Chapter 6

Sunday was always a red-letter day in Scotty's life, for he generally had Granny to himself. Not that the others were away; for Big Malcolm, who generally ruled his household rather laxly, sternly forbade Sabbath visiting. But the boys wandered off to the barn or the woods after morning prayers, and Big Malcolm dozed, or smoked, or read his Bible. And then Granny and her boy would climb the little hillock beside the house and sit under the Silver Maple. This was a fine position, for one could see Lake Oro, stretched out there blue and sparkling in its ring of forest, and far away to the south, a glittering string of diamonds and turquoise where Lake Simcoe lay smiling in the sun, and now and then, where a clearing opened the view, the blue flash of the river. And there, with the soft rustle of the green and silver canopy above, and around the scent of the clover and the basswood blossoms, Scotty lay with his head in Granny's lap and heard wonderful stories of One who sat on a hill and spoke to the multitude as never man yet spake. And never afterwards, though he sometimes wandered from Granny's teachings, did those Sabbath days lose their hold upon his life.

And so the spring slipped into summer, and one evening a new element came into his life. He was lying on the doorstone, his feet in the cool, dewy grass, dreamily watching the fireflies sparkling away down in the pasture by the woods, and listening to the hoarse cry of the night hawks as they swooped overhead. It was a warm evening, and the leaves of the Silver Maple, still touched by the hot glow of the sunset, hung motionless in the still air.

Rory came out with his fiddle, and, sitting with his chair tilted against the house, droned out a low, sweet, yearning song for Bonny Prince Charlie who would return no more, no more. Grandaddy sat near on a bench smoking contentedly. Since the day of the first prayer meeting at Long Lauchie's, Big Malcolm had lived a life of peace, and had once more regained his attitude of happy, kind complacency. Old Farquhar was gone; he had disappeared when the Silver Maple was putting forth its buds, and had gone "a kiltin' owre the brae," as he musically expressed it to Scotty; but everyone knew that he would come back in the autumn as surely as the wild ducks went south. Indoors, close to the candle, sat Hamish poring over "Waverley," and Callum could be heard tramping about in the loft, preparing to go off for the evening. Callum took great pains with his toilette these evenings, Scotty noticed, though the boys did not tease him any more about going to see Mary Lauchie; indeed, there were no more good-natured allusions to his courtship. Instead, Scotty had overheard Rory tell Callum, in the barn one day, that "he'd go sparkin' old Teenie McCuaig, though she was seventy and hadn't a tooth in her head, before he'd be seen going down to the Flats to see an Irish girl." And Callum had seized him by the shoulders and flattened him up against the wall until he roared for mercy. There was always something in the home atmosphere when Callum started off of an evening now that vaguely reminded Scotty of those terrible days following Grandaddy's fight in the Glen. He felt anxiously that his hero was doing something of which his family disapproved, and wondered fearfully what it might be.

His mind was turned from the contemplation of these difficulties by a sudden change in Rory's tune. He stopped in the midst of his low, wailing dirge and struck up loudly the lively air that told again and again of the mirth produced when "Jinny banged the Weaver." Scotty raised his head and looked across the pasture-field. That tune always ushered Weaver Jimmy upon the stage, and there he was, coming over the field, easily recognisable by his huge feet. Before he reached them, the MacDonalds could see that his face was shining with unusual joy.

"Come away, Jimmie, man," called Big Malcolm, "it will be a warm night, whatever."

But the Weaver was too happy to notice anything wrong with the weather. "Hoots, it will be a fine night for all that, a fine night; and how will you be yourself, Mrs. MacDonald?"

"Perhaps you'll find it chilly enough if you go round by Kirsty's, Jimmie," suggested Rory.

"Hooch!" Jimmie flung one leg over the other with more than usual vigour. "And that is jist where you will be mistaken, Rory Malcolm, I will jist be coming from there," he admitted with an embarrassed quiver.

"That's what you're generally doin'; how fast did you come?"

"Whisht, whisht, Rory," cried his mother. "It's the foolish lad he is, Jimmie, don't be listening to him. And indeed it's Kirsty John will be the fine girl, so good and so kind to her poor mother. And how would the mother be to-night, Jimmie?"

"Oh, jist about the same, jist about the same; but," he lowered his voice confidentially, "what do you suppose she would be doin' the night?" "She" was understood to mean Kirsty; for Jimmie never dared take her name upon his tongue.

"Giving you a clout on the head, most like," ventured Rory.

The Weaver did not deign to notice him. "She would be sending me over here on a message!" he cried, and his face shone as if illuminated from within.

"Hech! yon's good news, Jimmie!" cried Big Malcolm. "You're comin' on!"

"She'll be sendin' you on a message to another world some o' these days," said Callum coming to the door, looking very handsome, ready for departure.

"Oh, indeed it's yourself had better be lookin' after your own sparkin', Callum Fiach!" cried Weaver Jimmie jovially. "You'll not be likely to find it as easy as I will, whatever."

Callum turned away with an embarrassed laugh, Rory following him. He did not answer Weaver Jimmie's raillery, as he would have done under other circumstances, for he had caught a look on his father's face that betokened trouble. Big Malcolm's eyes flashed angrily and he took his pipe from his mouth as though to call after his son; but his wife's gentle voice interposed. She had, so far, by her quiet tact, kept the father and son from an open rupture.

"And what would Kirsty be doing?" she asked, striving to keep her anxiety from showing in her voice. A spasm of joy jerked one of the Weaver's legs over the other.

"She would be sending me over here on a message. A good sign, I will be thinkin'," he added, lowering his voice, for the young men were scarcely out of earshot. "Yes, indeed, a good sign, I will be thinkin'. The wee lady from the Captain's came the other day and she would be sending me to get Scotty to come and play with her."

Scotty raised his head. "Hoh!" he scoffed, "play with a girl!"

Big Malcolm laughed indulgently. "See yon, Jimmie!" he said, "he'll not be so anxious to go to Kirsty's as some people, indeed."

Jimmie grinned delightedly. Nothing pleased him more than to be twitted about his devotion to his lady.

"Oh, but he must be going," said Granny. "The little girl would be lonely and I would be promising Kirsty last winter that he would go."

"Grandaddy don't like her uncle, anyhow," said Scotty. Big Malcolm took his pipe from his mouth. The boy had mentioned a fact for which his grandfather had excellent reasons, but he did not choose that it should be made so apparent to the general public.

"That will be none o' your business, lad," he said sternly, "an' when Kirsty wants ye, ye'll go." Scotty made no reply; he was not quite so chagrined as he would have others think. He really wanted to see the little girl with the yellow curls and the big, blue eyes, and demonstrate to her that he was not English, no not one whit.

So the next morning he set off across the swamp towards Kirsty John's clearing. It was a relief that Grandaddy and the boys had gone for a day's work to the north clearing. This was a tract of timber on the shore of Lake Oro which was partially cleared, and upon which Callum hoped some day to settle. The distance to it was some miles, and they had taken their dinner and supper; so Scotty felt his disgraceful secret was safe.

He was a long time on the way, of course, for Bruce had gone to the north clearing too and his master had to do double work in racing after chipmunks. Then he loitered purposely, for he was going for the first time in his life to pay a formal visit, and that to a girl. The situation was such as no discreet person would plunge into without due deliberation.

So the sun was high in the heavens when at last he saw ahead of him the golden light that betokened a clearing, and heard the sound of farm life echoing down the forest avenues.

Kirsty John's farm was a small, rough clearing near the Scotch line. There were two or three fields, and in the centre of them a log shanty and a small stable. Everything about the place was very neat; for Kirsty's mother was a Lowlander and one of the most particular of that great race of housekeepers. The little barnyard, ingeniously fenced off with rough poles, the small patch of grass around the doorway, the neat little flower garden, all showed signs of a woman's tasteful hand. But Kirsty could do the man's part as well. Black John MacDonald had died some years before, leaving his invalid wife to the care of their only child. And Kirsty's care had been of the tenderest; and if in the rough battle of life she became a little rough and masculine, the poor crippled mother felt none of it. Kirsty managed everything with a strong, capable hand, from felling trees to spinning yarn and making butter. She received plenty of help, of course; Big Malcolm and Long Lauchie were her nearest neighbours, and their families vied with each other in seeing who could do the most for her. Weaver Jimmie, too, would have been willing to let the weaving industry go to ruin if Kirsty would but let him so much as carry in a stick of firewood on a winter evening; but Kirsty kept her despised suitor so busy saving himself from violent bodily injury, when in her presence, that his assistance was not material.

Scotty could see her now as he came down the forest path. She was working in the little rough hayfield, pitching up the forkfuls of hay on to a little oxcart with masculine energy. Her skirt was turned up, showing a striped, homespun petticoat, and beneath it her strong bare ankles. Her pink calico sunbonnet made a dash of colour against the cool green of the woods.

Scotty took a leap at the low brush fence that surrounded the clearing and went over it in one bound. Then he stood stock still with sudden surprise; for there, right in front of him, seated on a low stump with an air of patient expectancy, was a small figure almost enveloped in a big, blue sunbonnet.

"Oh!" cried Scotty in amazement.

"Oh!" echoed the Blue Sunbonnet. It came suddenly to life, leaped from the stump and pitched itself upon him. "Oh, oh! I've been watching for you just hours and hours, and I thought you weren't never, _never_ coming!"

The visitor did not know what to say. He was scarcely prepared for such an effusive welcome, and was suddenly seized with a fit of shyness.

"You're Scotty, aren't you?" she asked. He nodded and the vision laughed aloud and clapped its small hands. The blue sunbonnet toppled off, showing a shower of riotous golden curls, tumbled about in delightful confusion; her eyes, big and blue, danced with joy. "Oh, oh, I'm so glad!" she cried. "I 'membered you ever since I saw you in that funny little shop!"

Scotty stared still harder. To hear Store Thompson's establishment designated by such terms was beyond belief.

"I 'membered your eyes!" she added, nodding confidentially. Her baby way of saying "'member" restored Scotty's confidence in himself.

"Well, I will remember you, too," he admitted sedately.

She laughed again and capered about him, while he stood and looked at her rather puzzled. He did not see anything to laugh at, and did not yet comprehend that here was a creature so joyous by nature that she must laugh and dance about from sheer spontaneous delight.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she reiterated for the tenth time. "I'll race you to the house!"

She darted down the hill like a swallow, her golden hair blown back, her little white bare feet twinkling over the grass. But Scotty was a very greyhound for speed. He leaped after her and in a moment forged ahead. When he had gone sufficiently far to show her how fast he could run, he looked back to find her limping slowly after him. The boy's tender heart, always quick to respond to the sight of pain, suddenly smote him. He ran swiftly back. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"A fisel," she said plaintively, dropping upon the grass and showing him the sole of her tender little foot. Running barefoot was not even to be mentioned at home, and she had not yet grown accustomed to the "freedom of the sod." Scotty, whose sturdy little brown feet were shod with leather of their own making, stared contemptuously; she must certainly be a baby to be hurt so easily. Nevertheless, he bent down and extracted the tormentor with the skill acquired in many summers' apprenticeship. Then he regarded her with half-disdainful amusement, his shyness all vanished.

"Can't you say thistle?" he inquired.

The big blue eyes regarded him innocently. "I did say fisel," she declared wonderingly.

"No, you didn't, you would jist be saying 'fisel.'"

She stared a moment, then laughed aloud, a clear little bubbling irresistible laugh, and this time Scotty laughed with her.

He seated himself cross-legged upon the grass and proceeded to catechise her.

"Your name will be Isabel, won't it?"

"Imph--n--n," the blue bonnet nodded emphatically, "Isabel Douglas Herbert, an' my mamma was Scotch, an' my Uncle Walter says I'm his Scotch lassie."

Scotty nodded approval. He could not quite understand, however, how she could be Scotch and live with the English gentry on the shores of Lake Oro instead of in the Oa.

"Where does your mother live?" he inquired dubiously.

"In heaven," said the little one simply, "an' my papa lives there too."

"Oh," said Scotty, "an' my father and mother will be living there too, whatever." He was not to be outdone by her in the matter of ancestry.

"Do they? Oh, isn't that nice? I guess they visit each other every day. An' you live with your granma, don't you?"

Scotty nodded. "Have you got a Granny too?"

"No, only Granma MacDonald here, but I've got an auntie an' an uncle, an' a cousin. His name's Harold. Have you got a cousin?"

"No." Scotty's face fell. "No, I don't think I will be having any, unless mebby Callum an' Rory an' Hamish would be my cousins, whatever."

"Who's Callum?" Scotty sat up straight, his eyes shining. Callum! Why, he was the most wonderful man in all the township of Oro; and thereupon he proceeded to give her a detailed account of the wonderful achievements of "the boys"; how Callum was so big and so strong and could run the logs down the river better than anyone else; how Rory could play the fiddle and dance; and, oh, the stories Hamish could tell!

The blue eyes opposite him grew bigger. "Oh," their owner exclaimed delightedly, "I'm going over to your place to see you some day, an' we'll get Hamish to tell us 'bout fairies an' things, won't we? You'll let me come, won't you?"

Scotty hesitated. A girl at home might be a great inconvenience and at best would certainly be an embarrassment; but his whole life's training had taught him that one's home must ever be at the disposal of all who would enter, and anyone who would not must be urged, even though that person were the niece of Captain Herbert. So he answered cordially, "Oh, yes, 'course, if you want to come."

Miss Isabel sighed happily. "Oh, I think you're awful nice!" she exclaimed. "And is your name just Scotty?"

"Yes!" cried Scotty, very emphatically, "Scotty MacDonald."

"But that isn't all, is it? There's sumpfin' more?"

"No!" exploded Scotty, "there ain't! Some bad folks would be saying that would be my name; but it will be jist Scotty, whatever. And," he looked threatening, "I don't ever be playing with anybody that would be calling me that nasty English name."

His listener seemed properly impressed. "I won't never call you anything but just Scotty!" she promised solemnly.

A call from the house summoned them; Kirsty had hurried in and was searching the milk-house for bannocks and maple syrup. The children ran through the little barnyard, causing a terrible commotion among the fowl, and up the flower-bordered path to the shanty door. Scotty had not been at Kirsty's since the summer before, when Granny took him to see the poor sick woman who lay in bed weary month after weary month, and now he drew shyly behind his little hostess.

"Come away, Scotty man!" called Kirsty heartily. "Come away, mother's wantin' to see ye!"

The door of the little log shanty stood open, revealing a bare, spotless room with whitewashed walls. There were a couple of old chairs and a rough bench scrubbed a beautiful white like the floor; a curtain of coarse muslin, white and glistening, draped the little window, and a picture of Bobby Burns in a frame made from the shells of Lake Oro, and another of the youthful Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort in a frame ingeniously wrought from pine cones hung on the wall. A tall cupboard and an old clock with its long hanging weights looked quite familiar and home-like to Scotty. But over in the corner by the window was a sight that struck him painfully and made him draw back. An old four-post bed stood against the log wall and in it lay the shrivelled little figure of Kirsty's mother propped up with pillows. She was bent and twisted with rheumatism, like a little old tree that had been battered by storms. But her face was brave and bright, and from it shone a pair of brown eyes with a pathetic inquiry in them as of a dumb, uncomprehending creature in pain. She wore a stiff white cap on her thin grey hair, a snowy mutch covered her poor crooked shoulders, and everything about her was beautifully neat and clean, showing her daughter's loving care.

"Heh, mother!" cried Kirsty cheerfully, "here's Marget Malcolm's boy at last. Come, Scotty, and mother will be seeing how big you are."

The old woman took the boy's sturdy brown hand in her own poor crooked ones as well as she was able, and peered eagerly into his face.

"Eh, eh!" she cried musingly. "He will be some like Marget's lass, but he's his faether's bairn; eh, he's got the set an' the look o' yon fine English callant, forbye the MacDonald eyes."

The aforementioned MacDonald eyes drooped and the rosy MacDonald lips pouted at the word English.

"He's awful nice, isn't he, Granma MacDonald?" whispered the little girl.

The old woman gazed at the little fair face, and then back at the boy.

"Strange, strange," she murmured, half audibly. "It's a queer warld, a queer warld, the twa here thegither, an' ane has a', an' the ither has naething. Mebby the good Lord will be settin' it right. Och, aye, He'll set it richt some way."

The children gazed uncomprehendingly at her, but just then Kirsty came forward with a plate of bannocks soaked in maple syrup, and for a time they gave it their absorbed attention.

Then Kirsty soon had to leave them for her work, and after giving the children the freedom of the clearing, provided they did not go near the well, she rearranged her mother's pillows very gently and returned to the field.

The two sat silent by the bedside. Now that their feast was over, the little girl looked with longing eyes through the doorway; but Scotty felt constrained to wait a few minutes, for Granny had said that Kirsty's mother was sick and lonely and needed comforting.

The old woman looked up with sudden brightness in her eyes. "Can ye read?" she asked eagerly. Oh, yes, Scotty could read, had been able to do so for a very long time.

"I can read too, can't I, Granma MacDonald?" cried the little girl. "I read to you sometimes, don't I?"

"Yes, yes, lassie, ye're jist a wee bit o' sunshine. Eh, what would yer puir auld Granny do if ye didna come to see her in the simmer? But Ah want the laddie to read me the wee bit that Kirsty reads me; ye ken it, bairnie?"

She pointed to the old worn Bible lying on the window sill, with a drowsy blue-bottle fly droning about it. The little girl tripped over and brought it to Scotty.

"I know the place, Granma, don't I?" she chattered; "it's got the blue mark in it. There!" Her rosy finger pointed to a well-worn page, marked by a piece of woven scented grass.

"Aye!" said the old woman, with a satisfied look, "that's the bright bit, lassie; Kirsty leaves a mark for Ah canna read. Eh, Ah wish Ah could jist read yon bit. Ah wouldna mind ony ither, but jist yon. Ah'd like to see hoo it looks." Her wrinkled face quivered pitifully, but she made a brave attempt to smile. "Read it, laddie," she whispered.

Scotty took the book and read where his little friend indicated. He read the Bible every day, and this extract was quite familiar; one wonderful story among the many of the Master's love and tenderness towards all the suffering; Luke's beautiful tale of the poor woman who was bent nearly double and was made whole by the potency of a Divine word. The boy droned laboriously on, and as he came to the words, "And Jesus called her to Him," the old woman put out her feeble hand and caught his arm, her bright brown eyes shining, her withered face flushed. "Aye!" she whispered eagerly, "d'ye hear yon? D'ye hear yon? _He called her_! Aye!" she continued with an air of triumph, "that's it! Sometimes Ah canna quite believe it, but ilka buddy reads it jist the same; that's it! _He called her Himself_. Aye, an' a' the ither buddies fleein' aefter Him, an' botherin' Him, but no her, no her! Eh, wasna yon graund! Go on, laddie, go on!" She made a feeble attempt to wipe away the tear that coursed down her wrinkled cheek.

"Eh, isna it bonny!" she cried as the boy finished. "Isna it bonny! Ah suppose Ah'm too auld to learn to read, but Ah'd jist like to read yon bit," she said wistfully.

Little Isabel went softly to her, and tenderly wiped away the tears from the poor old face. "There now, Granma MacDonald," she said in the tender tones she had heard Kirsty use, "you mustn't cry. Maybe Jesus'll come and make you straight too, won't He?"

"Eh, lassie," she whispered, "Ah'm jist waitin' for it. Ah'm houpin' He will. Ah'm jist a burden to puir Kirsty, an' whiles the pain's that bad. Eh, but Ah wish He would. Surely He'd think as much o' me as o' yon auld buddy. Don't ye think He micht, lassie?"

"Course!" cried the little one with the hopefulness of childhood, "course He will, won't He, Scotty?"

Scotty hung his head shyly.

"If Granny was here, she would be tellin' you, whatever," he whispered.

"Aye, that's true, mannie," said the old woman brightening, "Marget McNeil kens aboot Him, aye, she kens fine. Eh, but mebby He will," she whispered. She lay back and gazed through the little window, away over the forest-clad hills and dales to where Lake Oro's shining expanse sparkled through the jagged outline of the treetops. Her lips moved, "_He called her to Him_," she whispered, "an' He said unto her, 'Woman, thou art loosed from thine infirmity.'" She lay very still, a happy light shining in her eyes; the children waited a moment, and then slipped softly out of doors.