ANOTHER SHEAF GATHERED.
The heather had bloomed but seven years on the grave of honest Wullie
when the children were again assembled around the bed of death: their
aged mother was about to leave them. Jamie had been summoned from
Edinburgh, and he with the others silently awaited the inevitable
parting.
In looking into the room where the sick mother lay one would notice few
changes. The invalid lay just where her husband had lain. The same small
stand stood beside the bed; over the sufferer were bending the same
forms, or nearly the same, for some changes were noticeable in them.
Time had left traces on the once smooth brows of youth, and lines of
silver had crept alike into dark or auburn hair. Jamie, already past
fifty, was still in his prime. His long residence in the capital had
polished his manners, and he appeared the refined cultured gentleman
that he was. His fine intellectual brow was furrowed by thought rather
than by years. Isabel and Annie had passed the meridian of life, and
their afternoon was crowded with duties, and sometimes shadowed by
disappointments. They had reached that time when the parental heart
knows scarcely more of hope than of fear; when the children, eager to
begin the battle of life, rush out into the world, or, staying, are as
likely to be vexed as pleased with home restraints. Davie was less
changed in appearance than the others. His step, never light nor swift,
was neither heavier nor slower than formerly; his broad shoulders showed
no inclination to stoop; no shade of disappointment rested on his face;
he had merely grown seven years older. Davie's wife moved quietly about,
mindful of the comfort of all. Her sensible face, overcast with sadness,
gave evidence that she felt the approaching separation no less than the
sons and daughters: for this family was one of the few in which
mother-in-law and daughter-in-law lived in harmony and succeeded in
pleasing each other. Now this beautiful relationship and companionship
was to be dissolved. Jeannie had ever been most careful of the comfort
of the aged woman, and now in the last sad days her hand most tenderly
ministered to her wants.
But the time came when no human hand could help, when life was fast
ebbing, and the shadow of death darkened the household and filled every
heart with solemn sadness. For several hours the dying woman had lain in
a stupor, and no one expected her to speak again; but she opened her
eyes, recovered consciousness, and, seeing the sorrowful faces around
her, she spoke.
"Dinna grieve that I maun leave you. I hae stayed with you till ye can
a' care for yoursels better than I can care for you: ye s'ould ask nae
mair. Ye are aye in the hands of God; and he will guide you safely
through this warld, and bring you to me in the better warld above. I
shall greet my bairns on the other shore."
These were her last words. She fell asleep, and waked no more.
They buried her beside her husband and returned to their homes, feeling,
as never before, that one generation had passed away and that theirs was
the next to follow.
There is, perhaps, no relation in life the dissolution of which sunders
so tender a tie as that of child and mother. Memory is so stirred that
long-forgotten scenes pass before our mind's eye like a broad panorama.
In the foreground stand acts of disobedience and our lack of filial
affection, or rather our failure to manifest it as we should have done.
Beside these stand the many proofs of maternal love, patience, and
self-sacrifice. Happy the children who can recall other and pleasanter
memories of their conduct when in the presence of the dead, cold clay of
her who has done and suffered so much for them! And such was the case in
this family. On the evening after their mother's burial the tone of
their conversation was not wholly sad and regretful. Each son and
daughter knew that the mother had indeed exercised much forbearance
towards them all; but there came to them the assurance that they had in
many ways, both in early and later years, given proofs of their love and
respect. Annie, whose waywardness had perhaps given more trouble than
all the rest, sincerely repented her faults, and grieved that she had
ever been undutiful to so kind a mother.
"Nane o' the children," said she, speaking to her sister, "hae gien
mother the trouble that I hae gien her. Alas, why doesna a bairn ken
there is nae pleasure in wrang-doing!"
"O Annie," replied Isabel, "ye needna reproach yoursel; ye werena a
troublesome bairn, only a little heidstrang; and I am sure naebody could
hae been mair kind or respectful than yoursel these mony years past."
"I ken that," said Annie, "but I canna forget that I grieved her mony
times when I kenned weel eneuch I was doing wrang; that isna pleasant to
remember."
Jamie, now Professor Murdoch, remained long enough to visit his sisters
in their own homes. He spent the evening after the funeral under the
roof that had sheltered him in his boyhood; the sisters were there also.
After speaking of the dead mother, her virtues, her faith in God, and
the eternal happiness with the redeemed upon which she had now entered,
the conversation became more general, running in various channels. Jamie
had much to ask about the other families, but he took a special interest
in Davie's little twin daughters. They looked so much alike that he
declared he could not tell which was Maggie and which Nannie. They had
large blue eyes and curly flaxen hair. It was their father's delight to
sit with one on each knee, trotting them in his clumsy fashion, singing
to them the rhymes that were sung to all babies, turning his face from
side to side meantime, and gazing fondly at one or the other.
"Well, Davie, you look about as proud and pleased as a parent can be,"
remarked Jamie.
"Why should I no look proud? I will leave it to yoursel, Jamie; saw ye
ever bonnier bit lassies?"
Jamie smiled good-naturedly. "I think not," he replied.
"Davie," interposed Jeannie, "ye are aye praisin' the bairns. Dinna be
makin' ither folk praise them too. Do ye no ken that all parents see
their bairns in the same way? Jamie has bairns o' his ain."
"Ay," replied Davie, "but Jamie has nae lassies in his family."
"No, I have no lassies, and my sons are as tall as I am; so I quite
enjoy the novelty of seeing your wee daughters." Then, addressing his
sisters, he continued, "I must see more of my nephews and nieces before
I return. Some of them I saw only at the funeral, and I hardly
recognized them, so much have they grown."
"Dear knows," said Annie, "my bairns do naething but graw. Jennie is
half a heid taller than I am, and Robin is as tall as she is. The wee
lad, my seven-year auld Donald, is weel grawn for his years."
"Let me see--how many bairns have we among us?" asked Jamie.
"A'thegither," said Davie, "we have fourteen: yoursel twa, Belle four,
Annie three, and mysel five."
"We dinna number very many," said Isabel, "but for a' that I hae my
hands full; and they will be mair than full when Alice gaes awa, for she
is to be married at Hallowmas, and it will be a lang time before wee
Annie graws strang eneuch to be ony help. And what wi' Sandy's notions
about books and Robert's notions about waterwheels and mills, I needna
look for muckle help frae them."
"Sandy must soon come to me, sister Belle," said Jamie.
"Has the lad been talking to you about going to school?"
Jamie was about to reply when the door opened, and Sandy, who had come
to accompany his mother home, walked in. As he entered his mother looked
at him half-threateningly, half-playfully, and shook her finger at him.
He darted an inquiring look at his uncle, and the latter shook his head
almost imperceptibly.
"I understand it all," said Isabel, who had been watching the two.
"Sandy will leave home too, perhaps close upon the heels of Alice. Well,
it is often sae. I think sometimes, What do parents rear bairns for?
They arena mair than grawn before the flittin' begins."
"It is aye so," said Annie; "leastways in some families. There is my
Robin; he takes a deal too muckle interest in information about America.
I fear he will take it into his heid to gang there before mony years."
Davie with a startled look glanced towards his sons, who had been
listening to all that had been said, as if he feared they might become
infected with a desire to leave home too. But Wullie, already sixteen
years old, was a home-loving lad; no fear for him. Jamie had always
said, "I want to be a shepherd-lad, and rove amang green fields." The
third son was a namesake of Archie Lindsay, with whom he was a great
favorite, and he had said, "I will work for Uncle Archie when I'm a
man." Davie recalled all this, and his fears subsided.
Soon Belle and Sandy arose to go home. Annie was to remain to break the
lonely feeling of the household from which a dear one had just been
carried.
Jamie and Annie talked a little longer with Davie and his wife, and then
the little cottage was darkened and all within sought rest and sleep.