Duncan crept away to his own little bedchamber with an uneasy feeling of
trouble. It was next to Elsie's, separated from it only by a little
square bit of landing, and, like hers, was a tiny apartment under the
roof, with a ceiling of the bare rafters which supported the tiles. In
each was a small wooden bedstead, a deal stand, with basin and jug of
coarse white earthenware, and a small deal box, which served both to
keep clothes in and as a chair.
Everything was scrupulously clean, even to the dimity vallance that hung
across the low window. In autumn and winter the bleak wind whistled
through the chimneys and rattled the casements in a way that would have
prevented a town-bred child from sleeping, and up in those bare rooms
there was cold enough to pinch you black and blue; but Elsie and Duncan
had never thought much of that, for they had been accustomed to it from
babyhood, and only threw on their thick homespun garments in greater
haste.
Just now the weather was unusually hot, and the little lofts had gone
to the other extreme, and were more like ovens than anything else.
Duncan had scarcely taken off his jacket when he heard Elsie calling. He
ran to see what she wanted. "I s'pose you won't go telling any tales
about what I said just now," she exclaimed shortly.
"Of course I shan't," Duncan replied, indignantly; "but what was it you
said? There wasn't anything to tell tales about except that you said you
weren't going to fetch the milk."
Elsie's mind was so full of her own affairs that it was quite a shock to
her to find that Duncan had taken so little heed of her words. "It's a
good thing I'm not such a silly baby as you are," she said,
contemptuously--a way in which she so often spoke to Duncan that he
quite believed Elsie to be the cleverest, most daring, and bravest
creature in existence.
"This place is like a furnace," she cried, irritably throwing the sheet
which covered her down on to the floor. "Why should I be poked up here
and Robbie sleep downstairs with mother and grandmother, eh, Duncan?"
"I s'pose it's because he always does," Duncan replied dubiously.
"Stupid-head!" cried Elsie. "And why does he always?"
Duncan thought a minute. "P'raps it's because he's the youngest, and was
the baby when you and me was bigger," he answered presently.
Elsie turned over with an angry grunt. "It isn't anything of the sort,"
she cried; "and you might have known I didn't want you to answer me."
"I thought you asked me," Duncan said, in much perplexity.
"You ought to have said you didn't know, and then you'd have told the
truth," Elsie said shortly. "Hush! there's some one coming up. Crawl
under the bed, in case they come in."
A slow dragging footstep came up the steep stairs, and presently a voice
called softly, "Dooncan?"
Duncan began to crawl out from under the bedstead, answering as he did
so, "Yes, grandmother, here I am."
Elsie dangled her foot over the side of the bed, and gave Duncan a
pretty sharp kick as he emerged.
"What's that for?" he stopped to ask.
"Only because you're such a ridiculously silly little softie, that
nobody could put a grain of sense into your head," Elsie replied,
angrily. "Supposing it had been mother. A nice row you'd have got us
into. Why couldn't you keep quiet, and she'd have thought we were both
in bed and asleep."
"But I knew it was grandmother's voice," said Duncan.
"Dooncan," called the voice again, "I want you."
Duncan opened the door this time. His grandmother did not seem to notice
that he was in a forbidden place, but asked, with an anxious quaver in
her voice, "Did mother beat Elsie, Duncan?"
"I think so," Duncan replied indignantly.
"Eh, well, Duncan," she said, consolingly, "mother's often threatened
and never done it before, and Elsie's a wilful child, with a spirit and
temper that must needs be broken. But what was the matter now?"
"It was about fetching the milk," Duncan replied. "Elsie don't like it,
and she wouldn't be quick."
"Eh, well; but it's the place of the young to fetch and carry," said the
old woman, in a much more cheerful tone than she had used before. "But
Duncan, my laddie, have you picked up a wee bit of paper with writing on
it, what grandmother has dropped?"
"No, granny, I haven't never picked up a piece," Duncan replied.
"Nor seen it lying about neither, dearie? Come now, think if you picked
it up and threw it in the fire. I won't be angry if you tell the truth."
"I never saw it at all," said Duncan again.
"Ah, well! I thought perhaps that it was about that mother was angry
with Elsie, but it wasn't, after all; you're sure of that, Duncan?"
"Oh no; it was about the milk," Duncan returned, readily.
"And Elsie's asleep now. Well, well, youth must be chastised sometimes,"
crooned the old woman, softly. "You needn't talk about the paper I've
lost, Duncan. It's safe enough in the fire, no doubt; but if you see a
scrap of paper lying anywhere, bring it to grandmother, and she'll give
you a penny for sharp eyes."
Then the old dame went cautiously downstairs, feeling the way with her
thick stick, and Duncan once more went off to bed.
He woke very early the next morning, wondering whether Elsie would keep
her vaunted threat of refusing to fetch the milk, and if so, what would
happen: for if Elsie were obstinate, their mother was firm as a rock in
doing a duty, and Duncan well knew she would not be overborne by any
one. So it was with a vague uneasiness that he put on his clothes and
went downstairs. To his surprise and relief, Elsie was already in the
kitchen and was busily, though with a sulky-enough expression, rinsing
out the can. Elsie's valour, like that of many an older person, was
greater in words than action, and there is no doubt that the previous
night's punishment had had its effect.
But that Duncan should think so was the last thing that Elsie would
wish. Directly they were outside the door, she said in a careless tone,
"It's nice and cool this morning across the moor: much better out here
than in that little loft."
"And won't you come this afternoon?" asked simple, straightforward
Duncan.
"I don't know," Elsie answered sharply. "It depends upon whether I feel
inclined. Duncan, what was that granny was asking about a piece of
paper?"
"She only asked me if I'd picked a piece up with writing on it, and said
she'd give me a penny if I found it."
"I dare say she would," laughed Elsie; "but you won't ever get the
penny, Duncan, so don't expect it. She didn't ask if I'd picked it up?"
"No, she didn't; but have you found it, Elsie? because I'll take it to
her, and give you the penny," Duncan remarked.
"A penny indeed!" laughed Elsie contemptuously. "I wonder whether you
really could keep a secret, Duncan?"
Duncan was rather hurt at the implied doubt. "I never told tales of you,
Elsie, never," he said, earnestly.
"Look here," Elsie exclaimed, "I was weeding my bit of garden just under
the kitchen window yesterday, and granny was sitting at the window, yet
never saw me. She was reading some old letters, peering at them ever so
hard through her spectacles, and talking to herself all the time. I
expect she'd taken them out of mother's drawer, for she kept on looking
round to see if any one was coming, and the best of it was I was
watching all the time, and she never knew it. I saw her put one piece of
paper down on the window-sill; she was saying very funny things to
herself. 'Meg shouldn't have done it; she wouldn't take my advice. Ah!
she'll rue it some day, I well believe,' and all on like that. Of course
Meg means mother, and I was just wondering what it was she was talking
about, when the wind blew quite a puff, and blew the piece of paper
right on to my garden. I was just going to peep at it, and see what it
was mother shouldn't have done. Then granny gets up, and goes peering
all round to see where the paper's gone. She pulled all the cushions out
of the chair, and turned up the matting, and looked over her letters
ever so many times, and never noticed that it had blown out of the
window. Presently I put my head through the window, and cried out,
'What's the matter, granny?' 'It's only I've dropped a little bit of
paper, my dear,' she says to me. 'Just come and see if your young eyes
can find it.' I went in and looked all round. Of course I didn't find
it, and I was almost dying of laughing all the time."
"And have you got it now, Elsie?" Duncan asked, with wide eyes.
"Yes, I have," Elsie replied shortly; "and it's much more interesting
than I thought it would be. It's about you and me."
"You and me?" echoed Duncan, who was of a matter-of-fact mind, and was
always content with things just as he found them.
"Yes, stupid," said Elsie, crossly; "I always said mother favoured
Robbie, and so she does. Why he has new things much oftener than you,
and you're older too. Do you and me have boots and stockings for
week-a-days? then why should Robbie? Don't you wonder why mother pets
him so?"
"No," Duncan answered truthfully. "He's ever so much more babyish than
me."
"Well, I say it's a shame," continued Elsie. "Look at this old
sun-bonnet. Do you think I ought to wear such a thing as that? Didn't I
always say I'd love a long feather like the ladies at the manse? and why
shouldn't I have one, and a silk pelisse, and gloves upon my hands, and
sweet little shoes for walking in?"
"Why, you'd be just a lady," Duncan said.
Elsie laughed a pleased soft laugh. "A lady, just a bonny lady," she
said over to herself; "and wouldn't you love to be a little laird,
Duncan?"
"I don't know what it's like, Elsie," Duncan said thoughtfully.
"It isn't like fetching milk and sleeping in a loft," Elsie said
sharply. "It isn't like porridge for breakfast and porridge for supper.
It would be like----everything that's nice," she said, after a minute or
two's pause, for she really did not know anything about it, and was
suddenly pulled up in her description by that fact.