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.
When he found himself alone once more with his new acquaintance, Scotty
suddenly became shy again. But his diffidence was put to flight in a
summary manner. The young lady gave him a smart slap in the face and
darted away. "Last tag!" she screamed back over her shoulder. Scotty
stood for an instant petrified with indignation, and then he was after
her like the wind. As they tore through the little barnyard Kirsty
called to them not to go near the well, but neither of them heard.
Into the woods they dashed, over mossy logs and stones, tearing through
the undergrowth and crashing among fallen boughs. In spite of her
fleetness Scotty caught his tormentor as she dodged round a tree; he
held her in a sturdy grip and shook her for her impudence until her
sunbonnet fell off. He was somewhat disconcerted to find her accept
this treatment with the utmost good humour. Betty would have wailed
dismally, but this girl wrenched herself free and laughed derisively.
"You can't hurt like Hal," she said rather disdainfully, "he pulls my
hair."
"Well, I'll be doing that too if you slap me again," said Scotty,
grateful for the suggestion.
"No, you won't," she declared triumphantly, "'cause then I wouldn't
play with you. I'd just go right back to Granma MacDonald and leave
you all alone in the bush. An' I wouldn't show you all the places
here. There's a king's castle an' a hole where the goblins comes out
of, an' a tree where a bad, bad dwarf lives, an'--an'," she was
whispering now, "an' heaps of dreadfuller things than that 'way down
there." She pointed into the green depths with an air of
proprietorship. Scotty felt a deep respect rising in his heart.
He had thought he knew the forest as the chipmunks know it, but here it
was in a new and romantic aspect.
"Where are they?" he inquired quite humbly; and, satisfied with his
demeanour, his mentor led the way. Though the royal castle proved to
be only a rock and the other enchanted places equally familiar to
Scotty, she clothed them with such an air of mystery and related such
amazing tales concerning each, vouched for by no less an authority than
Weaver Jimmie, that her listener regarded them and their exponent with
something like awe.
They journeyed on, every new turn revealing untold wonders and giving
an added stimulus to the leader's lively imagination. And indeed the
forest was a place in which anyone might expect to meet a fairy or a
goblin behind every tree. The happy sense of unreality lent by the
uncertainty of distances, the airy unsubstantial appearance of the
leaf-grown earth; the dazzling splashes of golden light on the green,
the sudden appearance of open glades choked with blossoms; and through
all the ringing harmony of a hundred songsters combined to make the
woods a veritable fairyland.
And Scotty soon found to his joy that he was to have his part in
interpreting its beauties too, for Isabel came to the end of her tales
at last and was full of questions. What was that sad little
"tee-ee-ee," somebody was always saying away far off. It must be a
fairy too. But Scotty had come down to realities now, and felt more at
home. That? Why, that was only a whitethroat. Didn't she hear how it
said, "Hard-times-in-Canady!" She laughed aloud and imitated the song,
setting all the woods a-ring with her clear notes. And what made those
bells ring up in the tree? Those weren't bells, they were just veerys,
and they said, "Ting-a-ling-a-lee!" But the bobolinks had bells; they
would go back to the clearing and hear them ring in the hayfield, and
there was a meadow-lark's nest there, and lots of plovers; yes, and if
she would come down to the creek that ran across the Scotch line he
would show her a mud turtle, and they could catch some fish, and there
was a boiling spring there, where the water was so cold you couldn't
put your feet into it, and it bubbled all the time, even in the winter.
And then they found flowers, oh, so many flowers, big, pink, bobbing
ladles' slippers, and delicate orchids and great flaming swamp lilies;
and there were wonderful pitcher-plants, too, with their tall crimson
blossoms. Scotty explained the workings of the perfidious little
vessels, and they sat down and watched with absorbed interest the poor
foolish insects slip happily down the silken stairway to certain death.
And under Isabel's magic touch the little green pitchers became
dungeons, presided over by a wicked giant, and filled with helpless
prisoners.
And so they might have rambled in this enchanted land all day had not
the woman nature asserted itself. Isabel had had enough of fairies and
goblins. They must give up this wandering life and settle down, she
declared. They would build a house in the fence corner and carpet it
with moss and have clam shells from the creek for dishes. Scotty had
fallen quite meekly into the unaccustomed role of follower and was
willing that they should go housekeeping, provided he was allowed to
play the man's part. He would be Big Wind, the Indian who lived down
by Lake Simcoe, and he would go off shooting bears and Lowlanders all
day, and she would stay at home and be his squaw and make baskets. But
Miss Isabel would be nothing of the kind. She did not like "scraws";
they were very dirty, and came to the back door and sold their baskets.
But Scotty might be a great hunter if he wanted, and she would be the
lady who lived in the house, and she would cook the dinner and go to
the door and call "hoo-hoo" when it was ready, the way Kirsty did when
Long Lauchie's boys worked in her fields.