is too light a word to use for it, my boy. Don't call awickedness a scrape; for a wickedness it certainly was, though I amonly too willing to believe you had no adequate idea at the time _how_wicked it was. "

"I won't again, papa. But I am so relieved already. "

"Perhaps poor old Mrs. Gregson is not relieved, though. You ought notto forget her. "

Thus talking, we hurried on until we arrived at the cottage. A dimlight was visible through the window. My father knocked, and ElsieDuff opened the door. 

CHAPTER XIX

Forgiveness

When we entered, there sat the old woman on the farther side of thehearth, rocking herself to and fro. I hardly dared look up. Elsie'sface was composed and sweet. She gave me a shy tremulous smile, whichwent to my heart and humbled me dreadfully. My father took the stoolon which Elsie had been sitting. When he had lowered himself upon it, his face was nearly on a level with that of the old woman, who took nonotice of him, but kept rocking herself to and fro and moaning. Helaid his hand on hers, which, old and withered and not very clean, layon her knee. 

"How do you find yourself to-night, Mrs. Gregson?" he asked. 

"I'm an ill-used woman, " she replied with a groan, behaving as if itwas my father who had maltreated her, and whose duty it was to make anapology for it. 

"I am aware of what you mean, Mrs. Gregson. That is what brought me toinquire after you. I hope you are not seriously the worse for it. "

"I'm an ill-used woman, " she repeated. "Every man's hand's againstme. "

"Well, I hardly think that, " said my father in a cheerful tone. "_My_hand's not against you now. "

"If you bring up your sons, Mr. Bannerman, to mock at the poor, andfind their amusement in driving the aged and infirm to death's door, you can't say your hand's not against a poor lone woman like me. "

"But I don't bring up my sons to do so. If I did I shouldn't be herenow. I am willing to bear my part of the blame, Mrs. Gregson, but tosay I bring my sons up to that kind of wickedness, is to lay on memore than my share, a good deal. --Come here, Ranald. "

I obeyed with bowed head and shame-stricken heart, for I saw whatwrong I had done my father, and that although few would be so unjustto him as this old woman, many would yet blame the best man in theworld for the wrongs of his children. When I stood by my father'sside, the old woman just lifted her head once to cast on me a scowlinglook, and then went on again rocking herself. 

"Now, my boy, " said my father, "tell Mrs. Gregson why you have comehere to-night. "

I had to use a dreadful effort to make myself speak. It was likeresisting a dumb spirit and forcing the words from my lips. But I didnot hesitate a moment. In fact, I dared not hesitate, for I felt thathesitation would be defeat. 

"I came, papa----" I began. 

"No no, my man, " said my father; "you must speak to Mrs. Gregson, notto me. "

Thereupon I had to make a fresh effort. When at this day I see a childwho will not say the words required of him, I feel again just as Ifelt then, and think how difficult it is for him to do what he istold; but oh, how I wish he would do it, that he might be a conquerorI for I know that if he will not make the effort, it will grow moreand more difficult for him to make any effort. I cannot be toothankful that I was able to overcome now. 

"I came, Mrs. Gregson, " I faltered, "to tell you that I am very sorryI behaved so ill to you. "

"Yes, indeed, " she returned. "How would you like anyone to come andserve you so in your grand house? But a poor lone widow woman like meis nothing to be thought of. Oh no! not at all. "

"I am ashamed of myself, " I said, almost forcing my confession uponher. 

"So you ought to be all the days of your life. You deserve to bedrummed out of the town for a minister's son that you are! Hoo!"

"I'll never do it again, Mrs. Gregson. "

"You'd better not, or you shall hear of it, if there's a sheriff inthe county. To insult honest people after that fashion!"

I drew back, more than ever conscious of the wrong I had done inrousing such unforgiving fierceness in the heart of a woman. My fatherspoke now. 

"Shall I tell you, Mrs. Gregson, what made the boy sorry, and made himwilling to come and tell you all about it?"

"Oh, I've got friends after all. The young prodigal!"

"You are coming pretty near it, Mrs. Gregson, " said my father; "butyou haven't touched it quite. It was a friend of yours that spoke tomy boy and made him very unhappy about what he had done, telling himover and over again what a shame it was, and how wicked of him. Do youknow what friend it was?"

"Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don't. I can guess. "

"I fear you don't guess quite correctly. It was the best friend youever had or ever will have. It was God himself talking in my poorboy's heart. He would not heed what he said all day, but in theevening we were reading how the prodigal son went back to his father, and how the father forgave him; and he couldn't stand it any longer, and came and told me all about it. "

"It wasn't you he had to go to. It wasn't you he smoked to death--wasit now? It was easy enough to go to you. "

"Not so easy perhaps. But he has come to you now. "

"Come when you made him!"

"I didn't make him. He came gladly. He saw it was all he could do tomake up for the wrong he had done. "

"A poor amends!" I heard her grumble; but my father took no notice. 

"And you know, Mrs. Gregson, " he went on, "when the prodigal son didgo back to his father, his father forgave him at once. "

"Easy enough! He was his father, and fathers always side with theirsons. "

I saw my father thinking for a moment. 

"Yes; that is true, " he said. "And what he does himself, he alwayswants his sons and daughters to do. So he tells us that if we don'tforgive one another, he will not forgive us. And as we all want to beforgiven, we had better mind what we're told. If you don't forgivethis boy, who has done you a great wrong, but is sorry for it, Godwill not forgive you--and that's a serious affair. "

"He's never begged my pardon yet, " said the old woman, whose dignityrequired the utter humiliation of the offender. 

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Gregson, " I said. "I shall never be rude toyou again. "

"Very well, " she answered, a little mollified at last. 

"Keep your promise, and we'll say no more about it. It's for yourfather's sake, mind, that I forgive you. "

I saw a smile trembling about my father's lips, but he suppressed it, saying, "Won't you shake hands with him, Mrs. Gregson?"

She held out a poor shrivelled hand, which I took very gladly; but itfelt so strange in mine that I was frightened at it: it was likesomething half dead. But at the same moment, from behind me anotherhand, a rough little hand, but warm and firm and all alive, slippedinto my left hand. I knew it was Elsie Duff's, and the thought of howI had behaved to her rushed in upon me with a cold misery of shame. Iwould have knelt at her feet, but I could not speak my sorrow beforewitnesses. Therefore I kept hold of her hand and led her by it to theother end of the cottage, for there was a friendly gloom, the onlylight in the place coming from the glow--not flame--of a fire of peatand bark. She came readily, whispering before I had time to open mymouth--

I'm sorry grannie's so hard to make it up. "

"I deserve it, " I said. "Elsie, I'm a brute. I could knock my head onthe wall. Please forgive me. "

"It's not me, " she answered. "You didn't hurt me. I didn't mind it. "

"Oh, Elsie! I struck you with that horrid snowball. "

"It was only on the back of my neck. It didn't hurt me much. It onlyfrightened me. "

"I didn't know it was you. If I had known, I am sure I shouldn't havedone it. But it was wicked and contemptible anyhow, to any girl. "

I broke down again, half from shame, half from the happiness of havingcast my sin from me by confessing it. Elsie held my hand now. 

"Never mind; never mind, " she said; "you won't do it again. "

"I would rather be hanged, " I sobbed. 

That moment a pair of strong hands caught hold of mine, and the next Ifound myself being hoisted on somebody's back, by a succession ofheaves and pitches, which did not cease until I was firmly seated. Then a voice said--

"I'm his horse again, Elsie, and I'll carry him home this very night. "

Elsie gave a pleased little laugh; and Turkey bore me to the fireside, where my father was talking away in a low tone to the old woman. Ibelieve he had now turned the tables upon her, and was trying toconvince her of her unkind and grumbling ways. But he did not let ushear a word of the reproof. 

"Eh! Turkey, my lad! is that you? I didn't know you were there, " hesaid. 

I had never before heard my father address him as Turkey. 

"What are you doing with that great boy upon your back?" he continued. 

"I'm going to carry him home, sir. "

"Nonsense! He can walk well enough. "

Half ashamed, I began to struggle to get down, but Turkey held metight. 

"But you see, sir, " said Turkey, "we're friends now. _He's_ done whathe could, and _I_ want to do what I can. "

"Very well, " returned my father, rising; "come along; it's time wewere going. "

When he bade her good night, the old woman actually rose and held outher hand to both of us. 

"Good night, Grannie, " said Turkey. "Good night, Elsie. " And away wewent. 

Never conqueror on his triumphal entry was happier than I, as throughthe starry night I rode home on Turkey's back. The very stars seemedrejoicing over my head. When I think of it now, the words always comewith it, "There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over onesinner that repenteth, " and I cannot but believe they rejoiced then, for if ever I repented in my life I repented then. When at length Iwas down in bed beside Davie, it seemed as if there could be nobody inthe world so blessed as I was: I had been forgiven. When I woke in themorning, I was as it were new born into a new world. Before getting upI had a rare game with Davie, whose shrieks of laughter at lengthbrought Mrs. Mitchell with angry face; but I found myself kindlydisposed even towards her. The weather was much the same; but itsdreariness had vanished. There was a glowing spot in my heart whichdrove out the cold, and glorified the black frost that bound theearth. When I went out before breakfast, and saw the red face of thesun looking through the mist like a bright copper kettle, he seemed toknow all about it, and to be friends with me as he had never beenbefore; and I was quite as well satisfied as if the sun of my dreamhad given me a friendly nod of forgiveness. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XX

I Have a Fall and a Dream

Elsie Duff's father was a farm-labourer, with a large family. He waswhat is called a cottar in Scotland, which name implies that of thelarge farm upon which he worked for yearly wages he had a little bitof land to cultivate for his own use. His wife's mother was GrannieGregson. She was so old that she needed someone to look after her, butshe had a cottage of her own in the village, and would not go and livewith her daughter, and, indeed, they were not anxious to have her, forshe was not by any means a pleasant person. So there was no help forit: Elsie must go and be her companion. It was a great trial to her atfirst, for her home was a happy one, her mother being very unlike hergrandmother; and, besides, she greatly preferred the open fields tothe streets of the village. She did not grumble, however, for where isthe good of grumbling where duty is plain, or even when a thing cannotbe helped? She found it very lonely though, especially when hergrannie was in one of her gloomy moods. Then she would not answer aquestion, but leave the poor girl to do what she thought best, andcomplain of it afterwards. This was partly the reason why her parents, towards the close of the spring, sent a little brother, who was toodelicate to be of much use at home, to spend some months with hisgrannie, and go to school. The intention had been that Elsie herselfshould go to school, but what with the cow and her grandmothertogether she had not been able to begin. Of course grannie grumbled atthe proposal, but, as Turkey, my informant on these points, explained, she was afraid lest, if she objected, they should take Elsie away andsend a younger sister in her place. So little Jamie Duff came to theschool. 

He was a poor little white-haired, red-eyed boy, who found himselfvery much out of his element there. Some of the bigger boys imaginedit good fun to tease him; but on the whole he was rather a favourite, for he looked so pitiful, and took everything so patiently. For mypart, I was delighted at the chance of showing Elsie Duff somekindness through her brother. The girl's sweetness clung to me, andnot only rendered it impossible for me to be rude to any girl, butkept me awake to the occurrence of any opportunity of doing somethingfor her sake. Perceiving one day, before the master arrived, thatJamie was shivering with cold, I made way for him where I stood by thefire; and then found that he had next to nothing upon his little body, and that the soles of his shoes were hanging half off. This in themonth of March in the north of Scotland was bad enough, even if he hadnot had a cough. I told my father when I went home, and he sent me totell Mrs. Mitchell to look out some old garments of Allister's forhim; but she declared there were none. When I told Turkey this helooked very grave, but said nothing. When I told my father, he desiredme to take the boy to the tailor and shoemaker, and get warm andstrong clothes and shoes made for him. I was proud enough of thecommission, and if I did act the grand benefactor a little, I have notyet finished the penance of it, for it never comes into my mindwithout bringing its shame with it. Of how many people shall I nothave to beg the precious forgiveness when I meet them in the otherworld! For the sake of this penal shame, I confess I let the littlefellow walk behind me, as I took him through the streets. Perhaps Imay say this for myself, that I never thought of demanding any serviceof him in return for mine: I was not so bad as that. And I was true inheart to him notwithstanding my pride, for I had a real affection forhim. I had not seen his sister--to speak to I mean--since that Sundaynight. 

One Saturday afternoon, as we were having a game something like hareand hounds, I was running very hard through the village, when I set myfoot on a loose stone, and had a violent fall. When I got up, I sawJamie Duff standing by my side, with a face of utter consternation. Idiscovered afterwards that he was in the way of following me about. Finding the blood streaming down my face, and remarking when I came tomyself a little that I was very near the house where Turkey's motherlived, I crawled thither, and up the stairs to her garret, Jamiefollowing in silence. I found her busy as usual at her wheel, andElsie Duff stood talking to her, as if she had just run in for amoment and must not sit down. Elsie gave a little cry when she saw thestate I was in, and Turkey's mother got up and made me take her chairwhile she hastened to get some water. I grew faint, and lost myconsciousness. When I came to myself I was leaning against Elsie, whose face was as white as a sheet with dismay. I took a little waterand soon began to revive. 

When Turkey's mother had tied up my head, I rose to go home, but shepersuaded me to lie down a while. I was not unwilling to comply. Whata sense of blissful repose pervaded me, weary with running, andperhaps faint with loss of blood, when I stretched myself on the bed, whose patchwork counterpane, let me say for Turkey's mother, was asclean as any down quilt in chambers of the rich. I remember so wellhow a single ray of sunlight fell on the floor from the little windowin the roof, just on the foot that kept turning the spinning-wheel. Its hum sounded sleepy in my ears. I gazed at the sloping ray oflight, in which the ceaseless rotation of the swift wheel kept themotes dancing most busily, until at length to my half-closed eyes itbecame a huge Jacob's ladder, crowded with an innumerable company ofascending and descending angels, and I thought it must be the sameladder I used to see in my dream. The drowsy delight which follows onthe loss of blood possessed me, and the little garret with theslanting roof, and its sloping sun-ray, and the whirr of the wheel, and the form of the patient woman that span, had begun to gather aboutthem the hues of Paradise to my slowly fading senses, when I heard avoice that sounded miles away, and yet close to my ear:

"Elsie, sing a little song, will you?"

I heard no reply. A pause followed, and then a voice, clear andmelodious as a brook, began to sing, and before it ceased, I wasindeed in a kind of paradise. 

[Illustration]

But here I must pause. Shall I be breaking my promise of not a word ofScotch in my story, if I give the song? True it is not a part of thestory exactly, but it is in it. If my reader would like the song, hemust have it in Scotch or not at all. I am not going to spoil it byturning it out of its own natural clothes into finer garments to whichit was not born--I mean by translating it from Scotch into English. The best way will be this: I give the song as something extra--call ita footnote slipped into the middle of the page. Nobody needs read aword of it to understand the story; and being in smaller type and ashape of its own, it can be passed over without the least trouble. 

 SONG

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the yorlin[1] sings, Wi' a clip o' the sunshine atween his wings;Whaur the birks[2] are a' straikit wi' fair munelicht, And the broom hings its lamps by day and by nicht;Whaur the burnie comes trottin' ower shingle and stane, Liltin'[3] bonny havers[4] til 'tsel alane;And the sliddery[5] troot, wi' ae soop o' its tail, Is awa' 'neath the green weed's swingin' veil!Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang as I sawThe yorlin, the broom, an' the burnie, an' a'!

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the primroses wonn, Luikin' oot o' their leaves like wee sons o' the sun;Whaur the wild roses hing like flickers o' flame, And fa' at the touch wi' a dainty shame;Whaur the bee swings ower the white clovery sod, And the butterfly flits like a stray thoucht o' God;Whaur, like arrow shot frae life's unseen bow, The dragon-fly burns the sunlicht throu'!Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang to seeThe rose and the primrose, the draigon and bee!

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the mune luiks doon, As gin she war hearin' a soundless tune, Whan the flowers an' the birds are a' asleep, And the verra burnie gangs creepy-creep;Whaur the corn-craik craiks in the lang lang rye, And the nicht is the safter for his rouch cry;Whaur the wind wad fain lie doon on the slope, And the verra darkness owerflows wi' hope!Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur, silent, I feltThe mune an' the darkness baith into me melt. 

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luiks in, Sayin', Here awa', there awa', baud awa', sin!Wi' the licht o' God in his flashin' ee, Sayin', Darkness and sorrow a' work for me!Whaur the lark springs up on his ain sang borne, Wi' bird-shout and jubilee hailin' the morn;For his hert is fu' o' the hert o' the licht, An', come darkness or winter, a' maun be richt!Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luikit in, Sayin', Here awa', there awa', hand awa', sin. 

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I used to lieWi' Jeanie aside me, sae sweet and sae shy!Whaur the wee white gowan wi' reid reid tips, Was as white as her cheek and as reid as her lips. Oh, her ee had a licht cam frae far 'yont the sun, And her tears cam frae deeper than salt seas run!O' the sunlicht and munelicht she was the queen, For baith war but middlin' withoot my Jean. Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I used to lieWi' Jeanie aside me, sae sweet and sae shy!

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies, A' day and a' nicht, luikin' up to the skies;Whaur the sheep wauk up i' the summer nicht, Tak a bite, and lie doon, and await the licht;Whaur the psalms roll ower the grassy heaps, And the wind comes and moans, and the rain comes andweeps!

But Jeanie, my Jeanie--she's no lyin' there, For she's up and awa' up the angels' stair. Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies, And the stars luik doon, and the nicht-wind sighs!

[Footnote 1: The Yellow-hammer. ]

[Footnote 2: Birch-trees. ]

[Footnote 3: Singing. ]

[Footnote 4: Nonsense. ]

[Footnote 5: Slippery. ]

Elsie's voice went through every corner of my brain: there was singingin all its chambers. I could not hear the words of the song wellenough to understand them quite; but Turkey gave me a copy of themafterwards. They were the schoolmaster's work. All the winter, Turkeyhad been going to the evening school, and the master had been greatlypleased with him, and had done his best to get him on in various ways. A friendship sprung up between them; and one night he showed Turkeythese verses. Where the air came from, I do not know: Elsie's brainwas full of tunes. I repeated them to my father once, and he wasgreatly pleased with them. 

On this first acquaintance, however, they put me to sleep; and littleJamie Duff was sent over to tell my father what had happened. Jamiegave the message to Mrs. Mitchell, and she, full of her ownimportance, must needs set out to see how much was the matter. 

I was dreaming an unutterably delicious dream. It was a summerevening. The sun was of a tremendous size, and of a splendidrose-colour. He was resting with his lower edge on the horizon, anddared go no farther, because all the flowers would sing instead ofgiving out their proper scents, and if he left them, he feared utteranarchy in his kingdom before he got back in the morning. I woke andsaw the ugly face of Mrs. Mitchell bending over me. She was pushingme, and calling to me to wake up. The moment I saw her I shut my eyestight, turned away, and pretended to be fast asleep again, in the hopethat she would go away and leave me with my friends. 

"Do let him have his sleep out, Mrs. Mitchell, " said Turkey's mother. 

"You've let him sleep too long already, " she returned, ungraciously. "He'll do all he can, waking or sleeping, to make himself troublesome. He's a ne'er-do-well, Ranald. Little good'll ever come of him. It's amercy his mother is under the mould, for he would have broken herheart. "

I had come to myself quite by this time, but I was not in the leastmore inclined to acknowledge it to Mrs. Mitchell. 

"You're wrong there, Mrs. Mitchell, " said Elsie Duff; and my readermust remember it required a good deal of courage to stand up against awoman so much older than herself, and occupying the important positionof housekeeper to the minister. "Ranald is a good boy. I'm sure heis. "

"How dare you say so, when he served your poor old grandmother such awicked trick? It's little the children care for their parentsnowadays. Don't speak to me. "

"No, don't, Elsie, " said another voice, accompanied by a creaking ofthe door and a heavy step. "Don't speak to her, Elsie, or you'll havethe worst of it. Leave her to me. --If Ranald did what you say, Mrs. Mitchell, and I don't deny it, he was at least very sorry for itafterwards, and begged grannie's pardon; and that's a sort of thing_you_ never did in your life. "

"I never had any occasion, Turkey; so you hold your tongue. "

"Now don't you call me _Turkey_. I won't stand it. I was christened aswell as you. "

"And what are _you_ to speak to me like that? Go home to your cows. Idare say they're standing supperless in their stalls while you'regadding about. I'll call you _Turkey_ as long as I please. "

"Very well, Kelpie--that's the name you're known by, though perhaps noone has been polite enough to use it to your face, for you're a greatwoman, no doubt--I give you warning that I know you. When you're foundout, don't say I didn't give you a chance beforehand. "

"You impudent beggar!" cried Mrs. Mitchell, in a rage. "And you're allone pack, " she added, looking round on the two others. "Get up, Ranald, and come home with me directly. What are you lying shammingthere for?"

As she spoke, she approached the bed; but Turkey was too quick forher, and got in front of it. As he was now a great strong lad, shedared not lay hands upon him, so she turned in a rage and stalked outof the room, saying, "Mr. Bannerman shall hear of this. "

"Then it'll be both sides of it, Mrs. Mitchell, " I cried from the bed;but she vanished, vouchsafing me no reply. 

Once more Turkey got me on his back and carried me home. I told myfather the whole occurrence. He examined the cut and plastered it upfor me, saying he would go and thank Turkey's mother at once. Iconfess I thought more of Elsie Duff and her wonderful singing, whichhad put me to sleep, and given me the strange lovely dream from whichthe rough hands and harsh voice of the Kelpie had waked me too soon. 

After this, although I never dared go near her grandmother's housealone, I yet, by loitering and watching, got many a peep of Elsie. Sometimes I went with Turkey to his mother's of an evening, to whichmy father had no objection, and somehow or other Elsie was sure to bethere, and we spent a very happy hour or two together. Sometimes shewould sing, and sometimes I would read to them out of Milton--I readthe whole of Comus to them by degrees in this way; and although therewas much I could not at all understand, I am perfectly certain it hadan ennobling effect upon every one of us. It is not necessary that theintellect should define and separate before the heart and soul derivenourishment. As well say that a bee can get nothing out of a flower, because she does not understand botany. The very music of the statelywords of such a poem is enough to generate a better mood, to make onefeel the air of higher regions, and wish to rise "above the smoke andstir of this dim spot". The best influences which bear upon us are ofthis vague sort--powerful upon the heart and conscience, althoughundefined to the intellect. 

But I find I have been forgetting that those for whom I write areyoung--too young to understand this. Let it remain, however, for thoseolder persons who at an odd moment, while waiting for dinner, orbefore going to bed, may take up a little one's book, and turn over afew of its leaves. Some such readers, in virtue of their hearts beingyoung and old both at once, discern more in the children's books thanthe children themselves. 

CHAPTER XXI

The Bees' Nest

It was twelve o'clock on a delicious Saturday in the height of summer. We poured out of school with the gladness of a holiday in our hearts. I sauntered home full of the summer sun, and the summer wind, and thesummer scents which filled the air. I do not know how often I sat downin perfect bliss upon the earthen walls which divided the fields fromthe road, and basked in the heat. These walls were covered with grassand moss. The odour of a certain yellow feathery flower, which grew onthem rather plentifully, used to give me special delight. Greathumble-bees haunted the walls, and were poking about in themconstantly. Butterflies also found them pleasant places, and Idelighted in butterflies, though I seldom succeeded in catching one. Ido not remember that I ever killed one. Heart and conscience both wereagainst that. I had got the loan of Mrs. Trimmer's story of the familyof Robins, and was every now and then reading a page of it withunspeakable delight. We had very few books for children in those daysand in that far out-of-the-way place, and those we did get were themore dearly prized. It was almost dinner-time before I reached home. Somehow in this grand weather, welcome as dinner always was, it didnot possess the same amount of interest as in the cold bitter winter. This day I almost hurried over mine to get out again into the broadsunlight. Oh, how stately the hollyhocks towered on the borders of theshrubbery! The guelder-roses hung like balls of snow in theirwilderness of green leaves; and here and there the damask roses, darkalmost to blackness, and with a soft velvety surface, enriched thesunny air with their colour and their scent. I never see these rosesnow. And the little bushes of polyanthus gemmed the dark earth betweenwith their varied hues. We did not know anything about flowers exceptthe delight they gave us, and I dare say I am putting some togetherwhich would not be out at the same time, but that is how the picturecomes back to my memory. 

I was leaning in utter idleness over the gate that separated thelittle lawn and its surroundings from the road, when a troop ofchildren passed, with little baskets and tin pails in their hands; andamongst them Jamie Duff. It was not in the least necessary to ask himwhere he was going. 

Not very far, about a mile or so from our house, rose a certain hillfamed in the country round for its store of bilberries. It was thesame to which Turkey and I had fled for refuge from the bull. It wascalled the Ba' Hill, and a tradition lingered in the neighbourhoodthat many years ago there had been a battle there, and that after thebattle the conquerors played at football with the heads of thevanquished slain, and hence the name of the hill; but who fought orwhich conquered, there was not a shadow of a record. It had been awild country, and conflicting clans had often wrought wild work init. In summer the hill was of course the haunt of children gatheringits bilberries. Jamie shyly suggested whether I would not join them, but they were all too much younger than myself; and besides I feltdrawn to seek Turkey in the field with the cattle--that is, when Ishould get quite tired of doing nothing. So the little troop streamedon, and I remained leaning over the gate. 

I suppose I had sunk into a dreamy state, for I was suddenly startledby a sound beside me, and looking about, saw an old woman, bent nearlydouble within an old grey cloak, notwithstanding the heat. She leanedon a stick, and carried a bag like a pillow-case in her hand. It wasone of the poor people of the village, going her rounds for her weeklydole of a handful of oatmeal. I knew her very well by sight and byname--she was old Eppie--and a kindly greeting passed between us. Ithank God that the frightful poor-laws had not invaded Scotland when Iwas a boy. There was no degradation in honest poverty then, and it wasno burden to those who supplied its wants; while every person wasknown, and kindly feelings were nourished on both sides. If Iunderstand anything of human nature now, it comes partly of havingknown and respected the poor of my father's parish. She passed in atthe gate and went as usual to the kitchen door, while I stood drowsilycontemplating the green expanse of growing crops in the valley beforeme. The day had grown as sleepy as myself. There were no noises exceptthe hum of the unseen insects, and the distant rush of the water overthe dams at our bathing-place. In a few minutes the old womanapproached me again. She was an honest and worthy soul, and very civilin her manners. Therefore I was surprised to hear her muttering toherself. Turning, I saw she was very angry. She ceased her mutteringwhen she descried me observing her, and walked on in silence--was evenabout to pass through the little wicket at the side of the larger gatewithout any further salutation. Something had vexed her, andinstinctively I put my hand in my pocket, and pulled out a halfpennymy father had given me that morning--very few of which came in myway--and offered it to her. She took it with a half-ashamed glance, anattempt at a courtesy, and a murmured blessing. Then for a moment shelooked as if about to say something, but changing her mind, she onlyadded another grateful word, and hobbled away. I pondered in a feeblefashion for a moment, came to the conclusion that the Kelpie had beenrude to her, forgot her, and fell a-dreaming again. Growing at lengthtired of doing nothing, I roused myself, and set out to seek Turkey. 

I have lingered almost foolishly over this day. But when I recall mychildhood, this day always comes back as a type of the best of it. 

I remember I visited Kirsty, to find out where Turkey was. Kirstywelcomed me as usual, for she was always loving and kind to us; andalthough I did not visit her so often now, she knew it was because Iwas more with my father, and had lessons to learn in which she couldnot assist me. Having nothing else to talk about, I told her of Eppie, and her altered looks when she came out of the house. Kirstycompressed her lips, nodded her head, looked serious, and made me noreply. Thinking this was strange, I resolved to tell Turkey, whichotherwise I might not have done. I did not pursue the matter withKirsty, for I knew her well enough to know that her manner indicated amood out of which nothing could be drawn. Having learned where he was, I set out to find him--close by the scene of our adventure withWandering Willie. I soon came in sight of the cattle feeding, but didnot see Turkey. 

When I came near the mound, I caught a glimpse of the head of oldMrs. Gregson's cow quietly feeding off the top of the wall from theother side, like an outcast Gentile; while my father's cows, like thefavoured and greedy Jews, were busy in the short clover inside. Grannie's cow managed to live notwithstanding, and I dare say gave asgood milk, though not perhaps quite so much of it, as ill-temperedHawkie. Mrs. Gregson's granddaughter, however, who did not eat grass, was inside the wall, seated on a stone which Turkey had no doubtdragged there for her. Trust both her and Turkey, the cow should nothave a mouthful without leave of my father. Elsie was as usual busywith her knitting. And now I caught sight of Turkey, running from aneighbouring cottage with a spade over his shoulder. Elsie had beenminding the cows for him. 

"What's ado, Turkey?" I cried, running to meet him. 

"Such a wild bees' nest!" answered Turkey. "I'm so glad you're come! Iwas just thinking whether I wouldn't run and fetch you. Elsie and Ihave been watching them going out and in for the last half-hour. --Suchlots of bees! There's a store of honey _there_. "

"But isn't it too soon to take it, Turkey? There'll be a great dealmore in a few weeks. --Not that I know anything about bees, " I addeddeferentially. 

"You're quite right, Ranald, " answered Turkey; "but there are severalthings to be considered. In the first place, the nest is by theroadside, and somebody else might find it. Next, Elsie has nevertasted honey all her life, and it _is_ so nice, and here she is, allready to eat some. Thirdly, and lastly, as your father says--thoughnot very often, " added Turkey slyly, meaning that the _lastly_ seldomcame with the _thirdly_, --"if we take the honey now, the bees willhave plenty of time to gather enough for the winter before the flowersare gone, whereas if we leave it too long they will starve. "

I was satisfied with this reasoning, and made no further objection. 

"You must keep a sharp look-out though, Ranald, " he said; "for they'llbe mad enough, and you must keep them off with your cap. "

He took off his own, and gave it to Elsie, saying: "Here, Elsie: youmust look out, and keep off the bees. I can tell you a sting is nojoke. I've had three myself. "

"But what are _you_ to do, Turkey?" asked Elsie, with an anxious face. 

"Oh, Ranald will keep them off me and himself too. I shan't heed them. I must dig away, and get at the honey. "

All things being thus arranged, Turkey manfully approached the _dyke_, as they call any kind of wall-fence there. In the midst of the grassand moss was one little hole, through which the bees kept going andcoming very busily. Turkey put in his finger and felt in whatdirection the hole went, and thence judging the position of the hoard, struck his spade with firm foot into the dyke. What bees were in camerushing out in fear and rage, and I had quite enough to do to keepthem off our bare heads with my cap. Those who were returning, ladenas they were, joined in the defence, but I did my best, and withtolerable success. Elsie being at a little distance, and comparativelystill, was less the object of their resentment. In a few momentsTurkey had reached the store. Then he began to dig about it carefullyto keep from spoiling the honey. First he took out a quantity of cellswith nothing in them but grub-like things--the cradles of the youngbees they were. He threw them away, and went on digging as coolly asif he had been gardening. All the defence he left to me, and I assureyou I had enough of it, and thought mine the harder work of the two:hand or eye had no rest, and my mind was on the stretch of anxiety allthe time. 

But now Turkey stooped to the nest, cleared away the earth about itwith his hands, and with much care drew out a great piece ofhoneycomb, just as well put together as the comb of any educated beesin a garden-hive, who know that they are working for critics. Itssurface was even and yellow, showing that the cells were full to thebrim of the rich store. I think I see Turkey weighing it in his hand, and turning it over to pick away some bits of adhering mould ere hepresented it to Elsie. She sat on her stone like a patient, contentedqueen, waiting for what her subjects would bring her. 

[Illustration]

"Oh, Turkey! what a piece!" she said as she took it, and opened herpretty mouth and white teeth to have a bite of the treasure. 

"Now, Ranald, " said Turkey, "we must finish the job before we have anyourselves. "

He went on carefully removing the honey, and piling it on the bank. There was not a great deal, because it was so early in the year, andthere was not another comb to equal that he had given Elsie. But whenhe had got it all out--

"They'll soon find another nest, " he said. "I don't think it's any useleaving this open for them. It spoils the dyke too. "

As he spoke he began to fill up the hole, and beat the earth downhard. Last of all, he put in the sod first dug away, with the grassand flowers still growing upon it. This done, he proceeded to dividewhat remained of the honey. 

"There's a piece for Allister and Davie, " he said; "and here's a piecefor you, and this for me, and Elsie can take the rest home for herselfand Jamie. "

Elsie protested, but we both insisted. Turkey got some nice clover, and laid the bits of honeycomb in it. Then we sat and ate our shares, and chatted away for a long time, Turkey and I getting up every nowand then to look after the cattle, and Elsie too having sometimes tofollow her cow, when she threatened an inroad upon some neighbouringfield while we were away. But there was plenty of time between, andElsie sung us two or three songs at our earnest request, and Turkeytold us one or two stories out of history books he had been reading, and I pulled out my story of the Robins and read to them. And so thehot sun went down the glowing west, and threw longer and longershadows eastward. A great shapeless blot of darkness, with legs to it, accompanied every cow, and calf, and bullock wherever it went. Therewas a new shadow crop in the grass, and a huge patch with longtree-shapes at the end of it, stretched away from the foot of thehillock. The weathercock on the top of the church was glistening sucha bright gold, that the wonder was how it could keep from breaking outinto a crow that would rouse all the cocks of the neighbourhood, evenalthough they were beginning to get sleepy, and thinking of going toroost. It was time for the cattle, Elsie's cow included, to go home;for, although the latter had not had such plenty to eat from as therest, she had been at it all day, and had come upon several very nicelittle patches of clover, that had overflowed the edges of the fieldsinto the levels and the now dry ditches on the sides of the road. Butjust as we rose to break up the assembly, we spied a little girl comeflying across the field, as if winged with news. As she came nearer werecognized her. She lived near Mrs. Gregson's cottage, and was one ofthe little troop whom I had seen pass the manse on their way to gatherbilberries. 

"Elsie! Elsie!" she cried, "John Adam has taken Jamie. Jamie fell, andJohn got him. "

Elsie looked frightened, but Turkey laughed, saying: "Never mind, Elsie. John is better than he looks. He won't do him the least harm. He must mind his business, you know. "

The Ba' Hill was covered with a young plantation of firs, which, hardyas they were, had yet in a measure to be coaxed into growing in thatinclement region. It was amongst their small stems that the covetedbilberries grew, in company with cranberries and crowberries, anddwarf junipers. The children of the village thus attracted to theplace were no doubt careless of the young trees, and might sometimeseven amuse themselves with doing them damage. Hence the keeper, JohnAdam, whose business it was to look after them, found it his duty towage war upon the annual hordes of these invaders; and in their eyesAdam was a terrible man. He was very long and very lean, with aflattish yet Roman nose, and rather ill-tempered mouth, while his facewas dead-white and much pitted with the small-pox. He wore corduroybreeches, a blue coat, and a nightcap striped horizontally with blackand red. The youngsters pretended to determine, by the direction inwhich the tassel of it hung, what mood its owner was in; nor is it forme to deny that their inductions may have led them to conclusionsquite as correct as those of some other scientific observers. At allevents the tassel was a warning, a terror, and a hope. He could notrun very fast, fortunately, for the lean legs within those ribbed greystockings were subject to rheumatism, and could take only long notrapid strides; and if the children had a tolerable start, and had notthe misfortune to choose in their terror an impassable direction, theywere pretty sure to get off. Jamie Duff, the most harmless andconscientious creature, who would not have injured a young fir uponany temptation, did take a wrong direction, caught his foot in a hole, fell into a furze bush, and, nearly paralysed with terror, was seizedby the long fingers of Adam, and ignominiously lifted by a portion ofhis garments into the vast aërial space between the ground and thewhite, pock-pitted face of the keeper. Too frightened to scream, tooconscious of trespass to make any resistance, he was borne off as awarning to the rest of the very improbable fate which awaited them. 

But the character of Adam was not by any means so frightful in theeyes of Turkey; and he soon succeeded in partially composing thetrepidation of Elsie, assuring her that as soon as he had put up thecattle, he would walk over to Adam's house and try to get Jamie off, whereupon Elsie set off home with her cow, disconsolate but hopeful. Ithink I see her yet--for I recall every picture of that lovely dayclear as the light of that red sunset--walking slowly with her headbent half in trouble, half in attention to her knitting, after hersolemn cow, which seemed to take twice as long to get over the groundbecause she had two pairs of legs instead of one to shuffle across it, dragging her long iron chain with the short stake at the end after herwith a gentle clatter over the hard dry road. I accompanied Turkey, helped him to fasten up and bed the cows, went in with him and sharedhis hasty supper of potatoes and oatcake and milk, and then set outrefreshed, and nowise apprehensive in his company, to seek the abodeof the redoubtable ogre, John Adam. 

CHAPTER XXII

Vain Intercession

He had a small farm of his own at the foot of the hill of which he hadthe charge. It was a poor little place, with a very low thatchedcottage for the dwelling. A sister kept house for him. When weapproached it there was no one to be seen. We advanced to the dooralong a rough pavement of round stones, which parted the house fromthe dunghill. I peeped in at the little window as we passed. There, tomy astonishment, I saw Jamie Duff, as I thought, looking very happy, and in the act of lifting a spoon to his mouth. A moment after, however, I concluded that I must have been mistaken, for, when Turkeylifted the latch and we walked in, there were the awful John and hislong sister seated at the table, while poor Jamie was in a corner, with no basin in his hand, and a face that looked dismal and drearyenough. I fancied I caught a glimpse of Turkey laughing in his sleeve, and felt mildly indignant with him--for Elsie's sake more, I confess, than for Jamie's. 

"Come in, " said Adam, rising; but, seeing who it was, he seatedhimself again, adding, "Oh, it's you, Turkey!"--Everybody called himTurkey. "Come in and take a spoon. "

"No, thank you, " said Turkey; "I have had my supper. I only came toinquire after that young rascal there. "

"Ah! you see him! There he is!" said Adam, looking towards me with anawful expression in his dead brown eyes. "Starving. No home and nosupper for him! He'll have to sleep in the hay-loft with the rats andmice, and a stray cat or two. "

Jamie put his cuffs, the perennial handkerchief of our poor littlebrothers, to his eyes. His fate was full of horrors. But again Ithought I saw Turkey laughing in his sleeve. 

"His sister is very anxious about him, Mr. Adam, " he said. "Couldn'tyou let him off this once?"

"On no account. I am here in trust, and I must do my duty. The dukegives the forest in charge to me. I have got to look after it. "

I could not help thinking what a poor thing it was for a forest. All Iknew of forests was from story-books, and there they were full of eversuch grand trees. Adam went on--

"And if wicked boys will break down the trees--"

"I only pulled the bilberries, " interposed Jamie, in a whine whichwent off in a howl. 

"James Duff!" said Adam, with awful authority, "I saw you myselftumble over a young larch tree, not two feet high. "

"The worse for me!" sobbed Jamie. 

"Tut! tut! Mr. Adam! the larch tree wasn't a baby, " said Turkey. "LetJamie go. He couldn't help it, you see. "

"It _was_ a baby, and it _is_ a baby, " said Adam, with a solitarytwinkle in the determined dead brown of his eyes. "And I'll have nointercession here. Transgressors must be prosecuted, as the boardsays. And prosecuted he shall be. He sha'n't get out of this beforeschool-time to-morrow morning. He shall be late, too, and I hope themaster will give it him well. We must make some examples, you see, Turkey. It's no use your saying anything. I don't say Jamie's a worseboy than the rest, but he's just as bad, else how did he come to bethere tumbling over my babies? Answer me that, Master Bannerman. "

He turned and fixed his eyes upon me. There was question in his mouth, but neither question nor speculation in his eyes. I could not meet theawful changeless gaze. My eyes sank before his. 

"Example, Master Bannerman, is everything. If you serve my trees asthis young man has done--"

The idea of James Duff being a young man!

"--I'll serve you the same as I serve him--and that's no sweetservice, I'll warrant. "

As the keeper ended, he brought down his fist on the table with such abang, that poor Jamie almost fell off the stool on which he sat in thecorner. 

"But let him off just this once, " pleaded Turkey, "and I'll be suretyfor him that he'll never do it again. "

"Oh, as to him, I'm not afraid of him, " returned the keeper; "but willyou be surety for the fifty boys that'll only make game of me if Idon't make an example of him? I'm in luck to have caught him. No, no, Turkey; it won't do, my man. I'm sorry for his father and his mother, and his sister Elsie, for they're all very good people; but I mustmake an example of him. "

At mention of his relatives Jamie burst into another suppressed howl. 

"Well, you won't be over hard upon him anyhow: will you now?" saidTurkey. 

"I won't pull his skin _quite_ over his ears, " said Adam; "and that'sall the promise you'll get out of me. "

The tall thin grim sister had sat all the time as if she had no rightto be aware of anything that was going on, but her nose, which wasmore hooked than her brother's, and larger, looked as if, in theabsence of eyes and ears, it was taking cognizance of everything, andwould inform the rest of the senses afterwards. 

I had a suspicion that the keeper's ferocity was assumed for theoccasion, and that he was not such an ogre as I had considered him. Still, the prospect of poor little Jamie spending the night alone inthe loft amongst the cats and rats was sufficiently dreadful when Ithought of my midnight awaking in the barn. There seemed to be nohelp, however, especially when Turkey rose to say good night. 

I felt disconsolate, and was not well pleased with Turkey'scoolness. I thought he had not done his best. 

When we got into the road--

"Poor Elsie!" I said; "she'll be miserable about Jamie. "

"Oh no, " returned Turkey. "I'll go straight over and tell her. No harmwill come to Jamie. John Adam's bark is a good deal worse than hisbite. Only I should have liked to take him home if I could. "

It was now twilight, and through the glimmering dusk we walked back tothe manse. Turkey left me at the gate and strode on towards thevillage; while I turned in, revolving a new scheme which had arisen inmy brain, and for the first time a sense of rivalry with Turkey awokein my bosom. He did everything for Elsie Duff, and I did nothing. Forher he had robbed the bees' nest that very day, and I had but partakenof the spoil. Nay, he had been stung in her service; for, with all mycare--and I think that on the whole I had done my best--he hadreceived what threatened to be a bad sting on the back of his neck. Now he was going to comfort her about her brother whom he had failedto rescue; but what if I should succeed where he had failed, and carrythe poor boy home in triumph!

As we left the keeper's farm, Turkey had pointed out to me, across theyard, where a small rick or two were standing, the loft in which Jamiewould have to sleep. It was over the cart-shed, and its approach was aladder. But for the reported rats, it would have been no hardship tosleep there in weather like this, especially for one who had beenbrought up as Jamie had been. But I knew that he was a very timid boy, and that I myself would have lain in horror all the night. Therefore Ihad all the way been turning over in my mind what I could do torelease him. But whatever I did must be unaided, for I could notreckon upon Turkey, nor indeed was it in my heart to share with himthe honour of the enterprise that opened before me. 

CHAPTER XXIII

Knight-Errantry

I must mention that my father never objected now to my riding hislittle mare Missy, as we called her. Indeed, I had great liberty withregard to her, and took her out for a trot and a gallop as often as Ipleased. Sometimes when there was a press of work she would have to goin a cart or drag a harrow, for she was so handy they could doanything with her; but this did not happen often, and her condition atall seasons of the year testified that she knew little of hard work. My father was very fond of her, and used to tell wonderful stories ofher judgment and skill. I believe he was never quite without a hopethat somehow or other he should find her again in the next world. Atall events I am certain that it was hard for him to believe that somuch wise affection should have been created to be again uncreated. Icannot say that I ever heard him give utterance to anything of thesort; but whence else should I have had such a firm conviction, datingfrom a period farther back than my memory can reach, that whatevermight become of the other horses, Missy was sure to go to heaven? Ihad a kind of notion that, being the bearer of my father upon all hismissions of doctrine and mercy, she belonged to the clergy, and, sharing in their privileges, must have a chance before other animalsof her kind. I believe this was a right instinct glad of a foolishreason. I am wiser now, and extend the hope to the rest of the horses, for I cannot believe that the God who does nothing in vain evercreates in order to destroy. 

I made haste to learn my lessons for the Monday, although it was butafter a fashion, my mind was so full of the adventure before me. Assoon as prayers and supper were over--that is, about ten o'clock--Icrept out of the house and away to the stable. It was a lovely night. A kind of grey peace filled earth and air and sky. It was not dark, although rather cloudy; only a dim dusk, like a vapour of darkness, floated around everything. I was fond of being out at night, but I hadnever before contemplated going so far alone. I should not, however, feel alone with Missy under me, for she and I were on the best ofterms, although sometimes she would take a fit of obstinacy, andrefuse to go in any other than the direction she pleased. Of late, however, she had asserted herself less frequently in this manner. Isuppose she was aware that I grew stronger and more determined. 

I soon managed to open the door of the stable, for I knew where thekey lay. It was very dark, but I felt my way through, talking all thetime that the horses might not be startled if I came upon one of themunexpectedly, for the stable was narrow, and they sometimes lay a goodbit out of their stalls. I took care, however, to speak in a low tonethat the man who slept with only a wooden partition between him andthe stable might not hear. I soon had the bridle upon Missy, but wouldnot lose time in putting on the saddle. I led her out, got on her backwith the help of a stone at the stable door, and rode away. She hadscarcely been out all day, and was rather in the mood for a ride. Thevoice of Andrew, whom the noise of her feet had aroused, came afterme, calling to know who it was. I called out in reply, for I feared hemight rouse the place; and he went back composed, if not contented. Itwas no use, at all events, to follow me. 

I had not gone far before the extreme stillness of the night began tosink into my soul and make me quiet. Everything seemed thinking aboutme, but nothing would tell me what it thought. Not feeling, however, that I was doing wrong, I was only awed not frightened by thestillness. I made Missy slacken her speed, and rode on more gently, inbetter harmony with the night. Not a sound broke the silence exceptthe rough cry of the land-rail from the fields and the clatter ofMissy's feet. I did not like the noise she made, and got upon thegrass, for here there was no fence. But the moment she felt the softgrass, off she went at a sudden gallop. Her head was out before I hadthe least warning of her intention. She tore away over the field inquite another direction from that in which I had been taking her, andthe gallop quickened until she was going at her utmost speed. Therapidity of the motion and the darkness together--for it seemeddarkness now--I confess made me frightened. I pulled hard at thereins, but without avail. In a minute I had lost my reckoning, andcould not tell where I was in the field, which was a pretty large one;but soon finding that we were galloping down a hill so steep that Ihad trouble in retaining my seat, I began, not at all to my comfort, to surmise in what direction the mare was carrying me. We wereapproaching the place where we had sat that same afternoon, close bythe mound with the trees upon it, the scene of my adventure withWandering Willie, and of the fancied murder. I had scarcely thought ofeither until the shadows had begun to fall long, and now in the night, when all was shadow, both reflections made it horrible. Besides, ifMissy should get into the bog! But she knew better than that, wild asher mood was. She avoided it, and galloped past, but bore me to a farmore frightful goal, suddenly dropping into a canter, and thenstanding stock-still. 

It was a cottage half in ruins, occupied by an old woman whom I dimlyrecollected having once gone with my father to see--a good many yearsago, as it appeared to me now. She was still alive, however, very old, and bedridden. I recollected that from the top of her wooden bed hunga rope for her to pull herself up by when she wanted to turn, for shewas very rheumatic, and this rope for some cause or other had filledme with horror. But there was more of the same sort. The cottage hadonce been a smithy, and the bellows had been left in its place. Nowthere is nothing particularly frightful about a pair of bellows, however large it may be, and yet the recollection of that hugestructure of leather and wood, with the great iron nose projectingfrom the contracting cheeks of it, at the head of the old woman's bed, so capable yet so useless, did return upon me with terror in the duskof that lonely night. It was mingled with a vague suspicion that theold woman was a bit of a witch, and a very doubtful memory that shehad been seen on one occasion by some night-farer, when a frightfulstorm was raging, blowing away at that very bellows as hard as herskinny arms and lean body could work the lever, so that there wasalmost as great a storm of wind in her little room as there wasoutside of it. If there was any truth in the story, it is easilyaccounted for by the fact that the poor old woman had been a littleout of her mind for many years, --and no wonder, for she was nearly ahundred, they said. Neither is it any wonder that when Missy stoppedalmost suddenly, with her fore-feet and her neck stretched forward, and her nose pointed straight for the door of the cottage at a fewyards' distance, I should have felt very queer indeed. Whether my hairstood on end or not I do not know, but I certainly did feel my skincreep all over me. An ancient elder-tree grew at one end of thecottage, and I heard the lonely sigh of a little breeze wander throughits branches. The next instant a frightful sound from within thecottage broke the night air into what seemed a universal shriek. Missygave a plunge, turned round on her hind-legs, and tore from the place. I very nearly lost my seat, but terror made me cling the faster to myonly companion, as _ventre-à-terre_ she flew home. It did not take hera minute to reach the stable-door. There she had to stop, for I hadshut it when I brought her out. It was mortifying to find myself thereinstead of under John Adam's hayloft, the rescuer of Jamie Duff. But Idid not think of that for a while. Shaken with terror, and afraid todismount and be next the ground, I called upon Andrew as well as myfear would permit; but my voice was nearly unmanageable, and I coulddo little more than howl with it. 

In a few minutes, to me a time of awful duration--for who could tellwhat might be following me up from the hollow?--Andrew appearedhalf-dressed, and not in the best of tempers, remarking it was an oddthing to go out riding when honest people were in their beds, except, he added, I meant to take to the highway. Thereupon, rendered morecommunicative by the trial I had gone through, I told him the wholestory, what I had intended and how I had been frustrated. He listened, scratched his head, and saying someone ought to see if anything wasthe matter with the old woman, turned in to put on the rest of hisclothes. 

"You had better go home to bed, Ranald, " he said. 

"Won't you be frightened, Andrew?" I asked. 

"Frightened? What should I be frightened at? It's all waste to befrightened before you know whether the thing is worth it. "

My courage had been reviving fast in the warm presence of a humanbeing. I was still seated on Missy. To go home having done nothing forJamie, and therefore nothing for Elsie, after all my grand ideas ofrescue and restoration, was too mortifying. I should feel so smallwhen I woke in the morning! And yet suppose the something which gavethat fearful cry in the cottage should be out roaming the fields andlooking for mel I had courage enough, however, to remain where I wastill Andrew came out again, and as I sat still on the mare's back, mycourage gradually rose. Nothing increases terror so much as runningaway. When he reappeared, I asked him:

"What do you think it could be, Andrew?"

"How should I tell?" returned Andrew. "The old woman has a very queercock, I know, that always roosts on the top of her bed, and crows likeno cock I ever heard crow. Or it might be Wandering Willie--he goes tosee her sometimes, and the demented creature might strike up his pipesat any unearthly hour. "

I was not satisfied with either suggestion; but the sound I had heardhad already grown so indistinct in my memory, that for anything Icould tell it might have been either. The terror which it woke in mymind had rendered me incapable of making any observations or settingdown any facts with regard to it. I could only remember that I hadheard a frightful noise, but as to what it was like I could scarcelybear the smallest testimony. 

I begged Andrew to put the saddle on for me, as I should then havemore command of Missy. He went and got it, appearing, I thought, notat all over-anxious about old Betty; and I meantime buckled on an oldrusty spur which lay in the stable window, the leathers of itcrumbling off in flakes. Thus armed, and mounted with my feet in thestirrups, and therefore a good pull on Missy's mouth, I found mycourage once more equal to the task before me. Andrew and I parted atright angles; he across the field to old Betty's cottage, and I alongthe road once more in the direction of John Adam's farm. 

CHAPTER XXIV

Failure

It must have been now about eleven o'clock. The clouds had clearedoff, and the night had changed from brown and grey to blue sparklingwith gold. I could see much better, and fancied I could hear bettertoo. But neither advantage did much for me. I had not ridden far fromthe stable, before I again found myself very much alone andunprotected, with only the wide, silent fields about me, and the widerand more silent sky over my head. The fear began to return. I fanciedsomething strange creeping along every ditch--something shapeless, butwith a terrible cry in it. Next I thought I saw a scarcely visibleform--now like a creature on all-fours, now like a man, far off, butcoming rapidly towards me across the nearest field. It alwaysvanished, however, before it came close. The worst of it was, that thefaster I rode, the more frightened I became; for my speed seemed todraw the terrors the faster after me. Having discovered this, Ichanged my plan, and when I felt more frightened, drew rein and wentslower. This was to throw a sort of defiance to the fear; andcertainly as often as I did so it abated. Fear is a worse thing thandanger. 

I had to pass very nigh the pool to which Turkey and I had gone thenight of our adventure with Bogbonny's bull. That story was now faroff in the past, but I did not relish the dull shine of the water inthe hollow, notwithstanding. In fact I owed the greater part of thecourage I possessed--and it was little enough for my needs--to Missy. I dared not have gone on my own two legs. It was not that I could soeasily run away with four instead, but that somehow I was lifted abovethe ordinary level of fear by being upon her back. I think many mendraw their courage out of their horses. 

At length I came in sight of the keeper's farm; and just at thatmoment the moon peeped from behind a hill, throwing as long shadows asthe setting sun, but in the other direction. The shadows were verydifferent too. Somehow they were liker to the light that made themthan the sun-shadows are to the sunlight. Both the light and theshadows of the moon were strange and fearful to me. The sunlight andits shadows are all so strong and so real and so friendly, you seem toknow all about them; they belong to your house, and they sweep allfear and dismay out of honest people's hearts. But with the moon andits shadows it is very different indeed. The fact is, the moon istrying to do what she cannot do. She is trying to dispel a greatsun-shadow--for the night is just the gathering into one mass of allthe shadows of the sun. She is not able for this, for her light is nother own; it is second-hand from the sun himself; and her shadowstherefore also are second-hand shadows, pieces cut out of the greatsun-shadow, and coloured a little with the moon's yellowness. If Iwere writing for grown people I should tell them that those whounderstand things because they think about them, and ask God to teachthem, walk in the sunlight; and others, who take things because otherpeople tell them so, are always walking in the strange moonlight, andare subject to no end of stumbles and terrors, for they hardly knowlight from darkness. Well, at first, the moon frightened me alittle--she looked so knowing, and yet all she said round about me wasso strange. But I rode quietly up to the back of the yard where thericks stood, got off Missy and fastened the bridle to the gate, andwalked across to the cart-shed, where the moon was shining upon theladder leading up to the loft. I climbed the ladder, and after severalfailures succeeded in finding how the door was fastened. When I openedit, the moonlight got in before me, and poured all at once upon a heapof straw in the farthest corner, where Jamie was lying asleep with arug over him. I crossed the floor, knelt down by him, and tried towake him. This was not so easy. He was far too sound asleep to betroubled by the rats; for sleep is an armour--yes, a castle--againstmany enemies. I got hold of one of his hands, and in lifting it topull him up found a cord tied to his wrist. I was indignant: they hadactually manacled him like a thief! I gave the cord a great tug ofanger, pulled out my knife, and cut it; then, hauling Jamie up, gothim half-awake at last. He stared with fright first, and then began tocry. As soon as he was awake enough to know me, he stopped crying butnot staring, and his eyes seemed to have nothing better than moonlightin them. 

"Come along, Jamie, " I said. "I'm come to take you home. "

"I don't want to go home, " said Jamie. "I want to go to sleep again. "

"That's very ungrateful of you, Jamie, " I said, full of my ownimportance, "when I've come so far, and all at night too, to set youfree. "

"I'm free enough, " said Jamie. "I had a better supper a great dealthan I should have had at home. I don't want to go before themorning. "

And he began to whimper again. 

"Do you call this free?" I said, holding up his wrist where theremnant of the cord was hanging. 

"Oh!" said Jamie, "that's only--"

But ere he got farther the moonlight in the loft was darkened. Ilooked hurriedly towards the door. There stood the strangest figure, with the moon behind it. I thought at first it was the Kelpie comeafter me, for it was a tall woman. My heart gave a great jump up, butI swallowed it down. I would not disgrace myself before Jamie. It wasnot the Kelpie, however, but the keeper's sister, the great, grim, gaunt woman I had seen at the table at supper. I will not attempt todescribe her appearance. It was peculiar enough, for she had just gotout of bed and thrown an old shawl about her. She was not pleasant tolook at. I had myself raised the apparition, for, as Jamie explainedto me afterwards, the cord which was tied to his wrist, instead ofbeing meant to keep him a prisoner, was a device of her kindness tokeep him from being too frightened. The other end had been tied to herwrist, that if anything happened he might pull her, and then she wouldcome to him. 

[Illustration]

"What's the matter, Jamie Duff?" she said in a gruff voice as sheadvanced along the stream of moonlight. 

I stood up as bravely as I could. 

"It's only me, Miss Adam, " I said. 

"And who are you?" she returned. 

"Ranald Bannerman, " I answered. 

"Oh!" she said in a puzzled tone. "What are you doing here at thistime of the night?"

"I came to take Jamie home, but he won't go. "

"You're a silly boy to think my brother John would do him any harm, "she returned. "You're comfortable enough, aren't you, Jamie Duff?"

"Yes, thank you, ma'am, quite comfortable, " said Jamie, who was nowwide-awake. "But, please ma'am, Ranald didn't mean any harm. "

"He's a housebreaker, though, " she rejoined with a grim chuckle; "andhe'd better go home again as fast as he can. If John Adam should comeout, I don't exactly know what might happen. Or perhaps he'd like tostop and keep you company. "

"No, thank you, Miss Adam, " I said. "I will go home. "

"Come along, then, and let me shut the door after you. "

Somewhat nettled with Jamie Duff's indifference to my well-meantexertions on his behalf, I followed her without even bidding him goodnight. 

"Oh, you've got Missy, have you?" she said, spying her where shestood. "Would you like a drink of milk or a piece of oatcake beforeyou go?"

"No, thank you, " I said. "I shall be glad to go to bed. "

"I should think so, " she answered. "Jamie is quite comfortable, Iassure you; and I'll take care he's in time for school in themorning. There's no harm in _him_, poor thing!"

She undid the bridle for me, helped me to mount in the kindest way, bade me good night, and stood looking after me till I was somedistance off. I went home at a good gallop, took off the saddle andbridle and laid them in a cart in the shed, turned Missy loose intothe stable, shut the door, and ran across the field to the manse, desiring nothing but bed. 

When I came near the house from the back, I saw a figure entering thegate from the front. It was in the full light of the moon, which wasnow up a good way. Before it had reached the door I had got behind thenext corner, and peeping round saw that my first impression wascorrect: it was the Kelpie. She entered, and closed the door behindher very softly. Afraid of being locked out, a danger which hadscarcely occurred to me before, I hastened after her; but finding thedoor already fast, I called through the keyhole. She gave a cry ofalarm, but presently opened the door, looking pale and frightened. 

"What are you doing out of doors this time of the night?" she asked, but without quite her usual arrogance, for, although she tried to putit on, her voice trembled too much. 

I retorted the question. 

"What were you doing out yourself?" I said. 

"Looking after you, of course. "

"That's why you locked the door, I suppose--to keep me out. "

She had no answer ready, but looked as if she would have struck me. 

"I shall let your father know of your goings on, " she said, recoveringherself a little. 

"You need not take the trouble. I shall tell him myself at breakfastto-morrow morning. I have nothing to hide. You had better tell himtoo. "

I said this not that I did not believe she had been out to look forme, but because I thought she had locked the door to annoy me, and Iwanted to take my revenge in rudeness. For doors were seldom locked inthe summer nights in that part of the country. She made me no reply, but turned and left me, not even shutting the door. I closed it, andwent to bed weary enough. 

CHAPTER XXV

Turkey Plots

The next day, at breakfast, I told my father all the previous day'sadventures. Never since he had so kindly rescued me from the misery ofwickedness had I concealed anything from him. He, on his part, whilehe gave us every freedom, expected us to speak frankly concerning ourdoings. To have been unwilling to let him know any of our proceedingswould have simply argued that they were already disapproved of byourselves, and no second instance of this had yet occurred with me. Hence it came that still as I grew older I seemed to come nearer to myfather. He was to us like a wiser and more beautiful self over us, --amore enlightened conscience, as it were, ever lifting us up towardsits own higher level. 

This was Sunday; but he was not so strict in his ideas concerning theday as most of his parishioners. So long as we were sedate andorderly, and neither talked nor laughed too loud, he seldom interferedwith our behaviour, or sought to alter the current of ourconversation. I believe he did not, like some people, require orexpect us to care about religious things as much as he did: we couldnot yet know as he did what they really were. But when any of thedoings of the week were referred to on the Sunday, he was more strict, I think, than on other days, in bringing them, if they involved thesmallest question, to the standard of right, to be judged, andapproved or condemned thereby. I believe he thought that to order ourways was our best preparation for receiving higher instructionafterwards. For one thing, we should then, upon failure, feel theburden of it the more, and be the more ready to repent and seek theforgiveness of God, and that best help of his which at length makes aman good within himself. 

He listened attentively to my story, seemed puzzled at the cry I hadheard from the cottage, said nothing could have gone very wrong, or weshould have heard of it, especially as Andrew had been to inquire, laughed over the apparition of Miss Adam, and my failure in rescuingJamie Duff. He said, however, that I had no right to interefere withconstituted authority--that Adam was put there to protect the trees, and if he had got hold of a harmless person, yet Jamie was certainlytrespassing, and I ought to have been satisfied with Turkey's way oflooking at the matter. 

I saw that my father was right, and a little further reflectionconvinced me that, although my conduct had a root in my regard forJamie Duff, it had a deeper root in my regard for his sister, and oneyet deeper in my regard for myself--for had I not longed to show offin her eyes? I suspect almost all silly actions have their root inselfishness, whether it take the form of vanity, of conceit, of greed, or of ambition. 

While I was telling my tale, Mrs. Mitchell kept coming into the roomoftener, and lingering longer, than usual. I did not think of thistill afterwards. I said nothing about her, for I saw no occasion; butI do not doubt she was afraid I would, and wished to be at hand todefend herself. She was a little more friendly to me in church thatday: she always sat beside little Davie. 

When we came out, I saw Andrew, and hurried after him to hear how hehad sped the night before. He told me he had found all perfectly quietat the cottage, except the old woman's cough, which was troublesome, and gave proof that she was alive, and probably as well as usual. Hesuggested now that the noise was all a fancy of mine--at which I wasduly indignant, and desired to know if it was also Missy's fancy thatmade her go off like a mad creature. He then returned to his formeridea of the cock, and as this did not insult my dignity, I let itpass, leaning however myself to the notion of Wandering Willie'spipes. 

[Illustration]

On the following Wednesday we had a half holiday, and before dinner Iwent to find Turkey at the farm. He met me in the yard, and took meinto the barn. 

"I want to speak to you, Ranald, " he said. 

I remember so well how the barn looked that day. The upper half of oneof the doors had a hole in it, and a long pencil of sunlight streamedin, and fell like a pool of glory upon a heap of yellow straw. Sogolden grew the straw beneath it, that the spot looked as if it werethe source of the shine, and sent the slanting ray up and out of thehole in the door. We sat down beside it, I wondering why Turkey lookedso serious and important, for it was not his wont. 

"Ranald, " said Turkey, "I can't bear that the master should have badpeople about him. "

"What do you mean, Turkey?" I rejoined. 

"I mean the Kelpie. "

"She's a nasty thing, I know, " I answered. "But my father considersher a faithful servant. "

"That's just where it is. She is not faithful. I've suspected her fora long time. She's so rough and ill-tempered that she looks honest;but I shall be able to show her up yet. You wouldn't call it honest tocheat the poor, would you?"

"I should think not. But what do you mean?"

"There must have been something to put old Eppie in such an ill-temperon Saturday, don't you think?"

"I suppose she had had a sting from the Kelpie's tongue. "

"No, Ranald, that's not it. I had heard whispers going about; and lastSaturday, after we came home from John Adam's, and after I had toldElsie about Jamie, I ran up the street to old Eppie. You would havegot nothing out of her, for she would not have liked to tell you; butshe told me all about it. "

"What a creature you are, Turkey! Everybody tells you everything. "

"No, Ranald; I don't think I am such a gossip as that. But when youhave a chance, you ought to set right whatever you can. Right's theonly thing, Ranald. "

"But aren't you afraid they'll call you a meddler, Turkey? Not that_I_ think so, for I'm sure if you do anything _against_ anybody, it's_for_ some other body. "

"That would be no justification if I wasn't in the right, " saidTurkey. "But if I am, I'm willing to bear any blame that comes ofit. And I wouldn't meddle for anybody that could take care ofhimself. But neither old Eppie nor your father can do that: the one'stoo poor, and the other too good. "

"I _was_ wondering what you meant by saying my father couldn't takecare of himself. "

"He's too good; he's too good, Ranald. He believes in everybody. _I_wouldn't have kept that Kelpie in _my_ house half the time. "

"Did you ever say anything to Kirsty about her?"

"I did once; but she told me to mind my own business. Kirsty snubs mebecause I laugh at her stories. But Kirsty is as good as gold, and Iwouldn't mind if she boxed my ears--as indeed she's done--many's thetime. "

"But what's the Kelpie been doing to old Eppie?"

"First of all, Eppie has been playing her a trick. "

"Then she mustn't complain. "

"Eppie's was a lawful trick, though. The old women have been layingtheir old heads together--but to begin at the beginning: there hasbeen for some time a growing conviction amongst the poor folk that theKelpie never gives them an honest handful of meal when they go theirrounds. But this was very hard to prove, and although they allsuspected it, few of them were absolutely certain about it. So theyresolved that some of them should go with empty bags. Every one ofthose found a full handful at the bottom. Still they were notsatisfied. They said she was the one to take care what she was about. Thereupon old Eppie resolved to go with something at the bottom of herbag to look like a good quantity of meal already gathered. The momentthe door was closed behind her--that was last Saturday--she peepedinto the bag. Not one grain of meal was to be discovered. That was whyshe passed you muttering to herself and looking so angry. Now it willnever do that the manse, of all places, should be the one where thepoor people are cheated of their dues. But we roust have yet betterproof than this before we can say anything. "

"Well, what do you mean to do, Turkey?" I asked. "Why does she do it, do you suppose? It's not for the sake of saving my father's meal, Ishould think. "

"No, she does something with it, and, I suppose, flatters herself sheis not stealing--only saving it off the poor, and so making a right toit for herself. I can't help thinking that her being out that samenight had something to do with it. Did you ever know her go to see oldBetty?"

"No, she doesn't like her. I know that. "

"I'm not so sure. She pretends perhaps. But we'll have a try. I thinkI can outwit her. She's fair game, you know. "

"How? What? Do tell me, Turkey, " I cried, right eagerly. 

"Not to-day. I will tell you by and by. "

He got up and went about his work. 

CHAPTER XXVI

Old John Jamieson

As I returned to the house I met my father. 

"Well, Ranald, what are you about?" he said, in his usual gentle tone. 

"Nothing in particular, father, " I answered. 

"Well, I'm going to see an old man--John Jamieson--I don't think youknow him: he has not been able to come to church for a long time. Theytell me he is dying. Would you like to go with me?"

"Yes, father. But won't you take Missy?"

"Not if you will walk with me. It's only about three miles. "

"Very well, father. I should like to go with you. "

My father talked about various things on the way. I remember inparticular some remarks he made about reading Virgil, for I had justbegun the Æneid. For one thing, he told me I must scan every lineuntil I could make it sound like poetry, else I should neither enjoyit properly, nor be fair to the author. Then he repeated some linesfrom Milton, saying them first just as if they were prose, and afterthat the same lines as they ought to be sounded, making me mark thedifference. Next he did the same with a few of the opening lines ofVirgil's great poem, and made me feel the difference there. 

"The sound is the shape of it, you know, Ranald, " he said, "for a poemis all for the ear and not for the eye. The eye sees only the sense ofit; the ear sees the shape of it. To judge poetry without heeding thesound of it, is nearly as bad as to judge a rose by smelling it withyour eyes shut. The sound, besides being a beautiful thing in itself, has a sense in it which helps the other out. A psalm tune, if it's theright one, helps you to see how beautiful the psalm is. Every poemcarries its own tune in its own heart, and to read it aloud is theonly way to bring out its tune. "

I liked Virgil ever so much better after this, and always tried to getat the tune of it, and of every other poem I read. 

"The right way of anything, " said my father, "may be called the tune ofit. We have to find out the tune of our own lives. Some people don'tseem ever to find it out, and so their lives are a broken anduncomfortable thing to them--full of ups and downs and disappointments, and never going as it was meant to go. "

"But what is the right tune of a body's life, father?"

"The will of God, my boy. "

"But how is a person to know that, father?"

"By trying to do what he knows of it already. Everybody has adifferent kind of tune in his life, and no one can find out another'stune for him, though he _may_ help him to find it for himself. "

"But aren't we to read the Bible, father?"

"Yes, if it's in order to obey it. To read the Bible thinking toplease God by the mere reading of it, is to think like a heathen. "

"And aren't we to say our prayers, father?"

"We are to ask God for what we want. If we don't want a thing, we areonly acting like pagans to speak as if we did, and call it prayer, andthink we are pleasing him. "

I was silent. My father resumed. 

"I fancy the old man we are going to see found out the tune of _his_life long ago. "

"Is he a very wise man then, father?"

"That depends on what you mean by _wise_. _I_ should call him a wiseman, for to find out that tune is the truest wisdom. But he's not alearned man at all. I doubt if he ever read a book but the Bible, except perhaps the Pilgrim's Progress. I believe he has always beenvery fond of that. _You_ like that--don't you, Ranald?"

"I've read it a good many times, father. But I was a little tired ofit before I got through it last time. "

"But you did read it through--did you--the last time, I mean?"

"Oh yes, father. I never like to leave the loose end of a thinghanging about. "

"That's right, my boy; that's right. Well, I think you'd better notopen the book again for a long time--say twenty years at least. It's agreat deal too good a book to let yourself get tired of. By that timeI trust you will be able to understand it a great deal better than youcan at present. "

I felt a little sorry that I was not to look at the Pilgrim's Progressfor twenty years; but I am very glad of it now. 

"We must not spoil good books by reading them too much, " my fatheradded. "It is often better to think about them than to read them; andit is best never to do either when we are tired of them. We should gettired of the sunlight itself, beautiful as it is, if God did not sendit away every night. We're not even fit to have moonlight always. Themoon is buried in the darkness every month. And because we can bearnothing for any length of time together, we are sent to sleep everynight, that we may begin fresh again in the morning. "

"I see, father, I see, " I answered. 

We talked on until we came in sight of John Jamieson's cottage. 

What a poor little place it was to look at--built of clay, which hadhardened in the sun till it was just one brick! But it was a betterplace to live in than it looked, for no wind could come through thewalls, although there was plenty of wind about. Three little windowslooked eastward to the rising sun, and one to the south: it had nomore. It stood on the side of a heathy hill, which rose up steepbehind it, and bending round sheltered it from the north. A low wallof loose stones enclosed a small garden, reclaimed from the hill, where grew some greens and cabbages and potatoes, with a flower hereand there between. In summer it was pleasant enough, for the warm sunmakes any place pleasant. But in winter it must have been a colddreary place indeed. There was no other house within sight of it. Alittle brook went cantering down the hill close to the end of thecottage, singing merrily. 

"It is a long way to the sea, but by its very nature the water willfind it at last, " said my father, pointing to the stream as we crossedit by the single stone that was its bridge. 

He had to bend his head low to enter the cottage. An old woman, thesick man's wife, rose from the side of the chimney to greet us. Myfather asked how John was. 

"Wearing away, " was her answer. "But he'll be glad to see you. "

We turned in the direction in which her eyes guided us. The firstthing I saw was a small withered-looking head, and the next awithered-looking hand, large and bony. The old man lay in a bed closedin with boards, so that very little light fell upon him; but his hairglistened silvery through the gloom. My father drew a chair besidehim. John looked up, and seeing who it was, feebly held out hishand. My father took it and stroked it, and said:

"Well, John, my man, you've had a hard life of it. "

"No harder than I could bear, " said John. 

"It's a grand thing to be able to say that, " said my father. 

"Oh sir! for that matter, I would go through it all again, if it was_his_ will, and willingly. I have no will but his, sir. "

"Well, John, I wish we could all say the same. When a man comes tothat, the Lord lets him have what he wants. What do you want now, John?"

"To depart and be with the Lord. It wouldn't be true, sir, to say thatI wasn't weary. It seems to me, if it's the Lord's will, I've hadenough of this life. Even if death be a long sleep, as some peoplesay, till the judgment, I think I would rather sleep, for I'm veryweary. Only there's the old woman there! I don't like leaving her. "

"But you can trust God for her too, can't you?"

"It would be a poor thing if I couldn't, sir. "

"Were you ever hungry, John--dreadfully hungry, I mean?"

"Never longer than I could bear, " he answered. "When you think it'sthe will of God, hunger doesn't get much hold of you, sir. "

"You must excuse me, John, for asking so many questions. You know Godbetter than I do, and I want my young man here to know how strong thewill of God makes a man, old or young. He needn't care about anythingelse, need he?"

"There's nothing else to care about, sir. If only the will of God bedone, everything's all right, you know. I do believe, sir, God caresmore for me than my old woman herself does, and she's been as good awife to me as ever was. Young gentleman, you know who says that Godnumbers the very hairs of our heads? There's not many of mine left tonumber, " he added with a faint smile, "but there's plenty ofyours. You mind the will of God, and he'll look after you. That's theway he divides the business of life. "

I saw now that my father's talk as we came, had been with a view toprepare me for what John Jamieson would say. I cannot pretend, however, to have understood the old man at the time, but his wordshave often come back to me since, and helped me through trials prettysevere, although, like the old man, I have never found any of them toohard to bear. 

"Have you no child to come and help your wife to wait upon you?" myfather asked. 

"I have had ten, sir, but only three are left alive. There'll beplenty to welcome me home when I go. One of the three's in Canada, andcan't come. Another's in Australia, and he can't come. But Maggie'snot far off, and she's got leave from her mistress to come for aweek--only we don't want her to come till I'm nearer my end. I shouldlike her to see the last of her old father, for I shall be young againby the next time she sees me, please God, sir. He's all in all--isn'the, sir?"

"True, John. If we have God, we have all things; for all things arehis and we are his. But we mustn't weary you too much. Thank you foryour good advice. "

"I beg your pardon, sir; I had no intention of speaking like that. Inever could give advice in all my life. I always found it was as muchas I could do to take the good advice that was given to me. I shouldlike to be prayed for in the church next Sunday, sir, if you please. "

"But can't you pray for yourself, John?"

"Yes, sir; but I would like to have some spiritual gift because myfriends asked it for me. Let them pray for more faith for me. I wantmore and more of that. The more you have, the more you want. Don'tyou, sir? And I mightn't ask enough for myself, now I'm so old and sotired. I sleep a great deal, sir. "

"Then don't you think God will take care to give you enough, even ifyou shouldn't ask for enough?" said my father. 

"No doubt of that. But you see I am able to think of it now, and so Imust put things in a train for the time when I shan't be able to thinkof it. "

Something like this was what John said; and although I could notunderstand it then, my father spoke to me several times about itafterwards, and I came to see how the old man wanted to provideagainst the evil time by starting prayers heavenward beforehand, as itwere. 

My father prayed by his bedside, pulled a parcel or two from hispocket for his wife, and then we walked home together in silence. Myfather was not the man to heap words upon words and so smother thethought that lay in them. He had taken me for the sake of the lesson Imight receive, and he left it to strike root in my mind, which hejudged more likely if it remained undisturbed. 

CHAPTER XXVII

Turkey's Trick

When we came to the farm on our way home, we looked in to see Kirsty, but found the key in the door, indicating that she had gone out. As weleft the yard, we saw a strange-looking woman, to all appearance abeggar, approaching. She had a wallet over her shoulder, and walkedstooping with her eyes on the ground, nor lifted them to greetus--behaviour which rarely showed itself in our parish. My father tookno notice, but I could not help turning to look after the woman. To mysurprise she stood looking after us, but the moment I turned, sheturned also and walked on. When I looked again she had vanished. Ofcourse she must have gone into the farm-yard. Not liking the look ofher, and remembering that Kirsty was out, I asked my father whether Ihad not better see if any of the men were about the stable. Heapproved, and I ran back to the house. The door was still locked. Icalled Turkey, and heard his voice in reply from one of the farthestof the cow-houses. When I had reached it and told him my story, heasked if my father knew I had come back. When he heard that he didknow, he threw down his pitchfork, and hastened with me. We searchedevery house about the place, but could find no sign whatever of thewoman. 

"Are you sure it wasn't all a fancy of your own, Ranald?" said Turkey. 

"Quite sure. Ask my father. She passed as near us as you are to menow. "

Turkey hurried away to search the hayloft once more, but withoutsuccess; and at last I heard my father calling me. 

I ran to him, and told him there was no woman to be seen. 

"That's odd, " he said. "She must have passed straight through the yardand got out at the other side before you went in. While you werelooking for her, she was plodding away out of sight. Come along, andlet us have our tea. "

I could not feel quite satisfied about it, but, as there was no otherexplanation, I persuaded myself that my father was right. 

The next Saturday evening I was in the nursery with my brothers. Itwas growing dusk, when I heard a knocking. Mrs. Mitchell did not seemto hear it, so I went and opened the door. There was the same beggarwoman. Rather frightened, I called aloud, and Mrs. Mitchell came. Whenshe saw it was a beggar, she went back and reappeared with a woodenbasin filled with meal, from which she took a handful as she came inapparent preparation for dropping it, in the customary way, into thewoman's bag. The woman never spoke, but closed the mouth of herwallet, and turned away. Curiosity gave me courage to follow her. Shewalked with long strides in the direction of the farm, and I kept at alittle distance behind her. She made for the yard. She should notescape me this time. As soon as she entered it, I ran as fast as Icould, and just caught sight of her back as she went into one of thecow-houses. I darted after her. She turned round upon me--fiercely, Ithought, but judge my surprise when she held out the open mouth of thebag towards me, and said--

"Not one grain, Ranald! Put in your hand and feel. "

It was Turkey. 

I stared in amazement, unable for a time to get rid of the apparitionand see the reality. Turkey burst out laughing at my perplexedcountenance. 

"Why didn't you tell me before, Turkey?" I asked, able at length tojoin in the laugh. 

"Because then you would have had to tell your father, and I did notwant him to be troubled about it, at least before we had got thingsclear. I always _did_ wonder how he could keep such a creature abouthim. "

"He doesn't know her as we do, Turkey. "

"No. She never gives him the chance. But now, Ranald, couldn't youmanage to find out whether she makes any store of the meal shepretends to give away?"

A thought struck me. 

"I heard Davie the other day asking her why she had two meal-tubs:perhaps that has something to do with it. "

"You must find out. Don't ask Davie. "

For the first time it occurred to me that the Kelpie had upon thatnight of terror been out on business of her own, and had not beenlooking for me at all. 

"Then she was down at old Betty's cottage, " said Turkey, when Icommunicated the suspicion, "and Wandering Willie was there too, andAndrew was right about the pipes. Willie hasn't been once to the houseever since he took Davie, but she has gone to meet him at Betty's. Depend on it, Ranald, he's her brother, or nephew, or something, as Iused to say. I do believe she gives him the meal to take home to herfamily somewhere. Did you ever hear anything about her friends?"

"I never heard her speak of any. "

"Then I don't believe they're respectable. I don't, Ranald. But itwill be a great trouble to the minister to have to turn her away. Iwonder if we couldn't contrive to make her go of herself. I wish wecould scare her out of the country. It's not nice either for a womanlike that to have to do with such innocents as Allister and Davie. "

"She's very fond of Davie. "

"So she is. That's the only good thing I know of her. But hold yourtongue, Ranald, till we find out more. "

Acting on the hint Davie had given me, I soon discovered the secondmeal-tub. It was small, and carefully stowed away. It was now nearlyfull, and every day I watched in the hope that when she emptied it, Ishould be able to find out what she did with the meal. But Turkey'ssuggestion about frightening her away kept working in my brain. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

I Scheme Too

I began a series of persecutions of the Kelpie on my own account. Iwas doubtful whether Turkey would approve of them, so I did not tellhim for some time; but I was ambitious of showing him that I could dosomething without him. I doubt whether it is worth while to relate thesilly tricks I played her--my father made me sorry enough for themafterwards. My only excuse for them is, that I hoped by them to drivethe Kelpie away. 

There was a closet in the hall, the floor of which was directly overthe Kelpie's bed, with no ceiling between. With a gimlet I bored ahole in the floor, through which I passed a piece of string. I hadalready got a bit of black cloth, and sewed and stuffed it intosomething of the shape of a rat. Watching an opportunity, I tied thisto the end of the string by the head, and hid it under her bolster. When she was going to bed, I went into the closet, and, laying mymouth to the floor, began squeaking like a rat, and scratching with mynails. Knowing by the exclamation she made that I had attracted herattention, I tugged at the string; this lifted the bolster a little, and of course out came my rat. I heard her scream, and open her door. I pulled the rat up tight to the ceiling. Then the door of thenursery, where we slept only in the winter, opened and shut, and Iconcluded she had gone to bed there to avoid the rat. I could hardlysleep for pleasure at my success. 

As she waited on us at breakfast next morning, she told my father thatshe had seen in her bed the biggest rat she ever saw in her life, andhad not had a wink of sleep in consequence. 

"Well, " said my father, "that comes of not liking cats. You should geta pussy to take care of you. "

She grumbled something and retired. 

She removed her quarters to the nursery. But there it was yet easierfor me to plague her. Having observed in which bed she lay, I passedthe string with the rat at the end of it over the middle of a bar thatran across just above her head, then took the string along the top ofthe other bed, and through a little hole in the door. As soon as Ijudged her safe in bed, I dropped the rat with a plump. It must havefallen on or very near her face. I heard her give a loud cry, butbefore she could reach the door, I had fastened the string to a nailand got out of the way. 

It was not so easy in those days to get a light, for the earliest formof lucifer match was only just making its appearance in that part ofthe country, and was very dear: she had to go to the kitchen, wherethe fire never went out summer or winter. Afraid lest on her returnshe should search the bed, find my harmless animal suspended by theneck, and descend upon me with all the wrath generated of needlessterror, I crept into the room, got down my rat, pulled away thestring, and escaped. The next morning she said nothing about the rat, but went to a neighbour's and brought home a fine cat. I laughed in mysleeve, thinking how little her cat could protect her from my rat. 

Once more, however, she changed her quarters, and went into a sort ofinferior spare room in the upper part of the house, which suited myoperations still better, for from my own bed I could now manage todrop and pull up the rat, drawing it away beyond the danger ofdiscovery. The next night she took the cat into the room with her, andfor that one I judged it prudent to leave her alone, but the next, having secured Kirsty's cat, I turned him into the room after she wasin bed: the result was a frightful explosion of feline wrath. 

I now thought I might boast of my successes to Turkey, but he was notpleased. 

"She is sure to find you out, Ranald, " he said, "and then whateverelse we do will be a failure. Leave her alone till we have her quite. "

I do not care to linger over this part of my story. I am a littleashamed of it. 

We found at length that her private reservoir was quite full of meal. I kept close watch still, and finding one night that she was not inthe house, discovered also that the meal-tub was now empty. I ran toTurkey, and together we hurried to Betty's cottage. 

It was a cloudy night with glimpses of moonlight. When we reached theplace, we heard voices talking, and were satisfied that both theKelpie and Wandering Willie were there. 

"We must wait till she comes out, " said Turkey. "We must be able tosay we saw her. "

There was a great stone standing out of the ground not far from thedoor, just opposite the elder-tree, and the path lay between them. 

"You get behind that tree--no, you are the smaller object--you getbehind that stone, and I'll get behind the tree, " said Turkey; "andwhen the Kelpie comes out, you make a noise like a beast, and rush ather on all-fours. "

"I'm good at a pig, Turkey, " I said. "Will a pig do?"

"Yes, well enough. "

"But what if she should know me, and catch me, Turkey?"

"She will start away from you to my side; I shall rush out like a maddog, and then she'll run for it. "

We waited a long time--a very long time, it seemed to me. It was wellit was summer. We talked a little across, and that helped to beguilethe weary time; but at last I said in a whisper:

"Let's go home, Turkey, and lock the doors, and keep her out. "

"You go home then, Ranald, and I'll wait. I don't mind if it be tillto-morrow morning. It is not enough to be sure ourselves; we must beable to make other people sure. "

"I'll wait as long as you do, Turkey; only I'm very sleepy, and shemight come out when I was asleep. "

"Oh, I shall keep you awake!" replied Turkey; and we settled downagain for a while. 

At the long last the latch of the door was lifted. I was just fallingasleep, but the sound brought me wide awake at once. I peeped frombehind my shelter. It was the Kelpie, with an empty bag--apillow-case, I believe--in her hand. Behind her came Wandering Willie, but did not follow her from the door. The moment was favourable, forthe moon was under a thick cloud. Just as she reached the stone, Irushed out on hands and knees, grunting and squeaking like a very wildpig indeed. As Turkey had foretold, she darted aside, and I retreatedbehind my stone. The same instant Turkey rushed at her with suchcanine fury, that the imitation startled even me, who had expectedit. You would have thought the animal was ready to tear a whole armyto pieces, with such a complication of fierce growls and barks andsqueals did he dart on the unfortunate culprit. She took to her heelsat once, not daring to make for the cottage, because the enemy wasbehind her. But I had hardly ensconced myself behind the stone, repressing my laughter with all my might, when I was seized frombehind by Wandering Willie, who had no fear either of pig or dog. Hebegan pommelling me. 

[Illustration]

"Turkey! Turkey!" I cried. 

The cry stopped his barking pursuit of the Kelpie. He rose to hisfeet and rushed to my aid. But when he saw the state of affairs, heturned at once for the cottage, crying:

"Now for a kick at the bagpipes!"

Wandering Willie was not too much a fool to remember and understand. He left me instantly, and made for the cottage. Turkey drew back andlet him enter, then closed the door, and held it. 

"Get away a bit, Ranald. I can run faster than Willie. You'll be outof sight in a few yards. "

But instead of coming after us, Wandering Willie began playing a mosttriumphant tune upon his darling bagpipes. How the poor old womanenjoyed it, I do not know. Perhaps she liked it. For us, we set off tooutstrip the Kelpie. It did not matter to Turkey, but she might lockme out again. I was almost in bed before I heard her come in. She wentstraight to her own room. 

CHAPTER XXIX

A Double Exposure

Whether the Kelpie had recognized us I could not tell, but not much ofthe next morning passed before my doubt was over. When she had set ourporridge on the table, she stood up, and, with her fists in her sides, addressed my father:

"I'm very sorry, sir, to have to make complaints. It's a thing I don'tlike, and I'm not given to. I'm sure I try to do my duty by MasterRanald as well as everyone else in this house. "

I felt a little confused, for I now saw clearly enough that my fathercould not approve of our proceedings. I whispered to Allister--

"Run and fetch Turkey. Tell him to come directly. "

Allister always did whatever I asked him. He set off at once. TheKelpie looked suspicious as he left the room, but she had no pretextfor interference. I allowed her to tell her tale without interruption. After relating exactly how we had served her the night before, whenshe had gone on a visit of mercy, as she represented it, she accusedme of all my former tricks--that of the cat having, I presume, enlightened her as to the others; and ended by saying that if she werenot protected against me and Turkey, she must leave the place. 

"Let her go, father, " I said. "None of us like her. "

"I like her, " whimpered little Davie. 

"Silence, sir!" said my father, very sternly. "Are these things true?"

"Yes, father, " I answered. "But please hear what _I_'ve got to say. She's only told you _her_ side of it. "

"You have confessed to the truth of what she alleges, " said myfather. "I did think, " he went on, more in sorrow than in anger, though a good deal in both, "that you had turned from your badways. To think of my taking you with me to the death-bed of a holyman, and then finding you so soon after playing such tricks!--morelike the mischievousness of a monkey than of a human being!"

"I don't say it was right, father; and I'm very sorry if I haveoffended you. "

"You _have_ offended me, and very deeply. You have been unkind andindeed cruel to a good woman who has done her best for you for manyyears!"

I was not too much abashed to take notice that the Kelpie bridled atthis. 

"I can't say I'm sorry for what I've done to her, " I said. 

"Really, Ranald, you are impertinent. I would send you out of the roomat once, but you must beg Mrs. Mitchell's pardon first, and after thatthere will be something more to say, I fear. "

"But, father, you have not heard my story yet. "

"Well--go on. It is fair, I suppose, to hear both sides. But nothingcan justify such conduct. "

I began with trembling voice. I had gone over in my mind the nightbefore all I would say, knowing it better to tell the tale from thebeginning circumstantially. Before I had ended, Turkey made hisappearance, ushered in by Allister. Both were out of breath withrunning. 

My father stopped me, and ordered Turkey away until I should havefinished. I ventured to look up at the Kelpie once or twice. She hadgrown white, and grew whiter. When Turkey left the room, she wouldhave gone too. But my father told her she must stay and hear me to theend. Several times she broke out, accusing me of telling a pack ofwicked lies, but my father told her she should have an opportunity ofdefending herself, and she must not interrupt me. When I had done, hecalled Turkey, and made him tell the story. I need hardly say that, although he questioned us closely, he found no discrepancy between ouraccounts. He turned at last to Mrs. Mitchell, who, but for her rage, would have been in an abject condition. 

"Now, Mrs. Mitchell!" he said. 

She had nothing to reply beyond asserting that Turkey and I had alwayshated and persecuted her, and had now told a pack of lies which we hadagreed upon, to ruin her, a poor lone woman, with no friends to takeher part. 

"I do not think it likely they could be so wicked, " said my father. 

"So I'm to be the only wicked person in the world! Very well, sir! Iwill leave the house this very day. "

"No, no, Mrs. Mitchell; that won't do. One party or the other _is_very wicked--that is clear; and it is of the greatest consequence tome to find out which. If you go, I shall know it is you, and have youtaken up and tried for stealing. Meantime I shall go the round of theparish. I do not think all the poor people will have combined to lieagainst you. "

"They all hate me, " said the Kelpie. 

"And why?" asked my father. 

She made no answer. 

"I must get at the truth of it, " said my father. "You can go now. "

She left the room without another word, and my father turned toTurkey. 

"I am surprised at you, Turkey, lending yourself to such sillypranks. Why did you not come and tell me. "

"I am very sorry, sir. I was afraid you would be troubled at findinghow wicked she was, and I thought we might frighten her away somehow. But Ranald began his tricks without letting me know, and then I sawthat mine could be of no use, for she would suspect them after his. Mine would have been better, sir. "

"I have no doubt of it, but equally unjustifiable. And you as well ashe acted the part of a four-footed animal last night. "

"I confess I yielded to temptation then, for I knew it could do nogood. It was all for the pleasure of frightening her. It was veryfoolish of me, and I beg your pardon, sir. "

"Well, Turkey, I confess you have vexed me, not by trying to find outthe wrong she was doing me and the whole parish, but by taking thewhole thing into your own hands. It is worse of you, inasmuch as youare older and far wiser than Ranald. It is worse of Ranald because Iwas his father. I will try to show you the wrong you have done. --Hadyou told me without doing anything yourselves, then I might havesucceeded in bringing Mrs. Mitchell to repentance. I could havereasoned with her on the matter, and shown her that she was not merelya thief, but a thief of the worst kind, a Judas who robbed the poor, and so robbed God. I could have shown her how cruel she was--"

"Please, sir, " interrupted Turkey, "I don't think after all she did itfor herself. I do believe, " he went on, and my father listened, "thatWandering Willie is some relation of hers. He is the only poor person, almost the only person except Davie, I ever saw her behave kindly to. He was there last night, and also, I fancy, that other time, whenRanald got such a fright. She has poor relations somewhere, and sendsthe meal to them by Willie. You remember, sir, there were no oldclothes of Allister's to be found when you wanted them for JamieDuff. "

"You may be right, Turkey--I dare say you are right. I hope you are, for though bad enough, that would not be quite so bad as doing it forherself. "

"I am very sorry, father, " I said; "I beg your pardon. "

"I hope it will be a lesson to you, my boy. After what you have done, rousing every bad and angry passion in her, I fear it will be of nouse to try to make her be sorry and repent. It is to her, not to me, you have done the wrong. I have nothing to complain of formyself--quite the contrary. But it is a very dreadful thing to throwdifficulties in the way of repentance and turning from evil works. "

"What can I do to make up for it?" I sobbed. 

"I don't see at this moment what you can do. I will turn it over in mymind. You may go now. "

Thereupon Turkey and I walked away, I to school, he to his cattle. Thelecture my father had given us was not to be forgotten. Turkey lookedsad, and I felt subdued and concerned. 

Everything my father heard confirmed the tale we had told him. But theKelpie frustrated whatever he may have resolved upon with regard toher: before he returned she had disappeared. How she managed to gether chest away, I cannot tell. I think she must have hid it in someouthouse, and fetched it the next night. Many little things weremissed from the house afterwards, but nothing of great value, andneither she nor Wandering Willie ever appeared again. We were allsatisfied that poor old Betty knew nothing of her conduct. It was easyenough to deceive her, for she was alone in her cottage, only waitedupon by a neighbour who visited her at certain times of the day. 

My father, I heard afterwards, gave five shillings out of his ownpocket to every one of the poor people whom the Kelpie had defrauded. Her place in the house was, to our endless happiness, taken by Kirsty, and faithfully she carried out my father's instructions that, alongwith the sacred handful of meal, a penny should be given to every oneof the parish poor from that time forward, so long as he lived at themanse. 

Not even little Davie cried when he found that Mrs. Mitchell wasreally gone. It was more his own affection than her kindness that hadattached him to her. 

Thus were we at last delivered from our Kelpie. 

CHAPTER XXX

Tribulation

[Illustration]

After the expulsion of the Kelpie, and the accession of Kirsty, thingswent on so peaceably, that the whole time rests in my memory like asummer evening after sundown. I have therefore little more to sayconcerning our home-life. 

There were two schools in the little town--the first, the parishschool, the master of which was appointed by the presbytery; thesecond, one chiefly upheld by the dissenters of the place, the masterof which was appointed by the parents of the scholars. Thisdifference, however, indicated very little of the distinction andseparation which it would have involved in England. The masters ofboth were licentiates of the established church, an order having avague resemblance to that of deacons in the English church; there wereat both of them scholars whose fees were paid by the parish, whileothers at both were preparing for the University; there were manypupils at the second school whose parents took them to the establishedchurch on Sundays, and both were yearly examined by thepresbytery--that is, the clergymen of a certain district; while myfather was on friendly terms with all the parents, some of whom didnot come to his church because they thought the expenses of religionshould be met by the offerings of those who prized its ministrations, while others regarded the unity of the nation, and thought thatreligion, like any other of its necessities, ought to be the care ofits chosen government. I do not think the second school would everhave come into existence at all except for the requirements of thepopulation, one school being insufficient. There was little realschism in the matter, except between the boys themselves. They madefar more of it than their parents, and an occasional outbreak was theconsequence. 

At this time there was at the second school a certain very rough lad, the least developed beyond the brute, perhaps, of all the scholars ofthe village. It is more amazing to see how close to the brute a manmay remain than it is to see how far he may leave the brute behind. How it began I cannot recall; but this youth, a lad of seventeen, whether moved by dislike or the mere fascination of injury, was in thehabit of teasing me beyond the verge of endurance as often as he hadthe chance. I did not like to complain to my father, though that wouldhave been better than to hate him as I did. I was ashamed of my ownimpotence for self-defence; but therein I was little to blame, for Iwas not more than half his size, and certainly had not half hisstrength. My pride forbidding flight, the probability was, when we metin an out-of-the-way quarter, that he would block my path for half anhour at least, pull my hair, pinch my cheeks, and do everything toannoy me, short of leaving marks of violence upon me. If we met in astreet, or other people were in sight, he would pass me with a winkand a grin, as much as to say--_Wait_. 

One of the short but fierce wars between the rival schools brokeout. What originated the individual quarrel I cannot tell. I doubt ifanyone knew. It had not endured a day, however, before it came to apitched battle after school hours. The second school was considerablythe smaller, but it had the advantage of being perched on the top ofthe low, steep hill at the bottom of which lay ours. Our battlesalways began with missiles; and I wonder, as often as I recall thefact, that so few serious accidents were the consequence. From thedisadvantages of the ground, we had little chance against thestone-showers which descended upon us like hail, except we chargedright up the hill, in the face of the inferior but well-posted enemy. When this was not in favour at the moment, I employed myself incollecting stones and supplying them to my companions, for it seemedto me that every boy, down to the smallest in either school, wasskilful in throwing them, except myself: I could not throw halfway upthe hill. On this occasion, however, I began to fancy it an unworthyexercise of my fighting powers, and made my first attempt atorganizing a troop for an up-hill charge. I was now a tall boy, and ofsome influence amongst those about my own age. Whether the enemy sawour intent and proceeded to forestall it, I cannot say, but certainlythat charge never took place. 

A house of some importance was then building, just on the top of thehill, and a sort of hand-wagon, or lorry on low wheels, was in use formoving the large stones employed, the chips from the dressing of whichwere then for us most formidable missiles. Our adversaries laid holdof this chariot, and turned it into an engine of war. They dragged itto the top of the hill, jumped upon it, as many as it would hold, and, drawn by their own weight, came thundering down upon our troops. Vainwas the storm of stones which assailed their advance: they could nothave stopped if they would. My company had to open and make way forthe advancing prodigy, conspicuous upon which towered my personalenemy Scroggie. 

"Now, " I called to my men, "as soon as the thing stops, rush in andseize them: they're not half our number. It will be an endlessdisgrace to let them go. "

Whether we should have had the courage to carry out the design had notfortune favoured us, I cannot tell. But as soon as the chariot reacheda part of the hill where the slope was less, it turned a little to oneside, and Scroggie fell off, drawing half of the load after him. Mymen rushed in with shouts of defiant onset, but were arrested by thenon-resistance of the foe. I sprung to seize Scroggie. He tried to getup, but fell back with a groan. The moment I saw his face, my moodchanged. My hatred, without will or wish or effort of mine, turned allat once into pity or something better. In a moment I was down on myknees beside him. His face was white, and drops stood upon hisforehead. He lay half upon his side, and with one hand he scoopedhandfuls of dirt from the road and threw them down again. His leg wasbroken. I got him to lean his head against me, and tried to make himlie more comfortably; but the moment I sought to move the leg heshrieked out. I sent one of our swiftest runners for the doctor, andin the meantime did the best I could for him. He took it as a matterof course, and did not even thank me. When the doctor came, we got amattress from a neighbouring house, laid it on the wagon, liftedScroggie on the top, and dragged him up the hill and home to hismother. 

I have said a little, but only a little, concerning our master, Mr. Wilson. At the last examination I had, in compliance with the requestof one of the clergymen, read aloud a metrical composition of my own, sent in by way of essay on the given subject, _Patriotism_, and afterthis he had shown me a great increase of favour. Perhaps he recognizedin me some germ of a literary faculty--I cannot tell: it has nevercome to much if he did, and he must be greatly disappointed in me, seeing I labour not in living words, but in dead stones. I am certain, though, that whether I build good or bad houses, I should have builtworse had I not had the insight he gave me into literature and thenature of literary utterance. I read Virgil and Horace with him, andscanned every doubtful line we came across. I sometimes think now, that what certain successful men want to make them real artists, issimply a knowledge of the literature--which is the essence of thepossible art--of the country. 

My brother Tom had left the school, and gone to the county town, toreceive some final preparation for the University; consequently, sofar as the school was concerned, I was no longer in the position of ayounger brother. Also Mr. Wilson had discovered that I had somefaculty for imparting what knowledge I possessed, and had begun tomake use of me in teaching the others. A good deal was done in thisway in the Scotch schools. Not that there was the least attempt atsystem in it: the master, at any moment, would choose the one hethought fit, and set him to teach a class, while he attended toindividuals, or taught another class himself. Nothing can be betterfor the verification of knowledge, or for the discovery of ignorance, than the attempt to teach. In my case it led to other and unforeseenresults as well. 

The increasing trust the master reposed in me, and the increasingfavour which openly accompanied it, so stimulated the growth of mynatural vanity, that at length it appeared in the form of presumption, and, I have little doubt, although I was unaware of it at the time, influenced my whole behaviour to my school-fellows. Hence arose thecomplaint that I was a favourite with the master, and the accusationthat I used underhand means to recommend myself to him, of which I amnot yet aware that I was ever guilty. My presumption I confess, andwonder that the master did not take earlier measures to check it. Whenteaching a class, I would not unfrequently, if Mr. Wilson had vacatedhis chair, climb into it, and sit there as if I were the master of theschool. I even went so far as to deposit some of my books in themaster's desk, instead of in my own recess. But I had not the leastsuspicion of the indignation I was thus rousing against me. 

One afternoon I had a class of history. They read very badly, withwhat seemed wilful blundering; but when it came to the questioning onthe subject of the lesson, I soon saw there had been a conspiracy. Theanswers they gave were invariably wrong, generally absurd, sometimesutterly grotesque. I ought to except those of a few girls, who didtheir best, and apparently knew nothing of the design of the others. One or two girls, however, infected with the spirit of the game, soonoutdid the whole class in the wildness of their replies. This at lastgot the better of me; I lost my temper, threw down my book, andretired to my seat, leaving the class where it stood. The mastercalled me and asked the reason. I told him the truth of the matter. Hegot very angry, and called out several of the bigger boys and punishedthem severely. Whether these supposed that I had mentioned them inparticular, as I had not, I do not know; but I could read in theirfaces that they vowed vengeance in their hearts. When the school brokeup, I lingered to the last, in the hope they would all go home asusual; but when I came out with the master, and saw the silent waitinggroups, it was evident there was more thunder in the moral atmospherethan would admit of easy discharge. The master had come to the sameconclusion, for instead of turning towards his own house, he walkedwith me part of the way home, without alluding however to the reason. Allister was with us, and I led Davie by the hand: it was his firstweek of school life. When we had got about half the distance, believing me now quite safe, he turned into a footpath and wentthrough the fields back towards the town; while we, delivered from allimmediate apprehension, jogged homewards. 

When we had gone some distance farther, I happened to look about--why, I could not tell. A crowd was following us at full speed. As soon asthey saw that we had discovered them, they broke the silence with ashout, which was followed by the patter of their many footsteps. 

"Run, Allister!" I cried; and kneeling, I caught up Davie on my back, and ran with the feet of fear. Burdened thus, Allister was soon farahead of me. 

"Bring Turkey!" I cried after him. "Run to the farm as hard as you canpelt, and bring Turkey to meet us. "

"Yes, yes, Ranald, " shouted Allister, and ran yet faster. 

They were not getting up with us quite so fast as they wished; theybegan therefore to pick up stones as they ran, and we soon heard themhailing on the road behind us. A little farther, and the stones beganto go bounding past us, so that I dared no longer carry Davie on myback. I had to stop, which lost us time, and to shift him into myarms, which made running much harder. Davie kept calling, "Run, Ranald!--here they come!" and jumping so, half in fear, half inpleasure, that I found it very hard work indeed. 

Their taunting voices reached me at length, loaded with all sorts oftaunting and opprobrious words--some of them, I dare say, deserved, but not all. Next a stone struck me, but not in a dangerous place, though it crippled my running still more. The bridge was now in sight, however, and there I could get rid of Davie and turn at bay, for itwas a small wooden bridge, with rails and a narrow gate at the end tokeep horsemen from riding over it. The foremost of our pursuers werewithin a few yards of my heels, when, with a last effort, I bounded onit; and I had just time to set Davie down and turn and bar their wayby shutting the gate, before they reached it. I had no breath left butjust enough to cry, "Run, Davie!" Davie, however, had no notion of thestate of affairs, and did not run, but stood behind me staring. So Iwas not much better off yet. If he had only run, and I had seen himfar enough on the way home, I would have taken to the water, which washere pretty deep, before I would have run any further risk of theirgetting hold of me. If I could have reached the mill on the oppositebank, a shout would have brought the miller to my aid. But so long asI could prevent them from opening the gate, I thought I could hold theposition. There was only a latch to secure it, but I pulled a thinknife from my pocket, and just as I received a blow in the face fromthe first arrival which knocked me backwards, I had jammed it over thelatch through the iron staple in which it worked. Before the firstattempt to open it had been followed by the discovery of the obstacle, I was up, and the next moment, with a well-directed kick, disabled afew of the fingers which were fumbling to remove it. To protect thelatch was now my main object, but my efforts would have been quiteuseless, for twenty of them would have been over the top in aninstant. Help, however, although unrecognized as such, was making itsway through the ranks of the enemy. 

They parted asunder, and Scroggie, still lame, strode heavily up tothe gate. Recalling nothing but his old enmity, I turned once more andimplored Davie. "Do run, Davie, dear! it's all up, " I said; but myentreaties were lost upon Davie. Turning again in despair, I saw thelame leg being hoisted over the gate. A shudder ran through me: Icould _not_ kick that leg; but I sprang up and hit Scroggie hard inthe face. I might as well have hit a block of granite. He swore at me, caught hold of my hand, and turning to the assailants said:

"Now, you be off! This is my little business. I'll do for him!"

Although they were far enough from obeying his orders, they were notwilling to turn him into an enemy, and so hung back expectant. Meantime the lame leg was on one side of the gate, the splints ofwhich were sharpened at the points, and the sound leg was upon theother. I, on the one side--for he had let go my hand in order tosupport himself--retreated a little, and stood upon the defensive, trembling, I must confess; while my enemies on the other side couldnot reach me so long as Scroggie was upon the top of the gate. 

The lame leg went searching gently about, but could find no rest forthe sole of its foot, for there was no projecting cross bar upon thisside; the repose upon the top was anything but perfect, and the legsuspended behind was useless. The long and the short, both in legs andresults, was, that there Scroggie stuck; and so long as he stuck, Iwas safe. As soon as I saw this, I turned and caught up Davie, thinking to make for home once more. But that very instant there was arush at the gate; Scroggie was hoisted over, the knife was taken out, and on poured the assailants, before I had quite reached the other endof the bridge. 

"At them, Oscar!" cried a voice. 

The dog rushed past me on to the bridge, followed by Turkey. I setDavie down, and, holding his hand, breathed again. There was a scurryand a rush, a splash or two in the water, and then back came Oscarwith his innocent tongue hanging out like a blood-red banner ofvictory. He was followed by Scroggie, who was exploding with laughter. 

[Illustration]

Oscar came up wagging his tail, and looking as pleased as if he hadrestored obedience to a flock of unruly sheep. I shrank back fromScroggie, wishing Turkey, who was still at the other end of thebridge, would make haste. 

"Wasn't it fun, Ranald?" said Scroggie. "You don't think I was so lamethat I couldn't get over that gate? I stuck on purpose. "

Turkey joined us with an inquiring look, for he knew how Scroggie hadbeen in the habit of treating me. 

"It's all right, Turkey, " I said. "Scroggie stuck on the gate onpurpose. "

"A good thing for you, Ranald!" said Turkey. "Didn't you see PeterMason amongst them?"

"No. He left the school last year. "

"He was there, though, and I don't suppose _he_ meant to beagreeable. "

"I tell you what, " said Scroggie: "if you like, I'll leave my schooland come to yours. My mother lets me do as I like. "

I thanked him, but said I did not think there would be more of it. Itwould blow over. 

Allister told my father as much as he knew of the affair; and when hequestioned me, I told him as much as I knew. 

The next morning, just as we were all settling to work, my fatherentered the school. The hush that followed was intense. The placemight have been absolutely empty for any sound I could hear for someseconds. The ringleaders of my enemies held down their heads, asanticipating an outbreak of vengeance. But after a few moments'conversation with Mr. Wilson, my father departed. There was a mysteryabout the proceeding, an unknown possibility of result, which had avery sedative effect the whole of the morning. When we broke up fordinner, Mr. Wilson detained me, and told me that my father thought itbetter that, for some time at least, I should not occupy such aprominent position as before. He was very sorry, he said, for I hadbeen a great help to him; and if I did not object, he would ask myfather to allow me to assist him in the evening-school during thewinter. I was delighted at the prospect, sank back into my naturalposition, and met with no more annoyance. After a while I was able toassure my former foes that I had had no voice in bringing punishmentupon them in particular, and the enmity was, I believe, quiteextinguished. 

When winter came, and the evening-school was opened, Mr. Wilson calledat the manse, and my father very willingly assented to the proposedarrangement. The scholars were mostly young men from neighbouringfarms, or from workshops in the village, with whom, although I was somuch younger than they, there was no danger of jealousy. Theadditional assistance they would thus receive, and their respect forsuperior knowledge, in which, with my advantages, I had no credit overthem, would prevent any false shame because of my inferiority inyears. 

There were a few girls at the school as well--among the rest, ElsieDuff. Although her grandmother was very feeble, Elsie was now able tohave a little more of her own way, and there was no real reason whythe old woman should not be left for an hour or two in the evening. Ineed hardly say that Turkey was a regular attendant. He always, and Ioften, saw Elsie home. 

My chief pleasure lay in helping her with her lessons. I did my bestto assist all who wanted my aid, but offered unsolicited attention toher. She was not quick, but would never be satisfied until sheunderstood, and that is more than any superiority of gifts. Hence, ifher progress was slow, it was unintermitting. Turkey was far before mein trigonometry, but I was able to help him in grammar and geography, and when he commenced Latin, which he did the same winter, I assistedhim a good deal. 

Sometimes Mr. Wilson would ask me to go home with him after school, and take supper. This made me late, but my father did not mind it, forhe liked me to be with Mr. Wilson. I learned a good deal from him atsuch times. He had an excellent little library, and would take downhis favourite books and read me passages. It is wonderful how thingswhich, in reading for ourselves, we might pass over in a half-blindmanner, gain their true power and influence through the voice of onewho sees and feels what is in them. If a man in whom you haveconfidence merely lays his finger on a paragraph and says to you, "Read that, " you will probably discover three times as much in it asyou would if you had only chanced upon it in the course of yourreading. In such case the mind gathers itself up, and is all eyes andears. 

But Mr. Wilson would sometimes read me a few verses of his own; andthis was a delight such as I have rarely experienced. My reader maywonder that a full-grown man and a good scholar should condescend totreat a boy like me as so much of an equal; but sympathy is preciouseven from a child, and Mr. Wilson had no companions of his ownstanding. I believe he read more to Turkey than to me, however. 

As I have once apologized already for the introduction of a few of hisverses with Scotch words in them, I will venture to try whether thesame apology will not cover a second offence of the same sort. 

 JEANIE BRAW[1]

I like ye weel upo' Sundays, Jeanie, In yer goon an' yer ribbons gay;But I like ye better on Mondays, Jeanie, And I like ye better the day. [2]

[Footnote 1: Brave; well dressed. ]. [Footnote 2: To-day. ]

For it _will_ come into my heid, Jeanie, O' yer braws[1] ye are thinkin' a wee;No' a' o' the Bible-seed, Jeanie, Nor the minister nor me. 

[Footnote 1: Bravery; finery. ]

And hame across the green, Jeanie, Ye gang wi' a toss o' yer chin:Us twa there's a shadow atween, Jeanie, Though yer hand my airm lies in. 

But noo, whan I see ye gang, Jeanie, Busy wi' what's to be dune, Liltin' a haveless[2] sang, Jeanie, I could kiss yer verra shune. 

[Footnote 2: Careless. ]

Wi' yer silken net on yer hair, Jeanie, In yer bonny blue petticoat, Wi' yer kindly airms a' bare, Jeanie, On yer verra shadow I doat. 

For oh! but ye're eident[3] and free, Jeanie, Airy o' hert and o' fit[4];There's a licht shines oot o' yer ee, Jeanie; O' yersel' ye thinkna a bit. 

[Footnote 3: Diligent. ][Footnote 4: Foot. ]

Turnin' or steppin' alang, Jeanie, Liftin' an' layin' doon, Settin' richt what's aye gaein' wrang, Jeanie, Yer motion's baith dance an' tune. 

Fillin' the cogue frae the coo, Jeanie, Skimmin' the yallow cream, Poorin' awa' the het broo, Jeanie, Lichtin' the lampie's leme[5]--

[Footnote 5: Flame. ]

I' the hoose ye're a licht an' a law, Jeanie, A servant like him that's abune:Oh! a woman's bonniest o' a', Jeanie, Whan she's doin' what _maun_ be dune. 

Sae, dressed in yer Sunday claes, Jeanie, Fair kythe[1] ye amang the fair;But dressed in yer ilka-day's[2], Jeanie, Yer beauty's beyond compare. 

[Footnote 1: Appear. ]

[Footnote 2: Everyday clothes. ]

CHAPTER XXXI

A Winter's Ride

In this winter, the stormiest I can recollect, occurred the chiefadventure of my boyhood--indeed, the event most worthy to be called anadventure I have ever encountered. 

There had been a tremendous fall of snow, which a furious wind, lasting two days and the night between, had drifted into great mounds, so that the shape of the country was much altered with new heights andhollows. Even those who were best acquainted with them could onlyguess at the direction of some of the roads, and it was the easiestthing in the world to lose the right track, even in broad daylight. Assoon as the storm was over, however, and the frost was found likely tocontinue, they had begun to cut passages through some of the deeperwreaths, as they called the snow-mounds; while over the tops ofothers, and along the general line of the more frequented roads, footpaths were soon trodden. It was many days, however, beforevehicles could pass, and coach-communication be resumed between thetowns. All the short day, the sun, though low, was brilliant, and thewhole country shone with dazzling whiteness; but after sunset, whichtook place between three and four o'clock, anything more dreary canhardly be imagined, especially when the keenest of winds rushed ingusts from the north-east, and lifting the snow-powder from untroddenshadows, blew it, like so many stings, in the face of the freezingtraveller. 

Early one afternoon, just as I came home from school, which in winterwas always over at three o'clock, my father received a message that acertain laird, or _squire_ as he would be called in England--whosehouse lay three or four miles off amongst the hills, was at the pointof death, and very anxious to see him: a groom on horseback hadbrought the message. The old man had led a life of indifferent repute, and that probably made him the more anxious to see my father, whoproceeded at once to get ready for the uninviting journey. 

Since my brother Tom's departure, I had become yet more of a companionto my father; and now when I saw him preparing to set out, I begged tobe allowed to go with him. His little black mare had a daughter, notunused to the saddle. She was almost twice her mother's size, and nonethe less clumsy that she was chiefly employed upon the farm. Still shehad a touch of the roadster in her, and if not capable of elegantmotion, could get over the ground well enough, with a sort of speedyslouch, while, as was of far more consequence on an expedition likethe present, she was of great strength, and could go through thewreaths, Andrew said, like a red-hot iron. My father hesitated, lookedout at the sky, and hesitated still. 

"I hardly know what to say, Ranald. If I were sure of the weather--butI am very doubtful. However, if it should break up, we can stay thereall night. Yes. --Here, Allister; run and tell Andrew to saddle boththe mares, and bring them down directly. --Make haste with your dinner, Ranald. "

Delighted at the prospect, I did make haste; the meal was soon over, and Kirsty expended her utmost care in clothing me for the journey, which would certainly be a much longer one in regard of time than ofspace. In half an hour we were all mounted and on our way--the groom, who had so lately traversed the road, a few yards in front. 

I have already said, perhaps more than once, that my father tookcomparatively little notice of us as children, beyond teaching us of aSunday, and sometimes of a week-evening in winter, generally after wewere in bed. He rarely fondled us, or did anything to supply in thatmanner the loss of our mother. I believe his thoughts were tendernessitself towards us, but they did not show themselves in ordinary shape:some connecting link was absent. It seems to me now sometimes, thatperhaps he was wisely retentive of his feelings, and waited a bettertime to let them flow. For, ever as we grew older, we drew nearer tomy father, or, more properly, my father drew us nearer to him, dropping, by degrees, that reticence which, perhaps, too many parentsof character keep up until their children are full grown; and by thistime he would converse with me most freely. I presume he had found, orbelieved he had found me trustworthy, and incapable of repeatingunwisely any remarks he made. But much as he hated certain kinds ofgossip, he believed that indifference to your neighbour and hisaffairs was worse. He said everything depended on the spirit in whichmen spoke of each other; that much of what was called gossip was onlya natural love of biography, and, if kindly, was better thanblameless; that the greater part of it was objectionable, simplybecause it was not loving, only curious; while a portion was amongstthe wickedest things on earth, because it had for its object tobelieve and make others believe the worst. I mention these opinions ofmy father, lest anyone should misjudge the fact of his talking to meas he did. 

Our horses made very slow progress. It was almost nowhere possible totrot, and we had to plod on, step by step. This made it more easy toconverse. 

"The country looks dreary, doesn't it, Ranald?" he said. 

"Just like as if everything was dead, father, " I replied. 

"If the sun were to cease shining altogether, what do you think wouldhappen?"

[Illustration]

I thought a bit, but was not prepared to answer, when my father spokeagain. 

"What makes the seeds grow, Ranald--the oats, and the wheat, and thebarley?"

"The rain, father, " I said, with half-knowledge. 

"Well, if there were no sun, the vapours would not rise to makeclouds. What rain there was already in the sky would come down insnow or lumps of ice. The earth would grow colder and colder, andharder and harder, until at last it went sweeping through the air, onefrozen mass, as hard as stone, without a green leaf or a livingcreature upon it. "

"How dreadful to think of, father!" I said. "That would be frightful. "

"Yes, my boy. It is the sun that is the life of the world. Not onlydoes he make the rain rise to fall on the seeds in the earth, but eventhat would be useless, if he did not make them warm as well--and dosomething else to them besides which we cannot understand. Fartherdown into the earth than any of the rays of light can reach, he sendsother rays we cannot see, which go searching about in it, like longfingers; and wherever they find and touch a seed, the life that is inthat seed begins to talk to itself, as it were, and straightway beginsto grow. Out of the dark earth he thus brings all the lovely greenthings of the spring, and clothes the world with beauty, and sets thewaters running, and the birds singing, and the lambs bleating, and thechildren gathering daisies and butter-cups, and the gladnessoverflowing in all hearts--very different from what we see now--isn'tit, Ranald?"

"Yes, father; a body can hardly believe, to look at it now, that theworld will ever be like that again. "

"But, for as cold and wretched as it looks, the sun has not forsakenit. He has only drawn away from it a little, for good reasons, one ofwhich is that we may learn that we cannot do without him. If he wereto go, not one breath more could one of us draw. Horses and men, weshould drop down frozen lumps, as hard as stones. Who is the sun'sfather, Ranald?"

"He hasn't got a father, " I replied, hoping for some answer as to ariddle. 

"Yes, he has, Ranald: I can prove that. You remember whom the apostleJames calls the Father of Lights?"

"Oh yes, of course, father. But doesn't that mean another kind oflights?"

"Yes. But they couldn't be called lights if they were not like thesun. All kinds of lights must come from the Father of Lights. Now theFather of the sun must be like the sun, and, indeed of all materialthings, the sun is likest to God. We pray to God to shine upon us andgive us light. If God did not shine into our hearts, they would bedead lumps of cold. We shouldn't care for anything whatever. "

"Then, father, God never stops shining upon us. He wouldn't be likethe sun if he did. For even in winter the sun shines enough to keep usalive. "

"True, my boy. I am very glad you understand me. In all my experienceI have never yet known a man in whose heart I could not find proofs ofthe shining of the great Sun. It might be a very feeble wintry shine, but still he was there. For a human heart though, it is very dreadfulto have a cold, white winter like this inside it, instead of a summerof colour and warmth and light. There's the poor old man we are goingto see. They talk of the winter of age: that's all very well, but theheart is not made for winter. A man may have the snow on his roof, andmerry children about his hearth; he may have grey hairs on his head, and the very gladness of summer in his bosom. But this old man, I amafraid, feels wintry cold within. "

"Then why doesn't the Father of Lights shine more on him and make himwarmer?"

"The sun is shining as much on the earth in the winter as in thesummer: why is the earth no warmer?"

"Because, " I answered, calling up what little astronomy I knew, "thatpart of it is turned away from the sun. "

"Just so. Then if a man turns himself away from the Father ofLights--the great Sun--how can he be warmed?"

"But the earth can't help it, father. "

"But the man can, Ranald. He feels the cold, and he knows he can turnto the light. Even this poor old man knows it now. God is shining onhim--a wintry way--or he would not feel the cold at all; he would beonly a lump of ice, a part of the very winter itself. The good of whatwarmth God gives him is, that he feels cold. If he were all cold, hecouldn't feel cold. "

"Does he want to turn to the Sun, then, father?"

"I do not know. I only know that he is miserable because he has notturned to the Sun. "

"What will you say to him, father?"

"I cannot tell, my boy. It depends on what I find him thinking. Of allthings, my boy, keep your face to the Sun. You can't shine ofyourself, you can't be good of yourself, but God has made you able toturn to the Sun whence all goodness and all shining comes. God'schildren may be very naughty, but they must be able to turn towardshim. The Father of Lights is the Father of every weakest little babyof a good thought in us, as well as of the highest devotion ofmartyrdom. If you turn your face to the Sun, my boy, your soul will, when you come to die, feel like an autumn, with the golden fruits ofthe earth hanging in rich clusters ready to be gathered--not like awinter. You may feel ever so worn, but you will not feel withered. Youwill die in peace, hoping for the spring--and such a spring!"

Thus talking, in the course of two hours or so we arrived at thedwelling of the old laird. 

CHAPTER XXXII

The Peat-Stack

How dreary the old house looked as we approached it through thegathering darkness! All the light appeared to come from the snow whichrested wherever it could lie--on roofs and window ledges and turrets. Even on the windward walls, every little roughness sustained its ownfrozen patch, so that their grey was spotted all over with whiteness. Not a glimmer shone from the windows. 

"Nobody lives _there_, father, " I said, --"surely?"

"It does not look very lively, " he answered. 

The house stood upon a bare knoll. There was not a tree within sight. Rugged hills arose on all sides of it. Not a sound was heard but themoan of an occasional gust of wind. There was a brook, but it layfrozen beneath yards of snow. For miles in any direction those gustsmight wander without shaking door or window, or carrying with them apuff of smoke from any hearth. We were crossing the yard at the backof the house, towards the kitchen-door, for the front door had notbeen opened for months, when we recognized the first sign of life. That was only the low of a bullock. As we dismounted on a few feet ofrough pavement which had been swept clear, an old woman came to thedoor, and led us into a dreary parlour without even a fire to welcomeus. 

I learned afterwards that the laird, from being a spendthrift in hisyouth, had become a miser in his age, and that every householdarrangement was on the narrowest scale. From wasting righteous pounds, he had come to scraping unrighteous farthings. 

After we had remained standing for some time, the housekeeperreturned, and invited my father to go to the laird's room. As theywent, he requested her to take me to the kitchen, which, afterconducting him, she did. The sight of the fire, although it was of thesmallest, was most welcome. She laid a few more peats upon it, andencouraged them to a blaze, remarking, with a sidelong look: "Wedaren't do this, you see, sir, if the laird was about. The honest manwould call it waste. "

"Is he dying?" I asked, for the sake of saying something; but she onlyshook her head for reply, and, going to a press at the other end ofthe large, vault-like kitchen, brought me some milk in a basin, andsome oatcake upon a platter, saying, "It's not my house, you see, or I would have something better to setbefore the minister's son. "

I was glad of any food however, and it was well for me that I ateheartily. I had got quite warm also before my father stepped into thekitchen, very solemn, and stood up with his back to the fire. The oldwoman set him a chair, but he neither sat down nor accepted therefreshment which she humbly offered him. 

"We must be going, " he objected, "for it looks stormy, and the soonerwe set out the better. "

"I'm sorry I can't ask you to stop the night, " she said, "for Icouldn't make you comfortable. There's nothing fit to offer you in thehouse, and there's not a bed that's been slept in for I don't know howlong. "

"Never mind, " said my father cheerfully. "The moon is up already, andwe shall get home I trust before the snow begins to fall. Will youtell the man to get the horses out?"

When she returned from taking the message, she came up to my fatherand said, in a loud whisper, "Is he in a bad way, sir?"

"He is dying, " answered my father. 

[Illustration]

"I know that, " she returned. "He'll be gone before the morning. Butthat's not what I meant. Is he in a bad way for the other world?That's what I meant, sir. "

"Well, my good woman, after a life like his, we are only too glad toremember what our Lord told us--not to judge. I do think he is ashamedand sorry for his past life. But it's not the wrong he has done informer time that stands half so much in his way as his presentfondness for what he counts his own. It seems like to break his heartto leave all his little bits of property--particularly the money hehas saved; and yet he has some hope that Jesus Christ will be kindenough to pardon him. I am afraid he will find himself very miserablethough, when he has not one scrap left to call his own--not apocket-knife even. "

"It's dreadful to think of him flying through the air on a night likethis, " said she. 

"My good woman, " returned my father, "we know nothing about where orhow the departed spirit exists after it has left the body. But itseems to me just as dreadful to be without God in the world, as to bewithout him anywhere else. Let us pray for him that God may be withhim wherever he is. "

So saying, my father knelt down, and we beside him, and he prayedearnestly to God for the old man. Then we rose, mounted our horses, and rode away. 

We were only about halfway home, when the clouds began to cover themoon, and the snow began to fall. Hitherto we had got on pretty well, for there was light enough to see the track, feeble as it was. Now, however, we had to keep a careful lookout. We pressed our horses, andthey went bravely, but it was slow work at the best. It got darker anddarker, for the clouds went on gathering, and the snow was coming downin huge dull flakes. Faster and thicker they came, until at length wecould see nothing of the road before us, and were compelled to leaveall to the wisdom of our horses. My father, having great confidence inhis own little mare, which had carried him through many a doubtful anddifficult place, rode first. I followed close behind. He kept ontalking to me very cheerfully--I have thought since--to prevent mefrom getting frightened. But I had not a thought of fear. To be withmy father was to me perfect safety. He was in the act of telling mehow, on more occasions than one, Missy had got him through placeswhere the road was impassable, by walking on the tops of the walls, when all at once both our horses plunged into a gulf of snow. The moremy mare struggled, the deeper we sank in it. For a moment I thought itwas closing over my head. 

"Father! father!" I shouted. 

"Don't be frightened, my boy, " cried my father, his voice seeming tocome from far away. "We are in God's hands. I can't help you now, butas soon as Missy has got quieter, I shall come to you. I think I knowwhereabouts we are. We've dropped right off the road. You're not hurt, are you?"

"Not in the least, " I answered. "I was only frightened. "

A few moments more, and my mare lay or rather stuck quiet, with herneck and head thrown back, and her body deep in the snow. I put up myhands to feel. It rose above my head farther than I could reach. I gotclear of the stirrups and scrambled up, first on my knees, and then onmy feet. Standing thus upon the saddle, again I stretched my handsabove my head, but still the broken wall of snow ascended above myreach. I could see nothing of my father, but I heard him talking toMissy. My mare soon began floundering again, so that I tumbled aboutagainst the sides of the hole, and grew terrified lest I should bringthe snow down. I therefore cowered upon the mare's back until she wasquiet again. "Woa! Quiet, my lass!" I heard my father saying, and itseemed his Missy was more frightened than mine. 

My fear was now quite gone, and I felt much inclined to laugh at thefun of the misadventure. I had as yet no idea of how serious a thingit might be. Still I had sense enough to see that something must bedone--but what? I saw no way of getting out of the hole except bytrampling down the snow upon the back of my poor mare, and that Icould not think of; while I doubted much whether my father even couldtell in what direction to turn for help or shelter. 

[Illustration]

Finding our way home, even if we got free, seemed out of the question. Again my mare began plunging violently, and this time I found myselfthrown against some hard substance. I thrust my hand through the snow, and felt what I thought the stones of one of the dry walls common tothe country. I might clear away enough of the snow to climb upon that;but then what next--it was so dark?

"Ranald!" cried my father; "how do you get on?"

"Much the same, father, " I answered. 

"I'm out of the wreath, " he returned. "We've come through on the otherside. You are better where you are I suspect, however. The snow iswarmer than the air. It is beginning to blow. Pull your feet out andget right upon the mare's back. "

"That's just where I am, father--lying on her back, and prettycomfortable, " I rejoined. 

All this time the snow was falling thick. If it went on like this, Ishould be buried before morning, and the fact that the wind was risingadded to the danger of it. We were at the wrong end of the night too. 

"I'm in a kind of ditch, I think, father, " I cried--the place we felloff on one side and a stone wall on the other. "

"That can hardly be, or I shouldn't have got out, " he returned. "Butnow I've got Missy quiet, I'll come to you. I must get you out, I see, or you will be snowed up. Woa, Missy! Good mare! Stand still. "

The next moment he gave a joyous exclamation. 

"What is it, father?" I cried. 

"It's not a stone wall; it's a peat-stack. That _is_ good. "

"I don't see what good it is. We can't light a fire. "

"No, my boy; but where there's a peat-stack, there's probably ahouse. "

He began uttering a series of shouts at the top of his voice, listening between for a response. This lasted a good while. I began toget very cold. 

"I'm nearly frozen, father, " I said, "and what's to become of the poormare--she's got no clothes on?"

"I'll get you out, my boy; and then at least you will be able to moveabout a little. "

I heard him shovelling at the snow with his hands and feet. 

"I have got to the corner of the stack, and as well as I can judge youmust be just round it, " he said. 

"Your voice is close to me, " I answered. 

"I've got a hold of one of the mare's ears, " he said next. "I won'ttry to get her out until I get you off her. "

I put out my hand, and felt along the mare's neck. What a joy it wasto catch my father's hand through the darkness and the snow! Hegrasped mine and drew me towards him, then got me by the arm and begandragging me through the snow. The mare began plunging again, and byher struggles rather assisted my father. In a few moments he had me inhis arms. 

"Thank God!" he said, as he set me down against the peat-stack. "Standthere. A little farther. Keep well off for fear she hurt you. She mustfight her way out now. "

He went back to the mare, and went on clearing away the snow. Then Icould hear him patting and encouraging her. Next I heard a greatblowing and scrambling, and at last a snort and the thunder of hoofs. 

"Woa! woa! Gently! gently!--She's off!" cried my father. 

Her mother gave one snort, and away she went, thundering afterher. But their sounds were soon quenched in the snow. 

"There's a business!" said my father. "I'm afraid the poor things willonly go farther to fare the worse. We are as well without them, however; and if they should find their way home, so much the betterfor us. They might have kept us a little warmer though. We must fightthe cold as we best can for the rest of the night, for it would onlybe folly to leave the spot before it is light enough to see where weare going. "

It came into my mind suddenly how I had burrowed in the straw to hidemyself after running from Dame Shand's. But whether that or thethought of burrowing in the peat-stack came first, I cannot tell. Iturned and felt whether I could draw out a peat. With a littleloosening I succeeded. 

"Father, " I said, "couldn't we make a hole in the peat-stalk, andbuild ourselves in?"

"A capital idea, my boy!" he answered, with a gladness in his voicewhich I venture to attribute in part to his satisfaction at findingthat I had some practical sense in me. "We'll try it at once. "

"I've got two or three out already, " I said, for I had gone onpulling, and it was easy enough after one had been started. 

"We must take care we don't bring down the whole stack though, " saidmy father. 

"Even then, " I returned, "we could build ourselves up in them, andthat would be something. "

"Right, Ranald! It would be only making houses to our own shape, instead of big enough to move about in--turning crustaceous animals, you know. "

"It would be a peat-greatcoat at least, " I remarked, pulling away. 

"Here, " he said, "I will put my stick in under the top row. That willbe a sort of lintel to support those above. "

He always carried his walking-stick whether he rode or walked. 

We worked with a will, piling up the peats a little in front that wemight with them build up the door of our cave after we were inside. Wegot quite merry over it. 

"We shall be brought before the magistrates for destruction ofproperty, " said my father. 

"You'll have to send Andrew to build up the stack again--that's all. "

"But I wonder how it is that nobody hears us. How can they have apeat-stack so far from the house?"

"I can't imagine, " I said; "except it be to prevent them from burningtoo many peats. It is more like a trick of the poor laird than anybodyelse. "

Every now and then a few would come down with a rush, and before longwe had made a large hole. We left a good thick floor to sit upon. 

Creeping in, we commenced building up the entrance. We had notproceeded far, however, before we found that our cave was too small, and that as we should have to remain in it for hours, we must find itvery cramped. Therefore, instead of using any more of the peatsalready pulled out, we finished building up the wall with others freshdrawn from the inside. When at length we had, to the best of ourability, completed our immuring, we sat down to wait for themorning--my father as calm as if he had been seated in hisstudy-chair, and I in a state of condensed delight; for was not this agrand adventure--with my father to share it, and keep it from goingtoo far? He sat with his back leaning against the side of the hole, and I sat between his knees, and leaned against him. His arms werefolded round me; and could ever boy be more blessed than I was then?The sense of outside danger; the knowledge that if the wind rose, wemight be walled up in snow before the morning; the assurance ofpresent safety and good hope--all made such an impression upon my mindthat ever since when any trouble has threatened me, I have invariablyturned first in thought to the memory of that harbour of refuge fromthe storm. There I sat for long hours secure in my father's arms, andknew that the soundless snow was falling thick around us, and markedoccasionally the threatening wail of the wind like the cry of a wildbeast scenting us from afar. 

"This is grand, father, " I said. 

"You would like better to be at home in bed, wouldn't you?" he asked, trying me. 

"No, indeed, I should not, " I answered, with more than honesty; for Ifelt exuberantly happy. 

"If only we can keep warm, " said my father. "If you should get verycold indeed, you must not lose heart, my man, but think how pleasantit will be when we get home to a good fire and a hot breakfast. "

"I think I can bear it all right. I have often been cold enough atschool. "

"This may be worse. But we need not anticipate evil: that is to sendout for the suffering. It is well to be prepared for it, but it is illto brood over a fancied future of evil. In all my life, my boy--and Ishould like you to remember what I say--I have never found any trialgo beyond what I could bear. In the worst cases of suffering, I thinkthere is help given which those who look on cannot understand, butwhich enables the sufferer to endure. The last help of that kind isdeath, which I think is always a blessing, though few people canregard it as such. "

I listened with some wonder. Without being able to see that what hesaid was true, I could yet accept it after a vague fashion. 

"This nest which we have made to shelter us, " he resumed, "brings tomy mind what the Psalmist says about dwelling in the secret place ofthe Most High. Everyone who will, may there, like the swallow, makehimself a nest. "

"This can't be very like that, though, surely, father, " I ventured toobject. 

"Why not, my boy?"

"It's not safe enough, for one thing. "

"You are right there. Still it is like. It is our place of refuge. "

"The cold does get through it, father. "

"But it keeps our minds at peace. Even the refuge in God does notalways secure us from external suffering. The heart may be quite happyand strong when the hands are benumbed with cold. Yes, the heart evenmay grow cold with coming death, while the man himself retreats thefarther into the secret place of the Most High, growing more calm andhopeful as the last cold invades the house of his body. I believe thatall troubles come to drive us into that refuge--that secret placewhere alone we can be safe. You will, when you go out into the world, my boy, find that most men not only do not believe this, but do notbelieve that you believe it. They regard it at best as a fantasticweakness, fit only for sickly people. But watch how the strength ofsuch people, their calmness and common sense, fares when the grasp ofsuffering lays hold upon them. It was a sad sight--that abjecthopeless misery I saw this afternoon. If his mind had been anindication of the reality, one must have said that there was noGod--no God at least that would have anything to do with him. Theuniverse as reflected in the tarnished mirror of his soul, was a chillmisty void, through which blew the moaning wind of an unknown fate. Asnear as ever I saw it, that man was without God and without hope inthe world. All who have done the mightiest things--I do not mean theshowiest things--all that are like William of Orange--the greatWilliam, I mean, not our King William--or John Milton, or WilliamPenn, or any other of the cloud of witnesses spoken of in the Epistleto the Hebrews--all the men I say who have done the mightiest things, have not only believed that there was this refuge in God, but havethemselves more or less entered into the secret place of the MostHigh. There only could they have found strength to do their mightydeeds. They were able to do them because they knew God wanted them todo them, that he was on their side, or rather they were on his side, and therefore safe, surrounded by God on every side. My boy, do thewill of God--that is, what you know or believe to be right, and fearnothing. "

I never forgot the lesson. But my readers must not think that myfather often talked like this. He was not at all favourable to muchtalk about religion. He used to say that much talk prevented muchthought, and talk without thought was bad. Therefore it was for themost part only upon extraordinary occasions, of which this is anexample, that he spoke of the deep simplicities of that faith in Godwhich was the very root of his conscious life. 

He was silent after this utterance, which lasted longer than I haverepresented, although unbroken, I believe, by any remark of mine. Fullof inward repose, I fell asleep in his arms. 

When I awoke I found myself very cold. Then I became aware that myfather was asleep, and for the first time began to be uneasy. It wasnot because of the cold: that was not at all unendurable; it was thatwhile the night lay awful in white silence about me, while the windwas moaning outside, and blowing long thin currents through the peatwalls around me, while our warm home lay far away, and I could nottell how many hours of cold darkness had yet to pass before we couldset out to find it, --it was not all these things together, but that, in the midst of all these, I was awake and my father slept. I couldeasily have waked him, but I was not selfish enough for that: I satstill and shivered and felt very dreary. Then the last words of myfather began to return upon me, and, with a throb of relief, thethought awoke in my mind that although my father was asleep, the greatFather of us both, he in whose heart lay that secret place of refuge, neither slumbered nor slept. And now I was able to wait in patience, with an idea, if not a sense of the present care of God, such as I hadnever had before. When, after some years, my father was taken from us, the thought of this night came again and again, and I would say in myheart: "My father sleeps that I may know the better that The Fatherwakes. "

At length he stirred. The first sign of his awaking was, that heclosed again the arms about me which had dropped by his sides as heslept. 

"I'm so glad you're awake, father, " I said, speaking first. 

"Have _you_ been long awake then?"

"Not so very long, but I felt lonely without you. "

"Are you very cold? _I_ feel rather chilly. "

So we chatted away for a while. 

"I wonder if it is nearly day yet. I do not in the least know how longwe have slept. I wonder if my watch is going. I forgot to wind it uplast night. If it has stopped I shall know it is near daylight. "

He held his watch to his ear: alas! it was ticking vigorously. He feltfor the keyhole, and wound it up. After that we employed ourselves inrepeating as many of the metrical psalms and paraphrases of Scriptureas we could recollect, and this helped away a good part of the wearytime. 

But it went very slowly, and I was growing so cold that I could hardlybear it. 

"I'm afraid you feel very cold, Ranald, " said my father, folding mecloser in his arms. "You must try not to go to sleep again, for thatwould be dangerous now. I feel more cramped than cold. "

As he said this, he extended his legs and threw his head back, to getrid of the uneasiness by stretching himself. The same moment, downcame a shower of peats upon our heads and bodies, and when I tried tomove, I found myself fixed. I could not help laughing. 

"Father, " I cried, as soon as I could speak, "you're like Samson:you've brought down the house upon us. "

"So I have, my boy. It was very thoughtless of me. I don't know whatwe _are_ to do now. "

"Can you move, father? _I_ can't, " I said. 

"I can move my legs, but I'm afraid to move even a toe in my boot forfear of bringing down another avalanche of peats. But no--there's notmuch danger of that: they are all down already, for I feel the snow onmy face. "

With hands and feet my father struggled, but could not do much, for Ilay against him under a great heap. His struggles made an openingsideways however. 

"Father! father! shout, " I cried. "I see a light somewhere; and Ithink it is moving. "

We shouted as loud as we could, and then lay listening. My heart beatso that I was afraid I should not hear any reply that might come. Butthe next moment it rang through the frosty air. 

"It's Turkey! That's Turkey, father!" I cried. "I know his shout. Hemakes it go farther than anybody else. --Turkey! Turkey!" I shrieked, almost weeping with delight. 

Again Turkey's cry rang through the darkness, and the light drewwavering nearer. 

"Mind how you step, Turkey, " cried my father. "There's a hole you maytumble into. "

"It wouldn't hurt him much in the snow, " I said. 

"Perhaps not, but he would probably lose his light, and that we canhardly afford. "

"Shout again, " cried Turkey. "I can't make out where you are. "

My father shouted. 

"Am I coming nearer to you now?"

"I can hardly say. I cannot see well. Are you going along the road?"

"Yes. Can't you come to me?"

"Not yet. We can't get out. We're upon your right hand, in apeat-stack. "

"Oh! I know the peat-stack. I'll be with you in a moment. "

He did not however find it so easily as he had expected, the peatsbeing covered with snow. My father gave up trying to free himself andtook to laughing instead at the ridiculous situation in which we wereabout to be discovered. He kept directing Turkey, however, who atlength after some disappearances which made us very anxious about thelantern, caught sight of the stack, and walked straight towards it. Now first we saw that he was not alone, but accompanied by the silentAndrew. 

"Where are you, sir?" asked Turkey, throwing the light of the lanternover the ruin. 

"Buried in the peats, " answered my father, laughing. "Come and get usout. "

Turkey strode up to the heap, and turning the light down into it said, "I didn't know it had been raining peats, sir. "

"The peats didn't fall quite so far as the snow, Turkey, or they wouldhave made a worse job of it, " answered my father. 

Meantime Andrew and Turkey were both busy; and in a few moments westood upon our feet, stiff with cold and cramped with confinement, butmerry enough at heart. 

"What brought you out to look for us?" asked my father. 

"I heard Missy whinnying at the stable-door, " said Andrew. "When I sawshe was alone, I knew something had happened, and waked Turkey. Weonly stopped to run to the manse for a drop of whisky to bring withus, and set out at once. "

"What o'clock is it now?" asked my father. 

"About one o'clock, " answered Andrew. 

"One o'clock!" thought I. "What a time we should have had to wait!"

"Have you been long in finding us?"

"Only about an hour. "

"Then the little mare must have had great trouble in getting home. Yousay the other was not with her?"

"No, sir. She's not made her appearance. "

"Then if we don't find her, she will be dead before morning. But whatshall we do with you, Ranald? Turkey had better go home with youfirst. "

"Please let me go too, " I said. 

"Are you able to walk?"

"Quite--or at least I shall be, after my legs come to themselves abit. "

Turkey produced a bottle of milk which he had brought for me, andAndrew produced the little flask of whisky which Kirsty had sent; andmy father having taken a little of the latter, while I emptied mybottle, we set out to look for young Missy. 

"Where are we?" asked my father. 

Turkey told him. 

"How comes it that nobody heard our shouting, then?"

"You know, sir, " answered Turkey, "the old man is as deaf as a post, and I dare say his people were all fast asleep. "

The snow was falling only in a few large flakes now, which sankthrough the air like the moultings of some lovely bird of heaven. Themoon had come out again, and the white world lay around us in lovelylight. A good deal of snow had fallen while we lay in the peats, butwe could yet trace the track of the two horses. We followed it a longway through the little valley into which we had dropped from the sideof the road. We came to more places than one where they had beenfloundering together in a snow-wreath, but at length reached the spotwhere one had parted from the other. When we had traced one of thetracks to the road, we concluded it was Missy's, and returned to theother. But we had not followed it very far before we came upon thepoor mare lying upon her back in a deep runnel, in which the snow wasvery soft. She had put her forefeet in it as she galloped heedlesslyalong, and tumbled right over. The snow had yielded enough to let thebanks get a hold of her, and she lay helpless. Turkey and Andrew, however, had had the foresight to bring spades with them and a rope, and they set to work at once, my father taking a turn now and then, and I holding the lantern, which was all but useless now in themoonlight. It took more than an hour to get the poor thing on her legsagain, but when she was up, it was all they could do to hold her. Shewas so wild with cold, and with delight at feeling her legs under heronce more, that she would have broken loose again, and galloped off asrecklessly as ever. They set me on her back, and with my father on oneside and Turkey on the other, and Andrew at her head, I rode home ingreat comfort. It was another good hour before we arrived, and rightglad were we to see through the curtains of the parlour the glow ofthe great fire which Kirsty had kept up for us. She burst out cryingwhen we made our appearance. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

A Solitary Chapter

During all that winter I attended the evening school and assisted themaster. I confess, however, it was not by any means so much for themaster as to be near Elsie Duff, of whom I now thought many times anhour. Her sweet face grew more and more dear to me. When I pointed outan error in her work, or suggested a better mode of working, it wouldflush like the heart of a white rose, and eagerly she would setherself to rectification or improvement, her whole manner a dumbapology for what could be a fault in no eyes but her own. It was thissweetness that gained upon me: at length her face was almost a part ofmy consciousness. I suppose my condition was what people would callbeing in love with her; but I never thought of that; I only thought ofher. Nor did I ever dream of saying a word to her on the subject. Iwished nothing other than as it was. To think about her all day, sogently that it never disturbed Euclid or Livy; to see her at night, and get near her now and then, sitting on the same form with her as Iexplained something to her on the slate or in her book; to hear hervoice, and look into her tender eyes, was all that I desired. It neveroccurred to me that things could not go on so; that a change mustcome; that as life cannot linger in the bud, but is compelled by thesunshine and air into the flower, so life would go on and on, andthings would change, and the time blossom into something else, and mylove find itself set out-of-doors in the midst of strange plants and anew order of things. 

When school was over, I walked home with her--not alone, for Turkeywas always on the other side. I had not a suspicion that Turkey'sadmiration of Elsie could ever come into collision with mine. Wejoined in praising her, but my admiration ever found more words thanTurkey's, and I thought my love to her was greater than his. 

We seldom went into her grandmother's cottage, for she did not make uswelcome. After we had taken her home we generally repaired to Turkey'smother, with whom we were sure of a kind reception. She was a patientdiligent woman, who looked as if she had nearly done with life, andhad only to gather up the crumbs of it. I have often wondered since, what was her deepest thought--whether she was content to be unhappy, or whether she lived in hope of some blessedness beyond. It ismarvellous with how little happiness some people can get through theworld. Surely they are inwardly sustained with something even betterthan joy. 

"Did you ever hear my mother sing?" asked Turkey, as we sat togetherover her little fire, on one of these occasions. 

"No. I should like very much, " I answered. 

The room was lighted only by a little oil-lamp, for there was no flameto the fire of peats and dried oak-bark. 

"She sings such queer ballads as you never heard, " said Turkey. "Giveus one, mother; do. "

She yielded, and, in a low chanting voice, sang something like this:--

Up cam' the waves o' the tide wi' a whush, And back gaed the pebbles wi' a whurr, Whan the king's ae son cam' walking i' the hush, To hear the sea murmur and murr. 

The half mune was risin' the waves abune, An' a glimmer o' cauld weet lichtCam' ower the water straucht frae the mune, Like a path across the nicht. 

[Illustration]

What's that, an' that, far oot i' the grey Atwixt the mune and the land?It's the bonny sea-maidens at their play-- Haud awa', king's son, frae the strand. 

Ae rock stud up wi' a shadow at its foot: The king's son stepped behind:The merry sea-maidens cam' gambolling oot, Combin' their hair i' the wind. 

O merry their laugh when they felt the land Under their light cool feet!Each laid her comb on the yellow sand, And the gladsome dance grew fleet. 

But the fairest she laid her comb by itsel' On the rock where the king's son lay. He stole about, and the carven shell He hid in his bosom away. 

And he watched the dance till the clouds did gloom, And the wind blew an angry tune:One after one she caught up her comb, To the sea went dancin' doon. 

But the fairest, wi' hair like the mune in a clud, She sought till she was the last. He creepin' went and watchin' stud, And he thought to hold her fast. 

She dropped at his feet without motion or heed; He took her, and home he sped. --All day she lay like a withered seaweed, On a purple and gowden bed. 

But at night whan the wind frae the watery bars Blew into the dusky room, She opened her een like twa settin' stars, And back came her twilight bloom. 

The king's son knelt beside her bed: She was his ere a month had passed;And the cold sea-maiden he had wed Grew a tender wife at last. 

And all went well till her baby was born, And then she couldna sleep;She would rise and wander till breakin' morn, Hark-harkin' the sound o' the deep. 

One night when the wind was wailing about, And the sea was speckled wi' foam, From room to room she went in and out And she came on her carven comb. 

She twisted her hair with eager hands, She put in the comb with glee:She's out and she's over the glittering sands, And away to the moaning sea. 

One cry came back from far away: He woke, and was all alone. Her night robe lay on the marble grey, And the cold sea-maiden was gone. 

Ever and aye frae first peep o' the moon, Whan the wind blew aff o' the sea, The desert shore still up and doon Heavy at heart paced he. 

But never more came the maidens to play From the merry cold-hearted sea;He heard their laughter far out and away, But heavy at heart paced he. 

I have modernized the ballad--indeed spoiled it altogether, for I havemade up this version from the memory of it--with only, I fear, just atouch here and there of the original expression. 

"That's what comes of taking what you have no right to, " said Turkey, in whom the practical had ever the upper hand of the imaginative. 

As we walked home together I resumed the subject. 

"I think you're too hard on the king's son, " I said. "He couldn't helpfalling in love with the mermaid. "

"He had no business to steal her comb, and then run away withherself, " said Turkey. 

"She was none the worse for it, " said I. 

"Who told you that?" he retorted. "I don't think the girl herselfwould have said so. It's not every girl that would care to marry aking's son. She might have had a lover of her own down in the sea. Atall events the prince was none the better for it. "

"But the song says she made a tender wife, " I objected. 

"She couldn't help herself. She made the best of it. I dare say hewasn't a bad sort of a fellow, but he was no gentleman. "

"Turkey!" I exclaimed. "He was a prince!"

"I know that. "

"Then he must have been a gentleman. "

"I don't know that. I've read of a good many princes who did things Ishould be ashamed to do. "

"But you're not a prince, Turkey, " I returned, in the low endeavour tobolster up the wrong with my silly logic. 

"No. Therefore if I were to do what was rude and dishonest, peoplewould say: 'What could you expect of a ploughboy?' A prince ought tobe just so much better bred than a ploughboy. I would scorn to do whatthat prince did. What's wrong in a ploughboy can't be right in aprince, Ranald. Or else right is only right sometimes; so that rightmay be wrong and wrong may be right, which is as much as to say thereis no right and wrong; and if there's no right and wrong, the world'san awful mess, and there can't be any God, for a God would never havemade it like that. "

"Well, Turkey, you know best. I can't help thinking the prince was notso much to blame, though. "

"You see what came of it--misery. "

"Perhaps he would rather have had the misery and all together thannone of it. "

"That's for him to settle. But he must have seen he was wrong, beforehe had done wandering by the sea like that. "

"Well now, Turkey, what would you have done yourself, suppose thebeautifulest of them all had laid her comb down within an inch ofwhere you were standing--and never saw you, you know?"

Turkey thought for a moment before answering. 

"I'm supposing you fell in love with her at first sight, you know, " Iadded. 

"Well, I'm sure I should not have kept the comb, even if I had takenit just to get a chance of speaking to her. And I can't help fancyingif he had behaved like a gentleman, and let her go without touchingher the first time, she might have come again; and if he had marriedher at last of her own free will, she would not have run away fromhim, let the sea have kept calling her ever so much. "

[Illustration]

The next evening, I looked for Elsie as usual, but did not see her. How blank and dull the schoolroom seemed! Still she might arrive anymoment. But she did not come. I went through my duties wearily, hopingever for the hour of release. I could see well enough that Turkey wasanxious too. The moment school was over, we hurried away, almostwithout a word, to the cottage. There we found her weeping. Hergrandmother had died suddenly. She clung to Turkey, and seemed almostto forget my presence. But I thought nothing of that. Had the casebeen mine, I too should have clung to Turkey from faith in his helpand superior wisdom. 

There were two or three old women in the place. Turkey went and spoketo them, and then took Elsie home to his mother. Jamie was asleep, andthey would not wake him. 

How it was arranged, I forget, but both Elsie and Jamie lived for therest of the winter with Turkey's mother. The cottage was let, and thecow taken home by their father. Before summer Jamie had got a place ina shop in the village, and then Elsie went back to her mother. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

An Evening Visit

I now saw much less of Elsie; but I went with Turkey, as often as Icould, to visit her at her father's cottage. The evenings we spentthere are amongst the happiest hours in my memory. One evening inparticular appears to stand out as a type of the whole. I rememberevery point in the visit. I think it must have been almost the last. We set out as the sun was going down on an evening in the end ofApril, when the nightly frosts had not yet vanished. The hail wasdancing about us as we started; the sun was disappearing in a bank oftawny orange cloud; the night would be cold and dark and stormy; butwe cared nothing for that: a conflict with the elements always addedto the pleasure of any undertaking then. It was in the midst ofanother shower of hail, driven on the blasts of a keen wind, that wearrived at the little cottage. It had been built by Duff himself toreceive his bride, and although since enlarged, was still a verylittle house. It had a foundation of stone, but the walls were ofturf. He had lined it with boards, however, and so made it warmer andmore comfortable than most of the labourers' dwellings. When weentered, a glowing fire of peat was on the hearth, and the pot withthe supper hung over it. Mrs. Duff was spinning, and Elsie, by thelight of a little oil lamp suspended against the wall, was teachingher youngest brother to read. Whatever she did, she always seemed inmy eyes to do it better than anyone else; and to see her under thelamp, with one arm round the little fellow who stood leaning againsther, while the other hand pointed with a knitting-needle to theletters of the spelling-book which lay on her knee, was to see alovely picture. The mother did not rise from her spinning, but spoke akindly welcome, while Elsie got up, and without approaching us, orsaying more than a word or two, set chairs for us by the fire, andtook the little fellow away to put him to bed. 

"It's a cold night, " said Mrs. Duff. "The wind seems to blow throughme as I sit at my wheel. I wish my husband would come home. "

"He'll be suppering his horses, " said Turkey. "I'll just run acrossand give him a hand, and that'll bring him in the sooner. "

"Thank you, Turkey, " said Mrs. Duff as he vanished. 

"He's a fine lad, " she remarked, much in the same phrase my fatherused when speaking of him. 

"There's nobody like Turkey, " I said. 

"Indeed, I think you're right there, Ranald. A better-behaved laddoesn't step. He'll do something to distinguish himself some day. Ishouldn't wonder if he went to college, and wagged his head in apulpit yet. "

The idea of Turkey wagging his head in a pulpit made me laugh. 

"Wait till you see, " resumed Mrs. Duff, somewhat offended at myreception of her prophecy. "Folk will hear of him yet. "

"I didn't mean he couldn't be a minister, Mrs. Duff. But I don't thinkhe will take to that. "

Here Elsie came back, and lifting the lid of the pot, examined thestate of its contents. I got hold of her hand, but for the first timeshe withdrew it. I did not feel hurt, for she did it very gently. Thenshe began to set the white deal table in the middle of the floor, andby the time she had put the plates and spoons upon it, the water inthe pot was boiling, and she began to make the porridge, at which shewas judged to be first-rate--in my mind, equal to our Kirsty. By thetime it was ready, her father and Turkey came in. James Duff saidgrace, and we sat down to our supper. The wind was blowing hardoutside, and every now and then the hail came in deafening rattlesagainst the little windows, and, descending the wide chimney, dancedon the floor about the hearth; but not a thought of the long, stormyway between us and home interfered with the enjoyment of the hour. 

After supper, which was enlivened by simple chat about the crops andthe doings on the farm, James turned to me, and said:

"Haven't you got a song or a ballad to give us, Ranald? I know you'realways getting hold of such things. "

I had expected this; for, every time I went, I tried to have somethingto repeat to them. As I could not sing, this was the nearest way inwhich I might contribute to the evening's entertainment. Elsie wasvery fond of ballads, and I could hardly please her better than bybringing a new one with me. But in default of that, an old one or astory would be welcomed. My reader must remember that there were veryfew books to be had then in that part of the country, and thereforeany mode of literature was precious. The schoolmaster was the chiefsource from which I derived my provision of this sort. On the presentoccasion, I was prepared with a ballad of his. I remember every wordof it now, and will give it to my readers, reminding them once morehow easy it is to skip it, if they do not care for that kind of thing. 

"Bonny lassie, rosy lassie, Ken ye what is care?Had ye ever a thought, lassie, Made yer hertie sair?"

Johnnie said it, Johnnie luikin' Into Jeannie's face;Seekin' in the garden hedge For an open place. 

"Na, " said Jeannie, saftly smilin', "Nought o' care ken I;For they say the carlin' Is better passit by. "

"Licht o' hert ye are, Jeannie, As o' foot and ban'!Lang be yours sic answer To ony spierin' man. "

"I ken what ye wad hae, sir, Though yer words are few;Ye wad hae me aye as careless, Till I care for you. "

"Dinna mock me, Jeannie, lassie, Wi' yer lauchin' ee;For ye hae nae notion What gaes on in me. "

"No more I hae a notion O' what's in yonder cairn;I'm no sae pryin', Johnnie, It's none o' my concern. "

"Well, there's ae thing, Jeannie, Ye canna help, my doo--Ye canna help me carin' Wi' a' my hert for you. "

Johnnie turned and left her, Listed for the war;In a year cam' limpin' Hame wi' mony a scar. 

Wha was that was sittin' Wan and worn wi' care?Could it be his Jeannie Aged and alter'd sair?

Her goon was black, her eelids Reid wi' sorrow's dew:Could she in a twalmonth Be wife and widow too?

Jeannie's hert gaed wallop, Ken 't him whan he spak':"I thocht that ye was deid, Johnnie: Is't yersel' come back?"

"O Jeannie, are ye, tell me, Wife or widow or baith?To see ye lost as I am, I wad be verra laith, "

"I canna be a widow That wife was never nane;But gin ye will hae me, Noo I will be ane. "

His crutch he flang it frae him, Forgetful o' war's harms;But couldna stan' withoot it, And fell in Jeannie's arms. 

"That's not a bad ballad, " said James Duff. "Have you a tune it wouldgo to, Elsie?"

Elsie thought a little, and asked me to repeat the first verse. Thenshe sung it out clear and fair to a tune I had never heard before. 

"That will do splendidly, Elsie, " I said. "I will write it out foryou, and then you will be able to sing it all the next time I come. "

She made me no answer. She and Turkey were looking at each other, anddid not hear me. James Duff began to talk to me. Elsie was puttingaway the supper-things. In a few minutes I missed her and Turkey, andthey were absent for some time. They did not return together, butfirst Turkey, and Elsie some minutes after. As the night was nowgetting quite stormy, James Duff counselled our return, and weobeyed. But little either Turkey or I cared for wind or hail. 

I saw Elsie at church most Sundays; but she was far too attentive andmodest ever to give me even a look. Sometimes I had a word with herwhen we came out, but my father expected us to walk home with him; andI generally saw Turkey walk away with her. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXXV

A Break in my Story

I am now rapidly approaching the moment at which I said I should bringthis history to an end--the moment, namely, when I became aware thatmy boyhood was behind me. 

I left home this summer for the first time, and followed my brotherTom to the grammar school in the county-town, in order afterwards tofollow him to the University. There was so much of novelty andexpectation in the change, that I did not feel the separation from myfather and the rest of my family much at first. That came afterwards. For the time, the pleasure of a long ride on the top of themail-coach, with a bright sun and a pleasant breeze, the variousincidents connected with changing horses and starting afresh, and thenthe outlook for the first peep of the sea, occupied my attention toothoroughly. 

I do not care to dwell on my experience at the grammar school. Iworked fairly, and got on; but whether I should gain a scholarshipremained doubtful enough. Before the time for the examination arrived, I went to spend a week at home. It was a great disappointment to methat I had to return again without seeing Elsie. But it could not behelped. The only Sunday I had there was a stormy day, late in October, and Elsie had a bad cold, as Turkey informed me, and could not be out;while my father had made so many engagements for me, that, with onething and another, I was not able to go and see her. 

Turkey was now doing a man's work on the farm, and stood as high asever in the estimation of my father and everyone who knew him. He wasas great a favourite with Allister and Davie as with myself, and tookvery much the same place with the former as he had taken with me. Ihad lost nothing of my regard for him, and he talked to me with thesame familiarity as before, urging me to diligence and thoroughness inmy studies, pressing upon me that no one had ever done lasting work, "that is, " Turkey would say--"work that goes to the making of theworld, " without being in earnest as to the _what_ and conscientious asto the _how_. 

"I don't want you to try to be a great man, " he said once. "You mightsucceed, and then find out you had failed altogether. "

"How could that be, Turkey?" I objected. "A body can't succeed andfail both at once. "

"A body might succeed, " he replied, "in doing what he wanted to do, and then find out that it was not in the least what he had thoughtit. "

"What rule are you to follow, then, Turkey?" I asked. 

"Just the rule of duty, " he replied. "What you ought to do, that youmust do. Then when a choice comes, not involving duty, you know, choose what you like best. "

This is the substance of what he said. If anyone thinks it pedantic, Ican only say, he would not have thought so if he had heard it as itwas uttered--in the homely forms and sounds of the Scottish tongue. 

"Aren't you fit for something better than farm-work yourself, Turkey?"I ventured to suggest, foolishly impelled, I suppose, to try whether Icould not give advice too. 

"It's _my_ work, " said Turkey, in a decisive tone, which left me noroom for rejoinder. 

This conversation took place in the barn, where Turkey happened to bethrashing alone that morning. In turning the sheaf, or in laying afresh one, there was always a moment's pause in the din, and then onlywe talked, so that our conversation was a good deal broken. I hadburied myself in the straw, as in days of old, to keep myself warm, and there I lay and looked at Turkey while he thrashed, and thoughtwith myself that his face had grown much more solemn than it used tobe. But when he smiled, which was seldom, all the old merry sweetnessdawned again. This was the last long talk I ever had with him. Thenext day I returned for the examination, was happy enough to gain asmall scholarship, and entered on my first winter at college. 

My father wrote to me once a week or so, and occasionally I had aletter with more ink than matter in it from one of my youngerbrothers. Tom was now in Edinburgh, in a lawyer's office. I had nocorrespondence with Turkey. Mr. Wilson wrote to me sometimes, andalong with good advice would occasionally send me some verses, but hetold me little or nothing of what was going on. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

I Learn that I am not a Man

It was a Saturday morning, very early in April, when I climbed themail-coach to return to my home for the summer; for so the universityyear is divided in Scotland. The sky was bright, with great fleecyclouds sailing over it, from which now and then fell a shower in largedrops. The wind was keen, and I had to wrap myself well in my cloak. But my heart was light, and full of the pleasure of ended andsuccessful labour, of home-going, and the signs which sun and sky gavethat the summer was at hand. 

Five months had gone by since I last left home, and it had seemed suchan age to Davie, that he burst out crying when he saw me. My fatherreceived me with a certain still tenderness, which seemed to grow uponhim. Kirsty followed Davie's example, and Allister, without sayingmuch, haunted me like my shadow. I saw nothing of Turkey that evening. 

In the morning we went to church, of course, and I sat beside thereclining stone warrior, from whose face age had nearly worn thefeatures away. I gazed at him all the time of the singing of the firstpsalm, and there grew upon me a strange solemnity, a sense of thepassing away of earthly things, and a stronger conviction than I hadever had of the need of something that could not pass. This feelinglasted all the time of the service, and increased while I lingered inthe church almost alone until my father should come out of the vestry. 

I stood in the passage, leaning against the tomb. A cloud came overthe sun, and the whole church grew dark as a December day--gloomy andcheerless. I heard for some time, almost without hearing them, two oldwomen talking together close by me. The pulpit was between them andme, but when I became thoroughly aware of their presence, I peepedround and saw them. 

"And when did it happen, said you?" asked one of them, whose headmoved with an incessant capricious motion from palsy. 

"About two o'clock this morning, " answered the other, who leaned on astick, almost bent double with rheumatism. "I saw their next-doorneighbour this morning, and he had seen Jamie, who goes home of aSaturday night, you know; but William being a Seceder, nobody's beento tell the minister, and I'm just waiting to let him know; for shewas a great favourite of his, and he's been to see her often. They'remuch to be pitied--poor people! Nobody thought it would come so suddenlike. When I saw her mother last, there was no such notion in herhead. "

Before I could ask of whom they were talking, my father came up theaisle from the vestry, and stopped to speak to the old women. 

"Elsie Duff's gone, poor thing!" said the rheumatic one. 

I grew stupid. What followed I have forgotten. A sound was in my ears, and my body seemed to believe it, though my soul could not comprehendit. When I came to myself I was alone in the church. They had goneaway without seeing me. I was standing beside the monument, leaning onthe carved Crusader. The sun was again shining, and the old church wasfull of light. But the sunshine had changed to me, and I felt verymournful. I should see the sweet face, hear the lovely voice, no morein this world. I endeavoured to realize the thought, but could not, and I left the church hardly conscious of anything but a dull sense ofloss. 

I found my father very grave. He spoke tenderly of Elsie; but he didnot know how I had loved her, and I could not make much response. Ithink, too, that he said less than he otherwise would, from the fearof calling back to my mind too vivid a memory of how ill I had oncebehaved to her. It was, indeed, my first thought the moment he utteredher name, but it soon passed, for much had come between. 

In the evening I went up to the farm to look for Turkey, who had notbeen at church morning or afternoon. He was the only one I could talkto about Elsie. I found him in one of the cow-houses, bedding thecows. His back was towards me when I entered. 

"Turkey, " I said. 

He looked round with a slow mechanical motion, as if with a consciouseffort of the will. His face was so white, and wore such a look ofloss, that it almost terrified me like the presence of somethingawful. I stood speechless. He looked at me for a moment, and thencame slowly up to me, and laid his hand on my shoulder. 

"Ranald, " he said, "we were to have been married next year. "

Before the grief of the man, mighty in its silence, my whole being washumbled. I knew my love was not so great as his. It grew in my eyes apale and feeble thing; and I felt worthless in the presence of herdead, whom alive I had loved with peaceful gladness. Elsie belonged toTurkey, and he had lost her, and his heart was breaking. I threw myarms round him, and wept for him, not for myself. It was thus I ceasedto be a boy. 

Here, therefore, my story ends. Before I returned to the university, Turkey had enlisted and left the place. 

[Illustration]

My father's half-prophecy concerning him is now fulfilled. He is ageneral. I will not tell his name. For some reason or other he hadtaken his mother's, and by that he is well known. I have never seenhim, or heard from him, since he left my father's service; but I amconfident that if ever we meet, it will be as old and true friends.