"It canna be long now. The sooner the better when once it's really
settled. There are folk in the parish no weel pleased at the minister,
for thinking to go."
"It's for none to say what's right, and what's wrang, in the matter,"
said the mother, gravely. "I hae nae doubt the Lord will go with him;
but it will be a drear day for plenty besides me."
"He's bent on it. Go he will, and I trust it may be for the best," but
Janet sighed drearily.
"And how are the bairns pleased with the prospect?" asked her mother.
"Ah! they're weel pleased, bairn-like, at any thought o' a change. Miss
Graeme has her doubts, I whiles think, but that shouldna count; there
are few things that look joyful to her at the present time. She's ower
like her father with her ups and downs. She hasna her mother's cheerful
spirit."
"Her mother's death was an awfu' loss to Miss Graeme, poor thing," said
the mother.
"Aye, that it was--her that had never kent a trouble but by readin' o'
them in printed books. It was an awfu' wakening to her. She has never
been the same since, and I doubt it will be long till she has the same
light heart again. She tries to fill her mother's place to them all,
and when she finds she canna do it, she loses heart and patience with
herself. But I hae great hope o' her. She has the `single eye,' and
God will guide her. I hae nae fear for Miss Graeme."
And then they spoke of many things--settling their little matters of
business, and arranging their plans as quietly as though they looked
forward to doing the same thing every month during the future years as
they had done during the past. Nothing was forgotten or omitted; for
Janet well knew that all her time and strength would be needed for the
preparations that must soon commence, and that no time so good as the
present might be found for her own personal arrangements. Her little
savings were to be lodged in safe hands for her mother's use, and if
anything were to happen to her they were to be taken to send Sandy over
the sea. It was all done very quietly and calmly. I will not say that
Janet's voice did not falter sometimes, or that no mist came between the
mother's eyes and the grave face on the other side of the table. But
there was no sign given. A strong sense of duty sustained them. A firm
belief that however painful the future might be, they were doing right
in this matter, gave them power to look calmly at the sacrifice that
must cost them so much.
At length the children's voices were heard, and at the sound, Janet's
heart leaped up with a throb of pain, but in words she gave no utterance
to the pang.
"Weel, Sandy, lad, is this you," said she, as with mingled shyness and
pleasure the boy came forward at his grandmother's bidding. He was a
well-grown and healthy lad, with a frank face, and a thick shock of
light curls. There was a happy look in his large blue eyes, and the
smile came very naturally to his rather large mouth. To his mother, at
the moment, he seemed altogether beautiful, and her heart cried out
against the great trial that was before her. Sandy stood with his hand
in hers, while his grandmother questioned him about the errand on which
he had been sent, and she had time to quiet herself. But there was a
look on her face as she sat there, gently stroking his fair hair with
her hand, that was sad to see. Marian saw it with momentary wonder, and
then coming up to her, she laid her arm gently over her neck and
whispered,--
"Sandy is going with us too, Janet. There will be plenty of room for us
all."
"I've been telling Menie that I canna leave grannie," said Sandy,
turning gravely to his mother. "You'll hae Norman and Harry, and them
a', but grannie has none but me."
"And wouldna you like to go with us too, Sandy, man?" asked his mother,
with a pang.
"To yon fine country John Ferguson tells us about?" said Sandy, with
sparkling eyes. "That I would, but it wouldna be right to leave
grannie, and she says she's ower old to go so far-away--and over the
great sea too."
"Nae, my lad, it wouldna be right to leave grannie by herself, and
you'll need to bide here. Think aye first of what is right, and there
will be no fear of you."
"And are you goin' mother?" asked Sandy, gravely.
"I doubt I'll need to go, Sandy lad, with the bairns. But I think less
of it, that I can leave you to be a comfort to grannie. I'm sure I
needna bid you be a good and obedient laddie to her, when--"
It needed a strong effort on her part to restrain the bitter cry of her
heart.
"And will you never come back again, mother?"
"I dinna ken, Sandy. Maybe no. But that's no' for us to consider. It
is present duty we maun think o'. The rest is in the Lord's hands."
What else could be said? That was the sum. It was duty and the Lord
would take care of the rest. And so they parted with outward calm; and
her mother never knew that that night, Janet, sending the children home
before her, sat down in the lane, and "grat as if she would never greet
mair." And Janet never knew, till long years afterwards, how that
night, and many a night, Sandy woke from the sound sleep of childhood to
find his grandmother praying and weeping, to think of the parting that
was drawing near. Each could be strong to help the other, but alone, in
silence and darkness, the poor shrinking heart had no power to cheat
itself into the belief that bitter suffering did not lie before it.