THE OLD NURSE.
"Not yours, but His by right;
His peculiar treasure now—
Fair and precious in his sight,
Purchased jewel for this brow.
He will keep what thus he sought,
Safely guard the dearly bought;
Cherish that which he did choose;
Always love, and never lose."
ON leaving the well, the children stood for a minute or two looking
around them, Ronald especially taking in every feature of the lovely
scene before him. And although the other two hardly then realized it
would be so, yet in after-years, in far different scenes, the memory
of that day, and even many minute details of the landscape around the
Wishing-Well, rose distinctly before their minds.
Amid the purple heather the well lay; clear and cool, soft green
moss grew close round it; and ferns hung over its sides in graceful
beauty—some tiny ones were still green there, whilst all around had
caught the autumn colours. From the well northwards, the eye ranged
over grand mountains—some clad with trees far up their sides, others
purple and brown with heather; whilst in the immediate background the
copsewood was glowing in crimson and golden glory, the leaves gently
falling with every light gust of wind, and strewing the ground as with
gold and rubies.
Eric soon wearied, and ran off to amuse himself with his pet rabbits;
but Nora and Ronald chatted on a while, till the nurse and two little
cousins came in search of Miss Nora, who was wanted indoors to see a
lady who was calling. Then Ronald set off alone to pay a farewell visit
far down the glen to an invalid widow who had been his mother's nurse.
After a short walk, he reached one of the most beautiful of Highland
passes, on the opposite side of which the cottage for which he was bent
was situated. Lovely indeed did the pass look that autumn day. Through
it dashed a noisy little river, white here and there with foam gathered
as it rolled over the high boulder stones that were deeply embedded in
its channel, and which at times almost obstructed its way; while its
banks on both sides were richly wooded—and as the boy's eyes rested on
them, they literally blazed in scarlet and golden splendour. No wonder
that his heart beat with enthusiasm as he gazed at the scene; and he
began, with boyish fervour, to repeat the lines,—
"Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land?"
And we marvel not that his heart shrank from the thought of leaving it
all for other scenes.
He received a warm greeting, chiefly in the Gaelic language, as he
entered the hut where old Peggy sat in her arm-chair.
"Come in, my young master, an' bide a wee, an' gledden the auld woman's
een wi' a sicht o' her bairn—" for such she always termed the handsome
lad.
He seated himself beside her as in olden days; but her keen eyes
noticed the tear that now and then moistened for a second the eyes of
her favourite, and told of a full heart. Quickly she guessed the cause.
"An' so ye're leavin' us, Maister Ronald, an' gaun yer first voyage
intil the wide world? Aweel, aweel! It's little auld Peggy kens aboot
that world, she that's been quietly fostered a' her days, as maiden,
wife, an' widow, in the Highland glen. But, O laddie!"
And she laid her hand kindly on his shoulder, "The Lord God, the Maker
o' a' the world, kens ilka turn in it; he's no ane to leave the lad
he's brocht to trust in him to lose his road in a strange land. Ye're
no gaun withoot a guid Guide, bairn; and Ane wha never leaves his wark
unfinished. 'This God is our God for ever and ever; he will be our
guide even unto death.' Ay," she added, "an' thro' the valley also;
an' he'll no gie up the wark even on the ither side; he's guidin' your
dear mother yonder, Maister Ronald, by the crystal sea an' the livin'
fountains o' water. Ye're no feard he'll fail you, my lad?"
"No, nursie," was the quick reply; "I've no fear of God failing to
keep his word; but oh, I fear for myself. You'll pray I may never be
'ashamed to own my Lord,' nor ever hide his banner. I've enlisted into
his army, nursie, and by his grace, and with his help, have promised
to be a faithful soldier and a true knight, to help the weak, and, if
possible, set free the oppressed."
The boy's eyes shone as he spoke; the old woman looked at him with
emotion.
"The Lord be praised for his work begun in your heart, my bairn; an'
may he keep you faithful thro' all temptations, an' at last gie you
the golden crown to cast at your Saviour's feet. Your mother left her
orphan children to the Lord's care, an' he's no ane to prove faithless
to such a charge, even tho' for a while they stray in their blind
ignorance afar from him."
She was silent for a minute, then said, "You'll mind Johnnie, my
Johnnie, Maister Ronald; my dead daughter's only bairn? Aweel, his
mother gi'ed him too into the Lord's hands, and yet—" and here a tear
fell on the old cheek—"he wearied o' his quiet hame amid our grand old
hills, and left his grannie in her auld age, and wandered off wi' an
idle companion into the wide world. And it's three years sin' I heard
frae him; an' yet tho' my heart wearies sair to see him, I can trust
him to the Lord and believe. He can and will draw him to himself yet,
even tho' my een should be closed to earth afore then. Ay, the Lord is
a promise-keeping God. The world is wide, Maister Ronald, I ken that;
but should you ever fall in wi' Johnnie Robertson, ye'll mind him o'
his auld Grannie Cameron, and the Highland glen where he spent his
young days? He had a kind heart, the bit laddie that I loved like my
ain son; and had he ta'en heed to the command o' the wise king, 'My
son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not,' he'd been here still
earnin' his livin', as his faither did afore him, as an honest tiller
o' the ground."
Ronald felt for the old widow. Well did he remember the handsome lad,
some four years his senior, who had been induced about three years
before by an idle cousin to leave his home and try his fortune in
London. Only once had he written to the grandmother he had seemed
really to love, and since then no word had come from him, and none knew
whether he was living or dead; but from the lowly hut in the lovely
Highland pass the widow's prayers of faith and trust ever rose for the
orphan boy she had reared so fondly.
Ere parting Ronald knelt down and asked the old woman's blessing. She
gave it to him in the name of the Father of the fatherless, and once
more charged him not to forget his old friend Johnnie.
The lad promised, though he smiled to himself as he thought of the
small chance he had of meeting the youth, although his school was in
the suburbs of the great metropolis.
Back again through the pass he walked, with his firm, elastic step,
drawing in with delight every breath of the free mountain air. Before
re-entering the house, he turned aside by a path which led down to
the old churchyard, and stood for a moment by his mother's grave. The
sunbeams were shining there, glistening on the autumn flowers, which
the loving hands of her children had planted. The boy plucked one to be
taken to his new home, and as he did so a prayer rose to his lips that
the remembrance of his mother, and her loving words and firm trust in
God, might never pass from his mind, but nerve him for the battle of
life which lay before him.
At the door of the house he was met by his brother and sister and his
two little cousins, Minnie and Charlie, and the rest of the afternoon
was spent in boyish frolics with them.
On the morrow came the parting. Nora's tears fell fast as the dog-cart
bore her brother, accompanied by Mr. Macleod, out of sight. But in her
ears rang Ronald's parting words:
"Good-bye, Nora; don't forget brother Ronald; and remember our mother's
wish concerning you and the rubies."
She had answered through her tears, "Yes, brother, I will; I have begun
already. I am going to be the kind of woman that is above rubies."
Poor Nora! She meant what she said, but as yet she had not even guessed
the true meaning of the words, and all her efforts were made in her
own strength, the utter weakness of which she had yet to learn in the
school of experience.