CHAPTER VI. A CLEAR SUNSET.
Wullie now felt a great relief with regard to ways and means. Ten pounds seemed quite a sum to those frugal cottagers. But as Rab's illness increased Wullie became very anxious about his brother's future welfare, and earnestly desired that he should experience a good hope through the Saviour of sinners. He missed no opportunity to set before him the love of Christ, and his willingness to save all who come to him with a humble and contrite heart. He proposed to bring the parish minister. But Rab said, "Not yet. I like best to talk wi' yoursel, Wullie. I would be ashamed to talk to onybody aboot my past life."
"Are ye sorry for it as weel as ashamed o' it."
"Ay, I am baith ashamed and sorry."
"There is a godly sorrow that warketh repentance. Hae ye that sorrow?"
"I dinna ken right weel what that s'ould be."
"I will tell you what it is as near as I can come to it. If the remembrance o' sin is painfu' to us because it is hateful in the sight o' God; if our misspent, unprofitable lives grieve us because they hae grieved our Saviour, to whom we owe obedient, faithful service; if we wish to forsake sin, because it is sin, and not from fear o' punishment alane, then I think it is the sorrow that warketh repentance."
"I think I feel something like that. I dinna ken hoo it would be if I were oot again wi' my auld comrades; but noo as I lie here I am seck o' sin, seck o' the things I ance loved. I canna bear to think o' my past life. In the night season I often put oot my hand in the vain attempt to push it far frae me, but it willna gang oot o' my memory. Then I think o' Him wha deed to save us frae oor sins, and I remember that I hae never turned towards him, but awa frae him, and I feel that my condemnation would be just. But at ither times I feel that I will, I must, lay hold o' some promise; that I will lay me doun just outside the door o' mercy, and wait to see if the Maister willna lift the latch and bid me come in."
"Brither, it is yoursel maun lift the latch to the door o' your heart, and bid the Maister come in and possess it. Beyond a doot the Saviour is noo knocking to be admitted. Do ye no remember that passage o' Scripture that reads, 'Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me'? Noo, my brither, in faith bid the Maister enter your heart, and all will be weel. Only believe, Rab. 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.'"
"Wullie, I am gaen to believe noo." Then closing his eyes, he said aloud, "Lord, I will believe thee. I do believe thee; and if I do not believe aright, wilt thou teach me how to believe?"
Wullie went to the bedside, and, kneeling down, he poured out his soul in prayer that God would bless them all, and bless them then. When he arose from his knees Jeannie was weeping softly, but Rab had a glad light in his eyes. "Wullie," he said, "the darkness is o'erpast, and light is breaking through. Oh, the wondrous condescension o' the Saviour! Jeannie, my puir wife, ye maun find Jesus and hae him for your dearest freend."
"I hae found him, Rab. Ane can greet wi' joy as weel as sorrow."
"That is true," said Wullie, as he wiped away the great joy-born tears from his own cheeks. It was a sight for angels—and angels do know of such scenes, for "There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth."
"I think I would hae been comforted sooner," said Rab, "if I could hae brought mysel to forgive Donald the wrang he has done me. But I couldna do it, although I aye remembered what oor Saviour himsel said, 'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive you your trespasses.' It was only this morning that I forgave him, and noo I am rejoicing in forgiveness mysel. I would like to tell Donald that I forgive him, for perhaps after I am awa he may feel troubled aboot it."
Donald McPherson had always felt very guilty concerning his own part in Rab's illness. He never came near the cottage, and he took care to avoid honest Wullie. But now that Rab had expressed a desire to tell Donald that he had forgiven him, Wullie went to Donald's cottage and told him that Rab would like to see him. Donald looked embarrassed and troubled.
"He wants to upbraid me," said he, "but God knows my ain conscience has upbraided me eneuch for that night's wark."
"Na, naething o' the kind. I could tell you what it is mysel, but he would rather tell it."
"I will come and see him. I hear he isna lang for this warld."
"He willna be here lang," replied Wullie.
"God hae mercy on us a'," said Donald, with emotion.
That night there was a timid knock at honest Wullie's door. "Come in," said Wullie in a loud tone. The latch was lifted, and in walked Donald McPherson. Jeannie set a chair for him, and Wullie spoke pleasantly to him. But Donald was ill at ease. He seemed looking for some one he did not see. A voice from the bed said, "Good evening to ye, Donald." Donald approached the bed, and Rab extended his hand.
"I am o'er sorry to see you here," said Donald, grasping the proffered hand. A shiver ran through him as he saw and felt how emaciated it was.
"I am o'er sorry to see you here," said Donald.
"My hand is o'er thin," said Rab, noticing his emotion.
"Ay is it, and it is a' my ain faut."
"Not a'thegither, Donald, for I s'ould hae been proof against temptation."
"Ye would hae dune weel eneuch if ye had been left alane."
"That is true as to the night I got my seckness; but I might hae fallen some ither time, for I hadna the grace o' God to keep me in the right way. Noo I willna fall into that sin ony mair—I canna. And ye maunna think ye are no forgien your part in that night's wark, for I hae forgien ye, and that is what I wanted to tell you. God has forgien me, but he wouldna do it until I had forgien you. Noo I hope ye will ken what it is to hae God's forgiveness as weel as mine. Ye hae, as ye say, led me in the wrang way; let me noo seek to lead you in the right way. It is a fearsome thing to live withoot God for a freend. I hae found that oot the last year o' my life. To feel, as I hae felt, that life is fast passing awa, and to see nae hope in the darkness beyond, is dreadful, dreadful, Donald. Your life will hae an end too, Donald, though it mayna be for mony years. Then ye will stand alane before your Maker. Do ye no ken that there are robes provided, so that each wha will may wrap himsel around wi' them as he wraps his plaid aboot him? only thae robes cover us entirely. They are robes o' the Saviour's righteousness. Wi' sic a robe aboot us we may stand before the Judge o' all the earth and not fear condemnation. I dinna ken as I mak it plain to you, for I am but a beginner in the scule o' Christ; but I am in his scule, Donald; yes, I am; praised be the gude Lord for that! And what I canna learn here I can learn in the warld above."
"I hope I shall meet you there," said Donald, wiping the tears away with his hand.
"Dinna put off repentance till ye come to your death-bed, Donald. Gie your heart to God noo; and then, whether ye are called sooner or later, ye are aye ready."
Donald was much affected. He remained an hour or more talking with Wullie, and then left, promising to come again, and offering his assistance if it should be needed.
During Rab's illness Jeannie was very quiet in her manner, but her heart was heavy and sad. Slowly but surely proof was added to proof that her husband was soon to die. With many fears and anxieties she had looked forward to the long, weary time that must elapse between the sad event about to befall her and the time when her children would be old enough to seek their own livelihood. But since she had obtained a hope of eternal life she had learned to regard the future with less anxiety, and to cast her cares on One stronger than herself. Still the sadness remained. She could not forget that disease was fast wasting all that was mortal of Robert Murdoch. That which is spiritual within us may assent to God's providences, and we think it to be in the ascendency, and so it is; but sometimes, when the chill and gloom of a starless night settle down upon our spirits, our natural desires assert themselves, and we clutch again our passing friends and comforts. Poor Jeannie! More thorns than roses seemed to grow along her pathway. And now the saddest trial of all was before her. But she had promised in her heart that, if God would save her husband eternally, she would not murmur at the dispensation that was to separate him from her in this life. For this reason she strove to control her feelings; and the quivering of the face was often stayed before the tear-drop started.
Once, when her husband noticed these outward signs of inward grief, he called her to him. She drew her chair to the bedside, and laid her head on the pillow. "My puir wife," said he, while he pressed her pale cheek with his thin hand, "I hae never been as gude to you as I s'ould hae been, and noo I am gaen frae you. I ask your forgiveness. I leave you in the hands o' God, and under him to the care o' Wullie. I couldna leave you in better hands. And, Jeannie, if Wullie would ever wish to mak you his wife, hear till him."
She raised her eyes with a look of surprise and reproof.
He understood her, and continued, "Weel, never mind noo what I hae said. Some time ye may remember it withoot sae muckle pain, and be glad ye kenned my mind aboot it."
The winter passed slowly away. Rab's death was expected from week to week. The neighbors were untiring in their kindness and sympathy. Farmer Lindsay called often, and many a kind word he spoke to the afflicted family. Mrs. Lindsay sent many a dainty to tempt the sick man's appetite. The pastor, too, called, and was satisfied with the dying man's profession of faith.
"I am so thankful," said Rab, "that I had time gien me for repentance. If I had been cut off suddenly I s'ould hae gane to eternal death."
Donald McPherson fulfilled his promise and came often. "I hae seen eneuch o' the evils o' strang drink," he said to Rab, "and I want ye to carry wi' you to heaven my promise that, wi' God's help, I will never taste anither drap."
When the milder days of spring succeeded the rigors of winter, Robert Murdoch's lamp of life flickered and went out. He met death with a calm resignation and a happy trust.
Mrs. Murdoch yielded to sorrow after her husband was dead. No one interfered with her grief until Wullie thought she had wept "o'er lang." "Compose yoursel, sister Jeannie," he said, speaking in a persuasive manner. "I ken it is hard to bear; but neither yoursel nor the bairns will want for a freend while it is in the power o' Wullie Murdoch to help you. He wha has gaen frae us can never return to us, but we can gang to him in the Lord's ain gude time."
A simple funeral service was held at the church, and the body was committed to the earth whence it came.
CHAPTER VII. DONALD MACPHERSON.
No one, not even the widow, wept more at the grave than did Donald McPherson. The once light-hearted, mischief-loving, whiskey-drinking Donald was overcome with sorrow and contrition. He took Rab's death greatly to heart, and, standing by that open grave, he firmly resolved that from that hour he would change his manner of life; that he would fear and serve God, and never again place a stumbling-block in the way of his fellow-creatures. After the funeral he went to honest Wullie's cottage, "to see if there was onything to be dune," as he said.
Wullie thanked him for his kindness, adding, "The little that is to be dune I can do mysel. I would liefer be busy than not. But I am glad to see you, for a' that." Then, laying his hand on McPherson's shoulder, he said, "Ye will no forget the lesson o' this day, Donald!"
"I trust I never shall."
The widow had bowed to Donald as he entered, and then left the room. She went to attend the children; but she was glad of the excuse, for memory was too busy with the past to render the presence of Rab's old comrade desirable on that sad day.
Donald went slowly from the home of mourning to his own cottage. He hung his bonnet on a peg, then went and sat down beside his wife. She was holding a troublesome child and trying to sew at the same time. "Here, gie me the bairn," said he. He took the child in his strong arms and dandled him, much to the satisfaction of wee Donald. Then with much seriousness he addressed his wife.
"Katy, I dinna think I will gie you as muckle trouble as I hae dune. I maun gie up auld habits. They wunna do ony langer. I hae just seen Mistress Murdoch, and I hae been thinkin' what if it had been yoursel, Katy, that this day was clad in garments o' dool instead o' her, where would the soul o' Donald McPherson hae been noo!"
The person addressed was a tall, straight, well-formed woman, whose face showed both thoughtfulness and firmness. She only replied, "It is weel to think."
"I hae thought, and I hae felt as weel. Noo dinna think there is nae gude in me, wifie, but trust me ance mair. I am no gaen to drink any mair whiskey. I hae promised him that they this day laid law that I wouldna, and that I would gang to kirk. Noo I will tell ye my plans. I will gang to Daft Jamie's but ance mair, and that will be to pay fourpence ha'penny, for that is a' I owe them, I am blithe to say; and then never a penny mair will I gie for grog; but I will save a' that I can earn, and we will soon hae decent claes, and gang to the kirk like Christian folk."
"That sounds gude, and I hope ye will do as ye say; and ye may do it if ye look to the Strang for help."
After supper Donald put on his bonnet and went to Daft Jamie's. Mrs. McAllister smiled very blandly as he entered.
"Gude evenin' to ye, Donald. Ye hae keepit yoursel a great stranger o' late. What will ye be wantin'?"
"I am wantin' naething but to pay a bit debt. A man maun pay his debts, I suppose, though what he has bought has dune him no gude."
"Hoot, man! Hae ye taen to preachin'? Ye ken as weel as ony ane that it is gude whiskey we keep; and a drap o' gude whiskey hurts naebody."
"Na, Mistress McAllister, a drap wunna hurt ony ane; but wha stops at a drap, tell me?"
"Weel, Donald, ye ken it is a decent hoose we keep, and we dinna want ony drunken folk around us."
"Ay, I ken it; and that is ane reason why puir Rab went oot i' the cauld the night he got his death."
"Weel, weel, hae your ain opeenion aboot it, but dinna stand quarrellin' wi' me. Sin' ye dinna want onything ye may as weel be gaen."
"I will, Mistress McAllister, and there'll be mony a weet day afore I again cross your doorstane. Gude evenin' to ye."
Donald was soon at home again, much to the joy of his wife; for she thought if he could go to Daft Jamie's and return without the scent of liquor about him, there was indeed some room for hope.
CHAPTER VIII. IMPROVEMENTS.
Widow Murdoch now gave more time and attention to her children. The youngest had not yet been named, but had always been called "the wee lass." Now that more notice was taken of her, she began to smile and play.
"It is time this bairn had a name, Wullie," said Jeannie one evening when the baby was lying on her lap. "What would ye think o' callin' her Annie? It would be for Rab's mither, and it is a bonny name forbye."
"That I would like right weel."
So this important matter was happily decided, and Annie was the little one's name.
Spring brought warm, bright days, Jamie and Belle played at the cottage door, their innocent prattle often beguiling their mother's sad hours.
Honest Wullie was not long in paying by his labor the debt which he had contracted, and he felt glad that his accounts were again even. Farmer Lindsay let him have a small piece of ground near the cottage to be made into a garden. This was to be the joint care of Wullie, Jeannie, and Jamie, for "Jamie is auld eneuch noo to pu' the weeds frae the beds," said his uncle.
But with all the work to do that one could easily accomplish, widow Murdoch often felt lonely. She had been three years in honest Wullie's cottage, but she had made very few acquaintances. Mrs. Lindsay never came into the cottage except in time of sickness. Mrs. McPherson, like herself, had hitherto been kept closely at home by care and poverty, and there had been no intercourse between the two women. At this time, however, they were brought together.
Donald was the first to propose a visit. One pleasant evening in the early summer, when Katy had just finished the first dress that Donald had ever bought for her, he surprised her by saying, "Mak yoursel ready, Katy, and gang wi' me to honest Wullie's; then ye will become acquent wi' widow Murdoch. She is but poor, like yoursel, and I am thinking she maun be lanely. At ony rate, it is but neeborly to call and see her."
Mrs. McPherson readily assented. She put a clean cap and dress on the baby, and arrayed herself in her new gown. Donald combed his hair until it was smooth, and put on his best coat.
"Katy, ye look as fine the night as a leddy," said Donald as they were ready to start; "but ye aye did keep yoursel tidy, though ye hae na had muckle to do wi'. There is muckle difference in folk. Some people's claes fit them, while other people's claes seem to hing on them. Mrs. Murdoch is like yoursel. She has a way o' makin' the maist o' ilka thing. It wasna muckle she brought to Wullie's cottage, but ye s'ould hae seen the difference she made in the looks o' it."
The two soon found themselves at honest Wullie's cottage, where they met a kind reception and spent a pleasant evening. The conversation often turned on moral and religious topics, as would necessarily be the case where honest Wullie took part.
Donald was full of new hopes and courage.
"Wullie, ye s'ould come and see hoo nicely we are getting alang," said he. "We hae eneuch to eat and drink, and some new claes for Sunday forbye. Katy, there, thinks I am quite a man noo."
"I always thought ye would do weel eneuch if ye would let whiskey alane."
"I will let it alane frae this oot, or I dinna ken mysel."
"Donald, ye dinna depend a'thegither on yoursel, I hope," said Wullie.
"Nae, Wullie, I ken better than that; but I hae changed my purpose, and I hae asked help o' the Strang Ane. That is what Katy said I must do. Puir lass! I am sure she has kenned the comfort o' gaen to him mony times when sairly tried wi' me."
"It is gude to go to the Lord in times o' trial," said Wullie; "and it is gude to go to him wi' thankful hearts when the trials are o'erpast. I hae nae doot, Mistress McPherson, but that ye find it baith pleasant and profitable to come wi' your heart full o' gratitude and praise to him wha has heard your prayers."
"Ay, I like weel to acknowledge his gudeness to me in saving Donald frae the evil that threatened him; but it grieves me noo to think I had sae nearly distrusted Him because He didna answer my prayers at ance. Mony a time did I a'maist feel that there is nae gude in prayer, and that God wouldna hear a puir body like me. But I dinna think he has set it doun against me, sin' he has answered my prayer. Besides, he kens I was but a weak woman, and sairly tried forbye."
Tears filled Jeannie's eyes. Katy's experience had been her own. And although it recalled her trials, to which she would not allude, because we instinctively cover the faults and follies of our dear dead, she felt, nevertheless, drawn towards Katy. Both had had trials, but not more than they were able to bear; and the discipline of an all-wise Father had chastened and strengthened them both.
"We a' hae cause for thankfulness ilka day o' oor lives," Wullie hastened to say, as he perceived Jeannie's emotion. "Let nane o' us be remiss in the duty o' prayer and thanksgiving."
This visit proved the precursor of many others, and the two women became good friends. Wullie strengthened Jeannie's good impressions of Katy McPherson.
"She was aye a canny lass," he said. "Folk wondered that she wedded wi' sic a giddy chiel as Donald was; but if he sticks to his ward noo, he will mak a gude living for her, for he can wark weel when he sets himsel to it, and naebody can ootstrip him in the harvest-field."
Donald soon learned to go to honest Wullie for advice, and he was as anxious to meet him as he had been to avoid him. He seemed changed in many ways. His new hope and trust had lifted him above that frivolity which had always been so prominent a characteristic of his. He found the influence of his wife much more elevating than that of his boon companions, and he said to her, "Ye s'all see what a man can be made oot o' me, frolickin' as I hae been. I would na wonder if folk s'ould yet ca' me 'douce Donald.'"
Wullie's garden proved a success, and the fresh, tender vegetables added much to the frugal fare. Then, as Donald had said, Jeannie made the most of everything. Her skill in cooking also added to their comfort. Her neat, orderly ways were everywhere apparent. It was a pretty sight to see the three rosy children, with clean hands and faces, clean pinafores, and carefully combed hair, gathered at the family board, Annie seated on her mother's knee, the others on their stools. They were trained to be obedient and respectful, to keep the Sabbath with due strictness, and, above all, to fear and honor God. Thus not only shadows, but sunshine, too, rested on the little moorland cottage. Peace and harmony reigned in the household, and signs of thrift were also apparent. Wullie could now sometimes allow himself the pleasure of bringing little gifts to the children, and their childish delight hardly surpassed his own.
Jeannie did not forget to thank God for the blessings she enjoyed. And although the recollection of the early death of her husband often brought sorrow to her heart and a shade of sadness to her countenance, the sorrow was softened by the cherished hope of his eternal happiness and a future reunion. Thus passed two years more, but these were years of comparative comfort.
CHAPTER IX. NEW TIES.
One evening, when the McPhersons were spending an hour or two at the cottage, Donald took it into his head to joke Wullie about matrimony.
"Hoot, man, what ails ye, to talk after that fashion?" exclaimed Wullie.
"And what for no? Is it no a gude fashion? I daur ye to say it is no a gude fashion!"
Wullie did not reply, but a smile was on his face.
"Honestly, noo," continued Donald; "Katy and I hae talked it over mair than ance, and we baith think it is the best thing that could be dune. Ye ken there is naething against it, for Rab was no your vera ain brither."
Katy smiled, but Jeannie knitted busily, showing neither pleasure nor displeasure.
Donald's suggestion seemed to have struck Wullie favorably, for after the visitors had gone he ventured to renew the subject.
"Jeannie, what think ye aboot oor neebor's talk?"
"His talk aboot what? He says sae muckle, wha can mind it a'?" she said with that persistent dullness of comprehension that is often assumed by her sex.
Wullie, seeing he would have no help in the matter, came to the point at once, "His talk aboot wedlock, to be sure."
"It is but ane o' his daft notions," she replied, but in a tone less severe than the words.
"It isna sae daft a notion, perhaps," he said, following up his advantage. "It is true I hae neither riches, wit, nor beauty. I hae naught but a hamely living to offer ye, and that ye s'all hae at ony rate if I can win it. I will always do my best to provide for Rab's family, but it might be mair proper to hae the family a' in ane. What do ye say till it?"
"I will say naething against the wish o' him wha is gaen awa. He said, 'If Wullie would ever wish to mak ye his wife, hear till him.'"
"Noo, then," said Wullie, "I will tak the first kiss I hae had o' a woman sin' my mither died. Hoo soon s'all it be?"
"As it suits yoursel. Ye ken my best earthly affections lie in the grave wi' your brither; but if ye can tak respect and esteem instead o' affection, I willna oppose your wishes."
"Weel, I will accept what ye hae to gie me, and perhaps the affection will come after a while."
"Ye are mair than warthy o' it, Wullie; sae I hope it will come. But sin' I didna hae it, I wouldna deceive ye."
"Ye hae been honest aboot it at ony rate, sae it wunna fret me."
A few days later Wullie returned from town with a nice dress-pattern for Jeannie, some tartans for the little girls, cloth to be made up for Jamie, and a new suit for himself. After a few weeks there were gathered in the best room of the cottage Farmer Lindsay and his wife, Donald and Katy McPherson, the children, and the parish minister. Before him stood honest Wullie and the widow, who was then to become Mrs. William Murdoch. After the ceremony and the congratulations were over came a supper such as had never before been seen in the cottage. After this was finished Farmer Lindsay took his seat by the window, and often looked out into the twilight. Presently he saw, as he expected, his herd-boy leading a fine young cow.
"I suppose ye hae room in your byre for anither coo?" he asked, addressing Wullie.
"Ay, I hae room eneuch, if that was a' that stood in the way o' twa being there."
"Weel, then, ye will hae twa, for here comes a lad wi' the heifer we ca' Spot. Did ye think I would forget my auld and tried servant at sic a time as this?"
"Weel, weel, weel! This is wholly unexpectit! Mony thanks to you, Maister Lindsay."
Donald McPherson rejoiced in the good fortune of his neighbor, but he felt somewhat crestfallen that he had brought nothing to give, and he expressed his regret to his host. But Wullie relieved him by saying, with a smile,
"We canna a' gie presents, Donald, but we can a' gie gude wishes, and I am sure ye gie me them, neebor."
The evening passed in pleasant talk, and when these neighbors separated it was with a kindly feeling towards each other that is often wanting in the higher circles of life.
Honest Wullie continued to prosper, though in a small way. The years glided by, bringing nothing but pleasing changes, the most pleasing of which was the birth of a son. Jamie had long since left his uncle's knee to younger claimants. He was a strong, healthy lad, possessing his father's wit and sprightliness, and also uncommon beauty. His mother's eyes often rested on him with maternal fondness, if not with pride. He found plenty to do in collecting fuel, helping with the garden, and doing the work in and around the cow-shed. He attended the little parish school a few months in the year. He was fond of books, too, although there was nothing in his surroundings to foster a love of study. True, Farmer Lindsay once patted him on the head, and said, "If ye could stand a fair chance, Jamie, ye would mak a man no to be ashamed o';" and the schoolmaster sometimes gave him the praise he merited. But the days came and went, bringing him nearer to the time when he must be put to steady employment to help to defray the expenses of the family, with which time we will open the next chapter.
CHAPTER X. JAMIE.
Jamie had now entered upon his thirteenth year, and was to commence life's labor as a shepherd-lad. Farmer Lindsay, knowing that it would pain the family to have the lad leave home, found a place for Jamie by giving other employment to his former shepherd-boy. So Belle and Annie went to school without Jamie, and he took his way to the field. He was faithful, as might have been expected, for honest Wullie had not failed in his duty to his brother's son. He had striven, both by example and precept, to inculcate in him right principles, knowing that right doing would be their legitimate outgrowth.
The summer passed pleasantly enough with Jamie, for he was a favorite with all on the farm. Even Mrs. Lindsay often called after him to add a slice of cheese to the frugal lunch he carried with him. But summer hurried by, and dull, short, foggy days succeeded the long, bright, sunny ones. One evening Jamie was belated in collecting the flock. The darkness was coming on apace, and he was hurrying along where the path, slippery with the dampness, led over some steep, rough rocks; he missed his footing and fell.
Night, black night, settled down upon the earth, but no Jamie came to the cottage. Honest Wullie put on his bonnet and retraced his steps to Farmer Lindsay's. Jamie was not there. Then the other farm-hands, headed by Wullie and Mr. Lindsay himself, set out in search of the shepherd-boy and the flock. They lighted up the darkness with torches, and looked to the right hand and to the left. They found the flock huddled together not far from the steep pass, which all had thought of, but none had dared mention. Vainly did they peer down the steep mountainside. Vainly did honest Wullie shout, "Jamie! Jamie, bairn!" No answer was returned. If the boy had fallen there, he had fainted, or was too badly hurt to answer. Wullie signified his intention of crossing the mountain and coming around at the base; but the air became so thick with mist that the torches would not burn, and loath as the anxious searchers were to turn back, they were forced to do so, for the path was too dangerous to be attempted in the darkness. Weary and heavy-hearted returned Wullie to the sorrowing mother. The night was spent by these sad cottagers in prayer, and with the first streaks of morning light Wullie again started out to renew his search.
Day broke as beautifully as if the preceding evening had not been dull and dismal. Before Wullie reached the pass the sun rose, scattering the mist, and bathing in mellow light moor and crag, mountain and glen. But the anxious father hastened on, not heeding the rich glory of the autumnal morning.
Others, too, in that vicinity had early bestirred themselves, not in search of the missing boy, but in pursuit of game. Laird Erskine, with his kinsman John Cameron from Edinburgh, were first at the foot of the mountain. What was their surprise to see a boy lying as if dead among the rocks! They hastened to him. He was not dead; he was breathing. Erskine lifted him from his rough bed and laid him on the smooth grass. Cameron looked at him with wondering eyes.
"Saw ye ever a finer lad! Who is he, Erskine?"
"That is what I would like to ken mysel," said the other.
They spoke to him; they tried to rouse him; but he only moaned, and murmured, "O mother, I dinna want to tend the sheep ony mair. I want to gang back to the scule."
Before they had succeeded in rousing him they saw the stalwart form of honest Wullie striding towards them. So anxious was he that he forgot the usual courtesies, and did not raise his bonnet, but called out, "Is he dead?"
"No, he is not dead," was the cheering answer.
"Praise the gude Lord!" came reverently from the lips of honest Wullie.
On reaching the boy he lifted his head in his arms, shook him gently, and called his name: "Jamie! rouse up, Jamie!" After much shaking and calling, Jamie opened his eyes and looked wonderingly around, as if trying to identify himself and his surroundings. Then gradually recovering consciousness, he recognized his father.
"Faither, I missed my footing and cam to the bottom. I am no sure but I fainted, for I canna remember what happened after I fell. When I was able to think I felt a pain in my back, and I was so sair that I could hardly stir. I didna dare to move in the darkness for fear I should get another fall, so I just prayed a' by mysel here, and I kenned weel ye would pray for me at hame, so I wasna afeard. But where is the flock?"
"The flock is a' right. Dinna fash your heid aboot the flock," said Wullie, brushing away a tear.
Jamie tried to rise, but the first movement gave him pain. Wullie lifted him tenderly. "I feel," he said, "that I could tak ye in my arms and rin wi' you to your mither, I am that glad to find you alive. It is naught but the care o' God, Jamie, that saved ye frae being dashed to pieces amang the stanes."
Erskine and his friend lingered till Jamie was on his feet again. "I am thankful it is no worse," said Cameron, as he turned to go, "and I will not forget you, my lad."
Jamie, in addition to his bruises, took a severe cold from spending the night on the cold, damp ground. He kept his bed a few days, and two weeks passed before he was able to be about. During this time the sheep had been brought in for the winter, and there was no more herding to be done that year.
While Jamie was confined to the house by his injuries Cameron called at the cottage. He was greatly pleased with Jamie. He thought the boy had capabilities that were worth cultivating. He sounded the parents concerning their plans for their son's future, and ascertained that they indulged no higher hope than that he should be a trusty farm-hand like honest Wullie. But the boy's eyes followed every movement of the stranger with a look of expectancy, and when Cameron asked him if he would like to become a man of learning, Jamie quickly answered in the affirmative.
"He can gang to scule this winter," said Wullie.
"That will do for the winter," replied Cameron, "and when I come next year I will see what arrangement can be made to put him into a better school."
After the gentleman's departure the parents were very grave and thoughtful. They did not know whether the interest the stranger took in Jamie portended good or ill. "If he is no a godly man," said Wullie, "I wouldna like to hae him meddle wi' the bairn; but if he is a gude man, and will tak care to keep him frae evil communications, I would be slow to mak objections or to pit onything i' the way o' the man's wishes."
But Jamie was full of bright anticipations. He talked so often about what Mr. Cameron said, and asked so many questions concerning the probable meaning of his words, that the mother was weary of hearing it. "Jamie, Jamie, will ye never hae dune talking aboot that man?" she asked. "Ye will drive me beside mysel. I wouldna be surprised if he had forgotten all aboot you."
Jamie did stop talking, but he was sad and dispirited for many days.
"What is wrang wi' ye, Jamie? Ye needna think it is a sin to smile," his mother said, noticing his listlessness.
"I dinna think I will ever smile ony mair, sin' ye think Mr. Cameron has forgotten me," said Jamie, turning away his face to hide a starting tear.
"Ye are takin' it harder than I meant. I am no sure but he will be looking after you o'er soon, and I canna bear to think o' it. He will be wanting to tak you frae hame; that is the warst o' it."
"Weel, mither, every laddie canna bide at hame. I have read in books about folk that hae been mair useful for their knowledge, and I think knowledge maun be a grand thing to hae. I read in the sculemaster's books about men that could call the stars by name, and measure the heights o' the mountains; and I read in a history about mony great men, and I like weel to think that Jamie Murdoch may some day be a great man too."
"It would be better to wish to be a gude man."
"But, mither, can a man no be baith gude and great?"
Early in the spring Farmer Lindsay brought a letter for honest Wullie. It bore the Edinburgh postmark. As a letter was a rare thing at that time and place, Mr. Lindsay waited till Wullie spelled it out. It contained a proposition from Mr. Cameron. He would pay Wullie as much as Jamie could earn, and his tuition besides, if the parish minister would undertake to instruct him preparatory to his entering a high school at Edinburgh. This plan pleased them all exceedingly well, and the more so because Mr. Cameron said they must not hesitate to accept his offer, as he was a friend to education, and had means to spare. He further said that he had taken a great fancy to their son, and would be disappointed if they were unwilling to let him receive a liberal education.
The minister readily undertook the charge, and was glad of the opportunity to eke out his small salary. Jamie did not disappoint his friends. He proved an apt pupil. His parents soon became reconciled to his treading a path in life different from their own. The minister not only approved of the plan, but congratulated Jamie on his prospects. Little by little Jamie came to receive more deference in his own family, and also in the neighborhood. Donald McPherson met him one day, and after a cordial greeting said to him,
"So ye are to be the man o' the parish, are ye, Jamie? We will a' hae to lift oor bonnets to you. Weel, ye will hae a grand chance, for Laird Erskine says that whatever John Cameron taks intil his heid has to gang through. He tells me Cameron lost a son aboot your ain age, and that is why he taks sic an interest in laddies."
Autumn brought John Cameron again to Laird Erskine's. This time he saw more of Jamie, and he told his kinsman that he would be glad to adopt him as a son. But the warm-hearted, simple-minded parents would not consent to this.
The time came when Jamie was to go to Edinburgh. Mrs. Murdoch took leave of her son with many tears. Honest Wullie had no tears, though he felt the pain of separation scarcely less than did the mother. He repeated his admonitions to virtue, and again warned him to shun every appearance of evil. "Warldly wisdom is gude in its place," he said in conclusion, "but ye maunna forget to seek anither kind, for 'the wisdom that is frae aboon is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to be entreated, full o' mercy and good fruits, without partiality, and without hypocrisy.'"
CHAPTER XI. HOME LIFE.
We will now leave Jamie in school and turn to the other children. Belle was now as old as Jamie was when he was put to work, and Jeannie feared that Wullie would soon speak about putting her to service. This would have seemed well enough, quite in keeping with the circumstances of the family, had it not been for Jamie's good fortune, which made it appear rather out of place. So the mother and daughter knitted for Mrs. Lindsay and others as they had opportunity, and the mother was always sure to buy Belle's clothes with the proceeds of the knitting. Annie was a bright little girl ten years old. She too was busy, for none were allowed to eat idle bread in honest Wullie's cottage. Wullie's own son David, or Davie as he was called, was also taught to save steps. But the most stir and activity was in the morning. No one was allowed to lie in bed after the sun was up. The mother called to any one who was likely to transgress this rule, "Come, dinna let the sun beat you up the morn." The girls attended school quite regularly in summer, but in winter they often did not attempt to walk the long distance. Then, when there were neither lessons nor out-of-door work, the balls of yarn fast disappeared and took other shapes. Annie, young as she was, did most of the knitting for the family.
Honest Wullie thought himself a happy man; and so he was. In the evening, when he put labor and care alike aside, and looked around at the industrious, cheerful inmates of his well-kept home, he often thought, "Surely the lines hae fallen to me in pleasant places." Every day brought its work. In the morning the poultry was to be fed and the cows must be milked, besides the work indoors. In summer the garden was to be kept free from weeds, and the berries and wild fruits were to be gathered in their season. When there was no work to be done, the children were sometimes sent out with the order to "gang and play themselves;" but very often they were told to learn a Psalm first.
One thing they looked forward to, whether at work or at play, and that was a letter from Jamie. They had little else to break the monotonous days and the long winter evenings. True, Archie Lindsay came in sometimes, bringing his little sister with him; but that soon passed, and then nothing was heard but the click of the knitting-needles. Many times when the children were alone they told over threadbare riddles, simple rhymes learned at school, and the marvellous tales that tradition handed down to every new generation. They had no story books. They were always glad when Donald McPherson came in for an hour, for he never failed to have some news to tell. So passed the time until the early summer, when the children began to count the days that must elapse before Jamie should be at home again. All were anxious for his coming, but no one looked forward with so much longing as did the mother.
CHAPTER XII. THE FIRST VACATION.
"Jamie will be home the day!" the happy children shouted, as the wished-for morning at last arrived. He was expected to walk from the town where the stage-coach left him; but Mr. Lindsay remembered the lad that was coming from Edinburgh, and he made it convenient to have business in town that day. He brought Jamie home earlier in the day than he was expected.
Mrs. Murdoch was busy preparing some unusual delicacies to do honor to her returning son, and she did not notice his arrival. Jamie entered the open door, and, seeing that his mother did not turn to observe who came in, he thought he would surprise her. He walked softly, and she supposed him to be one of the other children. Jamie shook a warning finger at his sisters, and approaching his mother, he suddenly threw his arms about her neck and kissed her. She started, looked around, and joyfully exclaimed,
"O Jamie! hoo ye hae frightened me!" Then she kissed and embraced him in return. "Hoo are ye, my bairn? My! but ye are a'maist grawn a man! Ye are as tall as your mither!"
The children then came forward and gave him a happy greeting. Belle, who had also changed, blushed as her brother complimented her on her improved appearance. Annie placed herself in front of him, with her arms akimbo, and with face brimful of happiness asked, "What think ye o' me?"
"Think of you! I think you are the same sunny-faced little Annie, and I doubt not you are as good at a race as ever. I will try you to-morrow. Come here, Davie. Do you mind me?"
"Ay, I mind Jamie," said he, climbing on his knee.
"And Jamie minds that you like sugarplums."
"I like them oftener than I can get them."
"Well, let me see what I can find," said Jamie, putting his hand into his pocket and giving him a handful of candies. Then, tossing some to his sisters, he remarked, "You are looking very well, mother."
"I feel weel, and I hae plenty to eat and plenty to do; why s'ouldna I look weel?"
There was no lack of talk and no end of questions. As the afternoon advanced Annie was reminded that she must go and bring the cows from the pasture.
"Jamie, will ye gang wi' me for the coos?"
"Yes, Annie, I will."
"Noo for a race," said Annie.
Long before they reached the pasture-lands Jamie was left in the rear. Annie, speeding on, came face to face with honest Wullie, who was working near the path. "Hoot, lassie! Why are ye rinnin' in sic a fashion?" he called out. "What would Jamie say if he s'ould see you gaen at sic a gate?"
"It is Jamie that is rinnin' wi' me," she replied, laughing.
Just then Jamie appeared, and Wullie's face relaxed. He hastened to meet him. "Welcome hame, Jamie! welcome hame!" he said, grasping his hand. "Hoo ye hae changed! but ye look weel."
"I am well. How are you, father?"
"I am vera weel. Thanks to the gude Lord, we are a' weel."
Then followed mutual inquiries and answers. Annie went after the cows, and Jamie remained with his father, whose day's work was not quite finished.
There was a happy family in honest Wullie's cottage that evening. The supper was the best the cottage could afford, for what company was so grand as Jamie!
Jamie had improved very much in appearance, in manner, and in knowledge. His conversation interested both parents and children. His accounts of the city, of its buildings, and bits of history connected with them, were highly entertaining to the family whose horizon was so limited. All listened while he was talking. The conversation was prolonged to a late hour, and the children were allowed to sit up much after their usual bedtime.
In the morning all again paid homage to Jamie. He was the hero of the house and of the neighborhood. The neighbors all found opportunity to call at the cottage to see the lad who had been away at school. Archie Lindsay frequently spent the evening there, listening with wonder to all that Jamie had to tell.
The children were allowed more liberty for Jamie's sake, and the whole summer was a long gala day. Very little time was lost, however, for the girls were taught to use their fingers and ears at the same time. Even Jamie had not forgotten how to work. He spent many a day in the garden, the children at his side; for to them work was pleasure, if they could only be with brother Jamie.
The time for the return to Edinburgh came full soon for the children, and indeed for all. They had never tired of hearing the wonders of the outside world. Their narrow horizon had been widened. But Jamie was gone, and their lives slipped back into the old grooves.
"Come, lassies, buckle to noo, and mak up time. I liked weel to see ye hae pleasant times wi' Jamie; but if ye are sensible lassies ye will see it wunna do to spend mair time in sic an easy way. There maun be nae lack o' the knitting-siller: ye ken weel what maun be dune wi' it."
Notwithstanding the mother's vigilance in preventing any approach to idleness, or even leisure, the children were well and happy.
CHAPTER XIII. BELLE.
Belle Murdoch had now reached her sixteenth year. She was tall, well-formed, fair, and a picture of perfect health. No allusion to her going out to service had yet been made. But the family expenses becoming each year heavier, the proposal so much dreaded by Mrs. Murdoch at length came.
Wullie had been ailing for a month, and he felt somewhat despondent. So one evening when the children were in bed, and husband and wife were sitting by the cheerful fire, Jeannie busied with mending little Davie's clothes, Wullie broached the subject as gently as he could.
"Ye are aye warking, Jeannie," he said, "and I am no idle when I am weel, and still I hae muckle to do to gie my family a' the comforts that I would like to gie them. I misdoot the judgment we use in keeping Belle at hame. She is a strang healthy lass noo, and I dinna see hoo I am to keep my heid aboon water unless the lassies as they get age and strength gang to service as ithers do, or find a better way to earn honest pennies."
"Weel, Wullie, I wouldna mind the lass gaen to service but for the way it has turned oot wi' Jamie. He will, nae doot, hae the sculing o' a born gentleman, and so be fitted to win his bread like ither gentlemen; and it looks no quite right to hae ane o' the same family oot at service, and that ane a lass, forbye."
"I see, wifie, I see. And I hae thought o' the same thing. But right is right, and wrang is wrang; and rather than we s'ould gang beyond oor means and mak debts, we might better let her gang to a gude place."
"That is o'er true," said Jeannie, "and if things get muckle waur we'll hae to sacrifice oor wishes to oor necessities."
A few days after this conversation Farmer Lindsay came to honest Wullie's cottage. "Mistress Murdoch, I hae come to ask a favor," he began. "The gude-wife is taen ill, and we are pressed wi' the wark; will ye be sae kind as to let Belle come and stop wi' us a wee while till the wife is on her feet again?"
"Oh, ay, she can gang, and we are glad to oblige ye. Ye will find her no afraid o' wark; and she kens hoo to tak hold o' things as well as maist lassies o' her age."
Accordingly Belle made a few hasty preparations, and went immediately to Farmer Lindsay's. Mr. Lindsay conducted her to his wife's room. "Noo ye needna fash your heid aboot the wark," said he. "I hae brought ye a strang lass wi' willing hands, and a cheerfu' face that it will do your een gude to look at."
"Ay, lass, it does a body gude to see ye the morn, ye are sae fresh and rosy," said Mrs. Lindsay. "I ken naebody that I would like better than yoursel to come into the hoose and help till I am able to tak my place again. Betty is a gude strang lass, but she canna do the wark o' twa, and sae we will be muckle obliged to ye if ye will stay wi' us and help her."
Belle proved the truth of her mother's statement concerning her. After Mrs. Lindsay recovered she still kept Belle with her. "She minds me o' the sang-birds, she is sae blithe and cheerfu'," said Mrs. Lindsay to her husband.
"Ay, she is a winsome lass, and I would like weel to hae ye keep her. Ye can keep baith lassies if ye like. Ye are no strang yoursel, and there is wark eneuch for baith. But I dinna ken whether Wullie means to let her gang oot to service; I asked her to come only to do us a favor."
"Weel, if she will stop here she will be treated mair like a daughter than a servant."
"I wouldna wonder to see her a daughter some day, wifie. Archie thinks there is nae lass like Belle."
"He is welcome to think sae. I would liefer ken wha comes into the family. I dinna want a lass frae the toun, wha wouldna ken, perhaps, whether the dairy was clean or no, and that couldna mak butter nor cheese fit to gang to the market. Fine parritch and bannocks would then be made in this hoose; and wha kens whether the totties" (potatoes) "would come to the board cauld or het!"
"Ye are looking a lang way aheid, and coonting withoot your host," said Mr. Lindsay, laughing. "It would be weel to find oot first if they will let the lass stop wi' us."
Mrs. Murdoch had noticed the friendship between her daughter and Archie Lindsay, and she secretly hoped it would ripen into love. Now that Belle was so well liked by both the farmer and his wife, she thought circumstances were shaping towards the fulfilment of her desires, and, therefore, when asked whether Belle might remain at the farmhouse, she readily assented. So it was arranged that Belle should remain with Mrs. Lindsay.
Honest Wullie felt relieved. "When the burden is o'er heavy it is aye lightened," thought he; and he remarked to his wife, "Noo that we hae but twa to provide for, it may be that we s'all be able to lay by a wee bit for a weet day."
It was not long before Belle began to be accompanied by Archie when she came in the evening to see her parents. No opposition was manifested, and very little comment was made; their association was regarded as a thing of course. Donald McPherson, who always saw at least all that was to be seen in the neighborhood, and was not diffident in giving voice to his thoughts, ventured to rally the mother on her prospective good fortune.
"I think, Mistress Murdoch," said Donald, "that your daughter will be staying her lifetime at the farmhouse. Weel, Archie is a clever lad, and Belle is a clever lass; I doot if they could be better mated. Hoo differently it has turned oot wi' Nellie McAllister!"
"What is wrang wi' Nellie?"
"Hae ye no heard aboot it? Why, she has rin awa wi' that gude-for-naught Langley that has been hinging aboot there sae lang."
"Ye dinna tell me that!"
"Ay, but I do tell ye; and that is nae the whole o' it. The lass has stolen a' the gear she could pit her hands on. Mrs. McAllister is a'maist as daft as Jamie himsel."
"Weel, weel, weel! That is waur than I expected," exclaimed honest Wullie; "but ane never kens when trouble may come under his ain roof."
"It is a sair trouble, neebor, a sair trouble; and yet they couldna expect a blessing on their ill-gotten gain."
"That is vera true, vera true, Donald. I am mair and mair convinced that there is but ane way to do, and that is to do right. I am puir, and I expect to stay sae, but it is a peaceful pillow I put my heid on when night comes around."
"Weel, I dinna think Mrs. McAllister will ever ken sic a pillow under her heid. Punishment comes slowly sometimes; but it comes, for a' that. I maun say I am thankfu' I got oot o' the clutches o' the de'il as soon as I did; and yet he held me lang eneuch to gar me tak shame to mysel whenever I think o' it. Ay, I am angry as weel as ashamed when I think how I fuled awa my siller till Katy had but ane gown till her back. It is a sin and a shame for a man to mak sic a beast o' himsel!"
"That it is," said Wullie, pressing his lips tightly together, and nodding more than once in an affirmative manner. "I wish ilka stoup that is filled wi' grog would snap in twain before it reached the lips o' ony ane."
"Weel, if that s'ould be, there is mony a tongue would lap it frae the floor but they would hae it," said Donald.
"Hoo is that lad o' Daft Jamie's likely to turn oot?" asked Wullie.
"Bad eneuch. What but a miracle would save him? He is aye standin' in the bar-room. His mither brought him there when he couldna mair than toddle; and he has aye been sippin' and lickin' at the stoups folk set doun. Noo he does mair: he taks his dram like ony ither ne'er-do-weel, so I am tauld. I dinna gang there to see it, ye ken."
"Weel, by the look o' it, they will a' gang to ruin thegither."
"I had a'maist said, 'The de'il may care,' but I wunna. I wunna wish evil on ony ane; neither will I think sae lightly o' the ills which befa' ony o' the human family."
"That last is weel said. We maun not only wish nae ill to ony ane, but if we can, we maun help up the fallen and lead to firm groun' those that stand in slippery places."
Donald, who could not long be silent, turned to Annie and asked, "Hoo like ye the new sculemaister?"
"I like him vera weel," said little Annie, blushing to find herself addressed.
"That lad o' mine thinks he is o'er strict; but I think Donald doesna mind his books as he s'ould."
"Donald is o'er fond o' fun," said Annie, smiling, for she was thinking of his many pranks and grimaces behind the teacher's back.
"He is like his faither before him. I had aye mair nonsense than sense in my heid when I went to scule, and what wi' ane trick and anither my lessons cam oot slim. Ane auld maister got angry wi' me, and I will tell ye hoo it cam aboot. As I said, I was up to mony pranks, and he would aye wink at them when he could wi' ony decency; but I went too far: I tried a trick on the maister himsel; I put a bee in his bonnet. I was a'maist sorry as soon as I had done it; but a wheen o' the lads thought it was fine fun, so I didna shake it oot as I had a mind to do mair than ance. As may be supposed, the bee stung the maister on the tap o' his heid. My! but was he no ravin'! When the scule was called for the afternoon he set himsel to find oot wha had pit the bee in his bonnet. I felt my face graw red, but I took wonderfully to my books. I warrant I hadna minded them sae weel for mony a day. Weel, the maister eyed every lad in the sculeroom. After a bit he said,
"'Donald McPherson, ye arena wont to mind your book sae weel. Your conduct looks suspicious.'
"Noo I wasna a bold, hardened lad, sae I lookit mair and mair guilty.
"'Donald, ken ye hoo that bit beastie cam in my bonnet?' asked the maister.
"I didna answer him. Ane o' the lads spoke up: 'Maister, the bee could easily get in the bonnet withoot being pit there.'
"'Whist! Ye needna pit him up to lee aboot it. I ken by the look o' him that he has dune it, but he will fare better if I hae the truth frae his own mou'. Donald, I will ask ye ance mair, did ye pit that bee in my bonnet?'
"'I canna deny it, maister,' I stammered oot.
"'It is weel for you that ye didna; but ye s'all feel the tips o' the taws for a' that.'
"And did I no? My certie, but that taws was het! Weel, I didna play ony mair tricks on the maister, I can assure you."
"Nor s'ould you," said Wullie. "It is a' wrang. But mony laddies hae thoughtless heids."
"Ay hae they; but lassies hae na, hae they, Annie? I hear ye stand at the heid o' your class; hoo is that?"
"Whiles I am there, and whiles Maggie Lindsay is there."
"Weel, it is a pleasant thing to see bairns fond o' books. But I am staying o'er lang. I will be gaen noo. Gude-night to ye a'."
"Wifie, we hae muckle reason to be thankfu'," said Wullie, after Donald was gone. "Surely His banner over us is love." Thus did honest Wullie acknowledge the goodness of God. And though his was a life of unremitting toil and care, he daily found cause to say, "Praise the gude Lord!"
Both the children now attended school, and, as has been intimated, Annie made rapid progress. She was not as pretty as Belle, but she was even more interesting. She resembled her father somewhat. She had the same large, dark, lustrous eyes; she was lively, witty, and fond of company. The mother, who was reminded of the father through his child, often said to herself, "I am glad that bairn is a lass." Annie received many pretty presents from Belle. Indeed, she seldom went to see her at the farmhouse without bringing away a knot of ribbon, or some proof of sisterly affection, trifling though it was. Farmer Lindsay was always glad to have Annie come to his house. He was unlike honest Wullie, and he often joked with the child in order to draw out her powers of repartee. Mrs. Lindsay also enjoyed the fun. But thoughtful Belle would sometimes shake her head, as if to say, "Ye maunna, Annie." Sometimes Annie took Davie with her. He always returned with his pockets crammed with cream-cakes and apples. When they would hold no more, Mrs. Lindsay would say to the child, "Tell your mither no to mak your pockets sae sma'."