VIII.

_THE GYPSIES AT LAST._

ONE pleasant day, when the woods and hills of Glen Eagle were lying in

the yellow afternoon sunshine, Morag and Blanche wandered into their old

trysting-place, the fir-wood, which they had rather deserted of late.

The precious holiday afternoons had most frequently been spent in the

_ben-end_ of Kirsty's cottage, and a staunch friendship had sprung up

between the old woman and the little girls. These visits had become a

great and daily happiness to Morag. Kirsty's illness lasted for some

time, and Morag often thought that but for it she should never have felt

so much at home in the cottage, which she had so long watched from afar

with a mingled feeling of curiosity and dislike; and now she knew every

stone and cupboard of it by heart. For had she not helped Kirsty on her

recovery to make a thorough cleaning of both _but_ and _ben_, for which

the old woman's active fingers had longed, as soon as she was "to the

fore" again. Already, the little untaught maiden had learnt from her old

friend many useful household arts and wise maxims, and the keeper's home

began to bear traces of Kirsty's thrifty ways and cleanly habits. Every

morning during the old woman's illness, Morag had started for the

cottage after her own work was done, taking the short cut through the

heather, and gathering, as she went, a little bundle of sticks for the

fire-lighting. Then, after Kirsty's morning wants were supplied--and she

was not an exacting invalid--Morag would take her seat on a little low

wooden stool which Kirsty named "Thrummy," from its being covered with

shreds of cloth fastened to the wood. It was made by her long ago for a

vanished child, who once had been the light of that now lonely home.

Morag often sat on it in these days, listening with eager, upturned face

to Kirsty's solemn reading of the book she loved. Her rough northern

tongue sounded very different from the silvery flow of the little

English lady; but Morag felt that the words which she heard in the

cottage were no mere tale to Kirsty, "no vain thing, but her life."

Slowly, the words of Jesus began to sink into the little girl's heart,

and gradually she came to understand, after the first chill of

disappointment was past, that though the earthly voice of the Son of Man

was heard no longer, nor His ministering touch felt among the people, as

it used to be in those early days of which the Gospels told, yet He was

still the loving, listening Helper of all who came to Him. Kirsty's

belief that He was not dead, nor very far away, but a very present

Friend to be listened to and spoken to at all times with a certainty

that He would both hear and help, had in some degree penetrated Morag's

soul; and she, too, ventured to bring her little cares and troubles to

this new-found Friend, and had already a spiritual record of help given

and difficulties met in the name and strength of Jesus.

And so it happened that Kirsty's cottage became quite a rival to the

fir-wood, which seemed to Morag like a dearly-loved, but neglected

friend, as she trod among the soft moss and brown fir-needles on this

afternoon. After visiting a few of the historical spots sacred to the

memory of the first days of their acquaintance, Blanche proposed that

they should make an exploring tour to a part of the forest which she had

never visited; and the little girls made their way through the fir-trees

to where the Shadows were darkest, and the arching green boughs almost

shut out the day. Blanche was gay and talkative as usual, dancing hither

and thither, singing snatches of songs, and making the great aisles of

pine re-echo with her laughter and fun. She kept stopping as usual to

gather various treasures from the great floor of the forest--"specimens,"

she called them; but it is to be feared that they never reached a calm

state of museum classification. Blanche meant that these "specimens"

should travel to London with her--and stowed them away in corners of her

room with that intention, though her design was frustrated in most

cases, however, by their being deposited in the dust-bin by Ellis, while

she remarked to cook that she "never did see the like of missy for

fillin' her room with rubbage of all kinds."

Chance had chosen to remain at home on this afternoon, notwithstanding

Blanche's pressing invitation that he should accompany them. He had

replied to it by shaking his head, knowingly, as if to say, "No, no, my

little mistress, I'm not going to be taken in. Shag is not going, I see;

so you are only going to loiter about in an aimless manner, and I should

certainly be bored. Much nicer here," he thought, as he stretched

himself lazily on the warm stones of the old court-yard, where the sun

was striking, and snapped at a fly,--pretending to look the other way

when Blanche made her final appeal to his honor and conscience. Perhaps

he felt a few twinges of remorse at having so determinately chosen to

neglect his duty, for he rose presently and stood looking after the

girls as they disappeared among the birk-trees; but he did not repent,

evidently, for he went and lay down again, deciding that there was no

use of a fellow putting himself about for two silly little girls on a

hot afternoon like this.

Morag and Blanche wandered into the forest till they reached the old

road skirted by a low, lichen-spotted wall, which was the entrance to

the glen, and divided the forest. And now Morag's clock--the afternoon

sun--told her that it was more than time for them to be turning their

steps in a homeward direction,--especially since, that very afternoon,

before they started, she had received strict injunctions from Miss

Prosser to see that her charge was not again late for tea, since the

flight of time seemed to pass quite unnoticed by Miss Clifford. It was

by no means an easy matter to be time-keeper to such an inconsequent

young lady as Blanche, who never realized the unpleasantness of being

late till she was brought face to face with Miss Prosser. She was now

wandering about in all directions, adding to her lapful of gatherings,

and talking pleasant nonsense, while Morag's rare laugh was sometimes

heard joining in her merriment.

At last they started on their homeward way, and Morag was congratulating

herself that she would be able to present her erratic wee leddy in time

for tea, when Blanche noticed a plantation of larches, which looked so

pretty and feathery through the dark firs that she thought she should

like to inspect them more closely, and coaxed Morag to come on with her.

An old grey dyke separated the fir forest from the larches. The girls

followed its windings for a little, and presently Blanche climbed across

the loose stones, and went a little way into the larch plantation to

explore. Morag felt impatient to proceed, and walked on to try and

discover which would be the most direct route home through the firs.

Presently she heard a sound, which her accustomed ear detected as an

unusual one in that silent sanctuary of hers. She hastily turned a sharp

corner to see what the next winding of the dyke would disclose, and, in

doing so, she almost ran up again a sort of tent. It was a very rude

erection, and consisted of a few large branches which had been driven

loosely into the ground, and partly rested against the old wall for

support. A tarpaulin was thrown over them, but it was evidently too

small to cover the abode, and was supplemented by a tartan plaid, which

hung across the front stakes, so that no entrance was visible. This was

not Nature's doing, evidently, and Morag was seized with a great panic

when she saw the unexpected human habitation. She had heard wild stories

of terrible deeds done on lonely moors and in lonely woods, and felt

more frightened than she had ever done in her life when she thought how

far they were from home, and that the precious wee leddy was

unprotected, save by her. However, she saw no terrific personage as yet,

and she began to hope that the inmates of the tent might be from home.

But there was that sound again, and this time it seemed like the moaning

of a voice in pain. Morag felt that safety lay in immediate flight, and

she quietly turned to meet Blanche, and to make a sign of silence. But,

before she had time to do so, the wee leddy's voice rang out in gleeful

tones, concerning the varied delights of the larch plantation, which

the dwellers under the tartan could not fail to hear. Whenever Blanche

caught a glimpse of Morag's startled face, she knew that there must be

something very far wrong, and she stood looking at her in questioning

silence. Presently, a rustling sound made them both turn, and Blanche's

eye caught sight of the rude tent. For a moment she stood riveted gazing

at it, while Ellis's stories and prophecies concerning the gypsies

chased each other through her mind, and she thought with terror that

they had all come true at last.

Presently there was a fluttering of the tartan awning, and a hand

appeared among its fringes, as if to make a passage out.

Blanche's face grew white with fear, and she clutched Morag's arm with a

scream of terror. The little mountain maiden kept quite silent, though

her face looked as terror-stricken as that of her companion. Seizing

Blanche's arm, she began to pull her along, running as nearly as

possible in a homeward direction. On they galloped, breathless and

speechless; but the fir needles were slippery, and the trees were in the

way.

At last Morag felt that the wee leddy's steps were beginning to flag;

and, worse than all, she fancied that she heard footsteps behind. It was

a terrible effort, but the suspense began to be insupportable, and

without slackening her pace she turned to look. There, sure enough, was

a man behind them, gaining ground upon them very fast, too. Poor Blanche

kept up bravely in the race for a while, but now she began to fail.

First, her hat fell off, and even Morag did not venture to turn to pick

it up; then her lapful of gatherings dropped one by one, tripping her as

they fell; finally she stumbled, and the golden crown was down, down

among the fir-needles, and the tears were falling fast. No entreaties of

Morag's could persuade her to move, and the footsteps of the pursuer

sounded nearer every minute. The little mountaineer could have outrun

almost anybody, but she never dreamt of leaving Blanche; and now she

seated herself quietly beside her bonnie wee leddy, determined to

protect her to the death. In her distress she cried to the unseen,

listening Friend, whom in these last days she had been learning to know:

"O Lord Jesus, dinna let the gypsies get hand o' us; and may no ill come

ower the bonnie wee leddy here," she added as she seized her hand, and

made a last effort to rouse her to run again. She knew that the pursuer,

whoever he might be, must be close at hand now, but she did not dare to

look back. Blanche at last raised her head, and now, for the first

time, she heard the sound of the footsteps behind. With a shriek of

terror she rose to run again; Morag followed, but this time she did not

feel quite so frightened, somehow, as she had done before, and, at last,

a sudden impulse caused her to turn round to face her pursuer, and await

her fate.

Hurrying through the fir trees, she saw, not a terrific-looking gypsy,

but a pale, slender boy, with a gentle-looking face, considerably taller

than herself. He was signing to her, and called something when he saw

her turn round at last. Morag's terror began to abate in some degree,

and the boy presently joined her, breathless after his chase, and rather

frightened-looking also. He was holding Blanche's hat in his hand, which

he shyly restored to Morag. "She dropt it," he said, pointing to

Blanche, who still continued to run at full speed without turning to

look. The restoration of the dropped hat looked promising; Morag began

to feel reassured, and at the same time rather ashamed of herself.

"Will you be so kind as tell me where I can find some water?" asked the

boy in a quiet tone; "we are strangers, and mother is very sick;" and

his voice faltered.

Morag's little motherly heart was melted in an instant. "I'm real sorry

yer mother's no weel," she replied in sympathizing tones. "I'll maybe

find a drop o' water for ye, but it's some far frae here. The wee leddy

and me were terribly frightened, and we couldna jist help runnin'," she

added apologetically.

Blanche had halted in her flight, not hearing Morag's step behind, and

her astonishment was as great as her terror had been the previous moment

when she turned and saw Morag calmly engaged in conversation with the

object of their fear. She did not venture to join them; but a feeling of

curiosity, which is a great dispeller of fear, took possession of her,

and she stood waiting breathlessly to see what was going to happen next.

Presently Morag came running to her to explain and consult. The lad

slowly followed, looking rather more abashed than before, when he saw

Blanche. He turned to Morag again and said, eagerly, "Will you not come

and see my mother? I think it might cheer her to see you. We have come a

long way, and the water is done, and she is so tired and thirsty. I'm

afraid she is very ill--she says she's dying." It was a fine manly face;

but the gray eyes filled with tears as he looked imploringly, first at

one and then at the other of the little girls.

"Oh yes, certainly; we shall be glad to go and see your mother. I do

hope she is not so very ill. And, of course, we must find some water,

though we have to go right home for it, Morag," said the impulsive

little Blanche, every trace of her former fear having vanished in a

moment. "You must have thought it very queer of Morag and me to run away

as we did. But, indeed, we were dreadfully frightened, and quite thought

you were dangerous gypsies, you know."

The boy's face flushed, but he made no reply. Meanwhile, Morag was

silently planning what would be the best thing to do. It was now more

than time that Blanche should have returned to the castle, and yet here

was an appeal which it would require a harder heart than Morag's to

resist.

"Of course we must help him, Morag," whispered Blanche, noticing her

hesitation. "Don't you see how sad he is about his sick mother? I really

don't think there could be any harm in going to see her. He seems so

very anxious. Come, let's go for one minute."

And so they turned to retrace their steps along the path over which

they had hurried in such terror a few minutes before, with their dreaded

pursuer walking calmly and inoffensively by their side.

When they reached the tent, Morag recognized the moaning voice which had

at first roused her alarm. The boy drew aside the tartan folds and

stepped in before them, and presently they heard a feeble voice say,

"Kenneth! Kenneth! you've been long away. Don't leave me, my boy--it

won't be long now you'll have to stay. I would like to have lived to see

her, though. We must surely be near the place now. The last milestone

said three miles from the kirk town of Glen Eagle, didn't it? The

Highlander said she was still alive, you know. You'll seek her out when

I'm gone--she's good and kind, he always said. Bring her here, and

she'll help you with everything there will be to do--after I'm gone. I

would fain have seen her once before I died, though; but you'll tell her

I have gone to meet her long lost Kenneth, who is safe in the happy home

of God. You will follow Jesus, and He will lead you safe home, my boy."

Morag had been listening intently to the feeble, broken sentences, and

now she could hear that Kenneth gave a great sob, as he said, "O

mother! don't speak like that! I'm sure you'll feel better again, when

we find grandmother. You've often been nearly as ill before. There's a

nice little girl I met in the wood, going to try to get some water, and

maybe you'll be better after you get a drink."

"A girl did you say, Kenny? where is she?" asked the sick woman, turning

restlessly about.

Kenneth drew aside the tartan screen, and beckoned to Morag, who stepped

in softly, followed by Blanche.

In a corner of the tent, on some loose straw, lay the dying woman, with

her head resting on one of the lichen-spotted stones of the old dyke.

She turned her large, bright, restless eyes on the little girls as they

entered the tent. Raising herself a little, so that she might see the

strangers, she said, in a feeble, though excited tone, "I'm very ill,

you see. I've come a long, long way to die in this lonely forest. I

didn't think once that I should end my days like this." A fit of

coughing came on, and after it was over she lay back exhausted.

Blanche had never seen anybody very ill before, and she felt rather

afraid of the bright, hollow eyes and the strange sound of the short,

gasping breath, and was much relieved when Morag stepped forward and

put her little brown hand into the white, wasted fingers. The little

girl could not think of anything to say, but she stood, with a pitying

look, holding the hand of the sick woman, who seemed pleased, and smiled

kindly on her. Suddenly she seemed to recollect something, and starting

up, she asked Morag, in an eager tone, "Can you tell me where Glen Eagle

is? it surely can't be far from here;" and before Morag had time to

reply, she added, "Did you ever hear of a Mrs. Macpherson who lives near

there, in a little cottage all alone?"

Morag pondered for a moment, and then, turning to Blanche, she said,

"Will that no be Kirsty?"

"Yes, yes; it is Kirsty! Christian was her name. He used to say they

called her Kirsty," exclaimed the sick woman, eagerly.

Kenneth had been mending a fire which he had kindled between two of the

loose stones. As he got up from his knees to listen, a ray of hope

flitted across his pale, anxious face.

"Oh, we know Kirsty perfectly well!" burst in Blanche, glad to be able

to say something pleasant. "Morag and I go to see her almost every day.

She is such a nice old woman, and lives in such a pretty cottage!"

"Do you think you could bring her here to see me?" said the sick woman,

entreatingly. "I do so want to see her once before I die."

Morag glanced doubtfully at Blanche. "It's no jist terrible far frae

here til Kirsty's cottage; but she hasna been weel, and it's a lang road

for her to come, I'm thinkin'. But I wouldna be long o' runnin' to see."

"God be thanked. He has granted me the desire of my heart," said the

dying woman, clasping her hands. "The Lord reward you, child. Tell

Christian Macpherson that her Kenneth's wife is lying dying here, and

wants to see her--to come soon--soon," and she sank back, exhausted with

the effort of speaking.

"We had better start at once, Morag," whispered Blanche, eagerly. "I do

hope Kirsty will be able to come. It is certainly very far for her to

walk. Never mind me, Morag," she added, seeing her friend look perplexed

as to the best course of action. "Of course I shall be hopelessly late;

but I'll tell papa all about it, and I'm sure he won't be angry. He will

have come from the moors, I daresay, by the time we get home."

"I'm so thirsty; do you think you could find me some water? It might

keep me up till she comes," said the woman, turning wearily to Morag.

And then a new difficulty arose; for the nearest spring was quite

half-way to Kirsty's cottage, and Morag foresaw that there could not

possibly be time before dark to fetch the supply of water, and bring

Kirsty too; and Kenneth could not go, for the poor woman was evidently

too ill to be left alone.

"I'll tell you what we must do," said Blanche, quickly perceiving the

difficulty. "I can't go to Kirsty's, because I shouldn't know the way

through the wood, you see! But I can stay with your mother," continued

Blanche, turning to Kenneth, and trying hard to look as if she were

making an ordinary arrangement, she added; "and you can go with Morag

and fetch the water, while she goes on to the cottage."

It was certainly a great effort for Blanche to make this proposal, but

she was very anxious to be brave and helpful in the midst of this sad

scene, and she insisted on its being carried out, though Morag felt very

doubtful as to the propriety of leaving her bonnie wee leddy all alone

there. Still there seemed no help for it, so she consented at last, and

was soon hurrying towards the spring with Kenneth. They walked along

the narrow path through the forest for a long time without breaking the

silence. At last Kenneth said in a stammering tone, "You've been very

kind to us, strangers; I'll never forget it, and I'm sure mother won't.

I think she'll be all right again when she has seen grandmother. She has

been fretting so about finding her."

"Is Kirsty Macpherson your grandmother?" said Morag in a surprised tone,

raising her downcast eyes, and looking at Kenneth. "She never telt me

about ye," she added, musingly.

They had now reached the spring, and Kenneth having quickly filled his

pitcher, and looking gratefully at Morag, turned to retrace his steps in

the direction of the tent.

The little girl ran on eagerly, more anxious than ever to fulfil her

mission. Emerging from the forest at last, she crossed a small hillock,

and came down at the back of Kirsty's cottage. She found the old woman

seated at the door, knitting busily, as she watched the sunset. The

amber clouds were beginning to gather round the dying sun, and Kirsty

sat watching the cloudland scene with a far-away look in her tranquil

gray eyes.

"Na! but is this you, my dawtie? I'm richt glad to see ye. I some

thocht ye might be the nicht; but how cam' ye roun' by the back o' the

hoose?" asked Kirsty, smiling as she welcomed her little friend, when

she appeared round the gable of the cottage.

Instead of answering her question, Morag asked, hurriedly, "Kirsty, will

ye be fit for a good bit o' a walk the nicht, think ye?"

"Weel, bairn, I wouldna min' a bittie, in this bonnie gloamin'; but I'll

no say I'll gang sae fast or sae far as I ance could hae done," replied

the old woman, smiling at Morag's breathless eagerness.

"D'ye think ye could gang as far as the other end o' the fir-wood,

Kirsty?"

"Na, bairn; but I'm thinkin' ye're makin' a fule o' me the nicht. Ye ken

brawly I hinna gaen that length this mony a day," said Kirsty, looking

up with a shade of irritation in her calm face at the thoughtlessness of

her usually considerate little friend.

"Weel, Kirsty, I'm thinkin' ye'll need to try it the nicht. There's

somebody lyin' there that's terrible anxious to see ye." Morag's voice

trembled, as she continued, "I've a message for ye, Kirsty. Your ain

lost Kenneth's wife is lyin' i' the firwood, and wants to see ye afore

she dees!"

For a moment Kirsty looked bewildered; but there was no mistaking the

slowly spoken words of the message. Presently she held out her hand to

Morag to help her from her low seat, with a sigh; and, leaning against

the door, she stood thinking. Her usually calm eyes looked hungrily at

the little messenger, and her voice sounded faint and hollow as she

asked, "Is he there himsel?" And then she added, shaking her head,

mournfully, "Na, it couldna be; he would hae come til his mither

surely."

"There is a Kenneth, but I'm thinkin' he's no yer ain, Kirsty," replied

Morag, with a pitying glance at the poor mother's yearning face.

"Tak' me til her, Morag. Kenneth's wife!--she's dyin' i' the fir-wood!

The Lord grant me the strength to gang." And the old woman laid her

trembling hand on the little girl's shoulder as she moved to go.

Very soon they were toiling across the hillock together, and not till

they were far into the forest was the silence broken.

Meanwhile, Blanche had seated herself on the grey dyke, and was keeping

watch beside the sick woman. It was a strange vigil to keep, alone in

the darkening fir-wood, beside this tossing, wild-eyed, dying woman;

but, somehow, Blanche did not feel frightened in the least degree. Since

she had taken her post, it began to seem the most natural thing in the

world that she should be there. The sick woman took no notice of the

little girl for some time, and, indeed, seemed hardly aware of her

presence, till, turning round suddenly, she saw her seated there, her

fair curls gleaming in the half darkness. She looked at her restlessly

for a little, and said presently, "How came you here, my pretty dear.

You're surely far from home. Will your mamma not be getting anxious

about you? It seems so dark in that wood."

"I haven't got a mamma," replied Blanche, vivaciously. "Miss Prosser

will be cross, I daresay; but I don't think she'll mind when I explain.

I'm sure Morag won't be longer than she can help in bringing in Kirsty,"

added Blanche in a comforting tone, for she noticed that the weary eyes

wandered restlessly toward the entrance of the tent.

Presently a terrible fit of a breathlessness came on, and the poor woman

sank back exhausted on her hard stone pillow when it was over. Blanche

gazed pityingly at the sufferer, and longed for the morrow, when she

meant to return with various needful comforts. She had made up her mind

to enlist Mrs. Worthy's sympathy, believing her to be more amiable than

Ellis.

Meanwhile, she took off her soft jacket, and folding it, she slipped it

under the poor restless head on the hard stone. The sick woman noticed

the pleasant change, and smiled gratefully. And as Blanche looked at

her, she thought how pretty she must once have been, before the cheeks

had got so hollow, and the eyes so sunken.

It was beginning to get very dark within the tent, and Blanche was not

sorry to see Kenneth make his appearance with his pitcher filled with

clear water from the spring. The sick woman seemed greatly refreshed by

the draught, which she drank eagerly. But presently, she began to get

very restless, and kept moaning, "Kenny! Kenny! are they not within

sight yet? It's so long since that little girl went away."

At last, after Kenneth had drawn aside the tartan folds several times,

he brought back the news that the little girl and an old bent woman were

coming through the trees.

"Oh, it's all right!--Kirsty and Morag--here they come!" cried Blanche,

joyfully, as she sprung out to meet them, saying eagerly to Kirsty, "Do

come quickly; she's so very anxious to see you, Kirsty!"

The old woman made no reply, but walked silently towards the tent,

looking intently at Kenneth, who stood in front of it. "My ain Kenneth's

bairn," she murmured, as she laid her trembling hand on his head. Morag

heard him say, "Grandmother, we've found you at last! Mother will be so

glad!" and he led her to where the dying woman lay, and the tartan folds

shut them out from sight.

In the meantime, two figures might be seen wandering through the forest,

searching hither and thither in all directions. They were Ellis and the

keeper, who had started in company to look for the missing girls.

Blanche's maid was in a state of high nervous agitation concerning her

little mistress. She had been consigning her to various imaginary

harrowing fates since she left the castle in search of her, but the

keeper had smiled his grim smile, and assured her that girls were like

kittens, and had nine lives. Nevertheless, he too began to feel rather

anxious about them, after he had reluctantly led the way to Kirsty's

cottage, where he expected to find them safely housed; but, to his

surprise, they found it quite tenantless. Ellis began to wring her

hands in despair when she detected a shade of anxiety on the keeper's

face, after the neighborhood of the cottage had been searched without

any result. Then Dingwall decided that the fir-wood must be thoroughly

explored, for he knew that it was one of Morag's favorite haunts. They

wandered on, searching everywhere, till at last the keeper's keen eye

discovered, through the fir-trees, the dark tent resting against the old

dyke, with its back-ground of pale larches. He began to feel rather

uneasy, and to wish that he had brought some defensive weapon with him,

for there was no trace of the girls, and it was more than likely they

had been picked up by the gypsies, and sharp measures might be necessary

for their recovery. He did not, however, confide his fears to Ellis, but

went forward to take a nearer inspection of the encampment.

Meanwhile, the little girls were hovering about the tent, wondering what

would happen next. Morag had quite made up her mind that the wee leddy

must instantly be conducted homewards, and was relieved to find that she

was not unwilling to go--the reason being that Blanche was full of

hospitable ideas concerning the dwellers under the tartan, and she felt

impatient to get home again to enlist all the sympathy possible in

their favor.

Morag, before starting for the castle, had gone to reconnoitre a little

round the tent, to try to find an opportunity of whispering to Kirsty

that she would return presently, provided her father would allow her.

Just at that moment, Blanche spied Ellis and the keeper hovering about

among the trees, and ran forward to meet them.

Ellis's anxiety immediately changed to indignation when she perceived

that her little mistress was safe and sound, and she was about to break

forth in angry words of remonstrance when Blanche held up a warning

finger and pointed to the tent, which the little fire within was making

more visible in the darkness.

"Gypsies, I declare!" shrieked Ellis. "You've been kidnapped. We're just

in time to save her!" she added, wringing her hands, and turning to the

keeper, who in his turn began to feel a shade of anxiety regarding his

Morag, as she was nowhere visible.

"Hush, Ellis; they aren't gypsies a bit. There is a very sick woman

lying there--dying, she says, but I hope she isn't quite that. They are

strangers, and have come a long way."

"Didn't I tell you? They always come from the hends of the earth.

Gypsies, as sure's my name's Ellis. Are you kidnapped, missie--tell me

now?" But Blanche appeared still in possession of a wonderful amount of

freedom, and glanced with an amused smile at the keeper as she listened

to her maid's suggestions. So Ellis continued, in an angry tone--

"What have you ever been about so long, missie? Miss Prosser's well-nigh

into a fit about you, and Mrs. Worthy says she can't sit two minutes in

one place for anxiety. And there's cook, as declares she has miscooked

master's dinner for the first time in her life--all on account of her

hagitation concernin' you." And Ellis went on to give a chronicle of the

various distracted feelings of each separate member of the household.

"Has papa come home, then? and what did he say about my being so late?"

interposed Blanche at last.

"Oh, well, you see the master is a quiet gentleman, and never does make

much ado," replied Ellis, rather crestfallen that she had nothing

sensational to narrate from that quarter. "But he said we would be sure

to find you at that old woman what's-her-name's cottage, where you're so

fond of going to; and you see we didn't. Really, missie, it's too bad!

I'm near wore off my feet between the fear and the draggin' after you.

I only hope you won't be let go out at the door again without Miss

Prosser--that's all I've got to say."

Blanche hoped it was, but she feared not. She had a painful

consciousness that she was jacketless, and felt certain that, sooner or

later, that fact would be discovered and inquired into.

Meanwhile, Morag joined them, not having been able to get a word with

Kirsty, though she could hear her voice mingle soothingly with the

eager, gasping tones of the dying woman, who appeared to have a great

deal to say to this long-sought friend. Morag seemed to feel more relief

than alarm at the sight of Ellis in possession of her little charge. But

when she discovered her father's tall form leaning against one of her

pillars of fir, she started, and looked nervously towards the tent. The

keeper accosted her rather sternly, saying, "I wonder at ye, Morag. I

thocht ye had mair wit--takin' up wi' a set o' tinkers, and bidin' oot

so lang, forby."

Morag did not venture to explain the cause of their delay, nor did she

mention that Kirsty Macpherson was so near at hand. She observed that,

though her father seemed quite willing now that she should go to see

the old woman, yet he evidently wished to avoid meeting her; and Morag

felt sure that to disclose the fact that Kirsty was one of the alleged

tinkers within the tartan folds, would not help to smooth matters.

"Missie! wherever is your jacket?--well, I never!" screamed the maid,

with uplifted hands, when, for the first time, she observed the absence

of that garment.

"My jacket? Oh, never mind, Ellis; it isn't cold," replied Blanche,

looking rather uneasy, but attempting to assume a careless tone.

"Never mind! Did I ever know the like? Where's your jacket, missie? I

insist on knowing!" screeched the excited Ellis. "Stolen by them

vagrants you've been a-takin' up with, I'll be bound," and the maid

looked at the keeper, as if she thought he ought to take immediate steps

towards the recovery of the stolen property.

Morag glanced anxiously at Blanche. She did not know what had become of

the missing jacket, and she began to wonder whether it could have been

dropped in their flight from the supposed dangerous gypsy. She was about

to suggest that she might go to look for it, when the indignant Ellis

continued--

"Well, keeper, what _is_ to be done? You see Miss Blanche doesn't even

deny that they've stolen her jacket--her beautiful ermine one, too. I

gave it her on because she sneezed this morning. Pity there isn't a

policeman to set at them," snorted Ellis, in great wrath, as she glanced

at the keeper, who stood stolid and immovable, looking at Blanche.

The little lady began to feel at bay, and, being again challenged by her

maid to tell what had become of the missing garment, she planted herself

against a fir-tree, and flinging back her curls, she folded her arms,

saying in a dramatic tone--

"Now, Ellis, listen! I'd rather suffer all the tortures we read of

yesterday at Kirsty's, in Foxe's Book of Martyrs, than tell you where

that jacket is!"

Morag had been about to expostulate with the wee leddy; but now she felt

much too awed to utter a word. As she stood gazing at her, the fir-tree

was immediately transformed in her imagination to a stake, and visions

of lighted faggots and rising flames coursed through her brain. Ellis,

too, seemed rather impressed, and Blanche took advantage of her position

to remark in her most imperious tone, as she quitted her dramatic pose,

"Now, Ellis, if you say another word about that jacket, I shan't go

home with you a step. Perhaps to-morrow I may tell you what has become

of it," she added, bending her head graciously, as she volunteered to

start for home under these conditions.

At this juncture, Kirsty suddenly emerged from the tartan folds. She had

been reminded that the little girls still waited by hearing the sound of

voices, and she came now to urge them to return home at once.

The moon was now giving a clear, plentiful light. It shone on Kirsty's

placid face, and showed her another face which she had not looked on for

many a year, and it seemed strange that she should see it to-night. The

keeper looked as much startled as if he had seen a ghost, when the old

woman moved slowly towards him, and holding out her hand, said,

solemnly, "Alaster Dingwall, is that you?" and still holding his hand,

she added, "Weel do I min' the nicht I saw ye last. But come ben, and

hear o' the goodness o' the Lord frae this dyin' woman. Eh! but He's

slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy. The soul o' my lang-lost Kenneth

is safe wi' Himsel'. He has granted me the desire o' my hert. Com ben,

and see Kenneth's wife!"

Dingwall's usually inflexible face showed traces of strong emotion as

he listened to Kirsty. He made no reply, but was about to follow her

into the tent, when Ellis, more mystified than ever by these strange

dealings with these disreputable gypsies, who had already given her so

much trouble that afternoon, shouted in angry tones, "Well, keeper, if

you're going to stay in this wood longer, I'm not. Come along, missie,

we must find our own way as best we can." And without waiting for a

reply, the indignant maid hurried off with her reluctant charge.

Morag stood watching her father, as he followed Kirsty, bending his tall

figure to creep into the low tent, and then she sat down on the old grey

dyke outside, to await the next scene of this strange evening. She could

not help feeling very glad that her father and Kirsty were going to be

friends at last, though it was such a sorrowful occasion which seemed to

have brought the reconciliation about. Presently she saw Kenneth slip

out of the tent, looking very grave and sad. He came and leant silently

against one of the fir-trees, and stood gazing into the pale larch

plantation, with its long dark grass shimmering in the white moonlight.

Morag knew that he was looking so sorrowful because his mother was going

to leave him, and she felt very sorry too, and longed to be able to do

something to comfort him; but she thought that perhaps it was best to

keep quite quiet there, and let him think his own thoughts. She wondered

whether Kenneth knew and loved his grandmother's Friend, and was able

now to tell Him all his trouble.

When the keeper entered the tent, the dying woman fixed her great

restless eyes upon him, and looked questioningly at Kirsty. The old

woman stooped down, and said, "It's Alaster Dingwall--him, ye ken, that

was Kenneth's"--friend, she was going to say; and then she glanced sadly

at the keeper, and did not finish her sentence. But presently she added,

"Eh! but He's been good and forgien us muckle, and we maun be willin' to

forgie," and taking the thin, white fingers, she laid them in the

keeper's broad, brown palm.

"Yes, yes," gasped the woman; "I remember the name. My husband said

something about him when he was dying, too; but I can't recollect now."

Her memories of the troubled past were growing dim in the haze of death.

"My boy, where is he?" she asked, presently, turning to Kirsty. "I've

brought him to you--you'll love him for your own Kenneth's sake, won't

you? He's a good boy; it's hard to leave him in this wicked world

alone; but you will look to him, won't you?" and she looked beseechingly

at Kirsty. "We've travelled many a weary mile to reach you--he'll tell

you all about it after. But it's all over now--all past, and the rest is

coming," she murmured, and then she lay quite still for a few minutes,

and her lips moved as if in prayer.

Presently she seemed to remember something, and, putting her hand into

her breast, she drew out a little bag with one or two gold pieces in it.

Handing it to Kirsty, she said, "It's all there is left--he's very

ragged I'm afraid, and I'll be to bury. But you are good and kind, he

always said, and you'll be kind to my boy, for Christ's sake, and for

your own Kenneth's, grandmother, won't you? I haven't remembered all his

messages, I'm so tired to-night. He wanted your forgiveness so much--but

you'll see him again--we'll both be waiting you and Kenny!"

"Eh! my bairn; but ye mauna forget that a sicht o' Christ's ain face

will be better than a' the lave," said the old woman earnestly, as she

wiped the cold damps of death from the white forehead.

"It's so cold, and gets so very dark," she moaned restlessly. "There

was a candle left in the basket, I think; why doesn't Kenny light it?

Where is he? why does he go away?"

The candle was already burning near its socket, and Kirsty saw that the

haze of death was fast dimming the eyes that would see no more till they

awoke in that city "where they need no candle, neither light of the sun,

for the glory of God doth lighten it; and there shall be no night

there."

The old woman went to call Kenneth, who was still leaning silently

against the fir-tree. "Come ben to yer mither, my laddie! Ye winna hae

lang to bide wi' her noo, I'm thinkin'." And the boy came and knelt

beside his mother. The keeper had been standing with folded arms,

looking silently on, but now he crept away, and sitting down in a corner

of the tent, he covered his face with his hands. The sins of his youth

came crowding to his memory; one dark spot stood out in terrible relief,

and made him cower with shame and remorse in the presence of this boy,

and his mother on her lowly dying bed.

Meanwhile, Kirsty went out to look for Morag, whom she had not

forgotten. Seeing her seated on the old dyke, she beckoned to her,

saying, "Come awa, dawtie, dinna bide there yer lane! Puir thing, she

winna be lang here, noo. It's a sair sicht for a young hert, but come

ben, Morag. 'Deed they're best aff that's nearest their journey's end,"

murmured the old woman, as she stepped under the tartan folds again.

Morag followed, and stood gazing sorrowfully at the dying woman. She had

been lying quietly for several minutes, but presently she looked wildly

round, and, stretching out her arms, she cried, "Kenny, Kenny, lift me

up!"

Kirsty stepped forward, and raised the weary head on her arm, saying, in

her low, firm tones, "Dinna be feert, my bairn. The valley is dark

eneuch, but there's licht on the tither side. Jist ye haud His han'

siccar, and ye'll see His face gin lang." For a few moments she lay

peacefully, with her hand resting on Kirsty's breast, but presently a

great spasm of agony crossed the wasted face, some lingering breaths

were drawn, and the poor, quivering frame lay at rest.

Neither of the children knew that it was death. After a long silence

Kenneth rose from his knees, and whispered to Kirsty--"She's gone to

sleep; we must not wake her for a while--it's so long since she slept

before."

"Ay, ay, my laddie," replied Kirsty, shaking her head, mournfully;

"she's gane to sleep, til her lang, lang sleep. Nae soun' o' ours will

waken her noo; it will be His ain blessed voice i' the Day that's

comin'."

Poor Kenneth understood now. With a low cry of agony, he knelt beside

the body, which Kirsty had laid tenderly on its lowly bed among the

brown fir-needles again. And as she did so, Morag caught a glimpse of

the wee leddy's missing jacket; she understood now why she was so

vehemently unwilling that it should be searched for.

The keeper had been a silent spectator of the sad scene. At last he

turned to Kirsty, and brushing a tear from his eye, he said, in a husky

voice--"Kirsty, woman, I've whiles afore rued yon dark nicht's work sore

eneuch, and all that came o't, but I niver rued it sae muckle as I do

the nicht."

"Dinna say nae mair, Alaster Dingwall," replied Kirsty, holding out her

hand. "I'll no say that it wasna sair upo' me for mony a day, but I see

it a' the nicht. Ye were jist the instrument in His hands for sendin'

the puir prodigal safe hame til the Father's hoose. Will you no come

intilt yersel', man? The far countrie o' sin is an unca lonesome place,

Alaster Dingwall," and Kirsty laid her hand on his arm, and looked

earnestly into his face.

"It's no easy wark for an auld sinner like me, Kirsty; but, I'll try,"

Dingwall replied, as he glanced kindly and pityingly at the orphan boy,

and lifted him from his dead mother's side.

"Noo, keeper, ye and Morag mauna bide a minute longer. The puir lassie

maun be deid tired," said Kirsty, rousing herself to think what must be

done next. "I'se watch aside the corp; and maybe, when the morn's come,

ye'll hae the kindness to speir gin the wricht i' the village will come

ootby here, and we'll lay her in her lang hame, and the puir laddie will

come hame and bide wi' me."

The keeper would not hear of leaving her, and Morag seated herself on

the dyke, saying quietly, "I canna be goin' home and leavin' Kirsty,

father."

The poor boy seemed so faint from grief and fasting, that Dingwall at

last decided to take him away from the sorrowful scene, and to leave

Morag, who determinately clung to her old friend.

Kenneth stood gazing mournfully at the silent form, murmuring, "Mother,

mother!" in a low monotone of agony. He would not be persuaded to quit

the spot till Kirsty unfastened the tartan plaid from the stakes, and

laying it reverently on the body, she covered the dead face out of

sight. And as she unwound the plaid from its fastenings, she remembered

with a sharp pang of sorrow the morning on which she had last seen that

old plaid. While the keeper and Kenneth are wandering through the

fir-wood on their way to the shieling among the crags, and the old

woman, with Morag by her side, keeps her strange, lonely watch beside

the dead, we shall explain why it was so terrible for the keeper to

remember, and so difficult for Kirsty to forget, the events of a certain

night long years ago, which had driven the older Kenneth from the Glen

an outlawed man, and left his mother a desolate, childless woman.

Kirsty's husband had been the village smith. He was a much-liked and

respected inhabitant of the little hamlet. He was suddenly cut off by

fever at a comparatively early age, leaving his wife one son, who was

henceforth to be her sole earthly hope and care. The smith had been a

sober and diligent man, and Kirsty was a frugal housewife, so a little

money was saved, and the widow had been able to move to the pretty

cottage in the Glen, which had been her home ever since.

Kirsty had one earthly ambition, and one which she shared in common

with many a Scotch peasant--namely, that her son should become a

scholar. This desire seemed, however, to meet with no response from the

boy himself. He hated books, and loved, above all things, to roam about

the Glen, finding his pleasure there, frequently, when he should have

been at school in the village. Thither every quarter-day his mother duly

went, full of anxiety to hear about his progress, and with the school

fees wrapt in a corner of her pocket-handkerchief, while a small

offering for the schoolmaster's wife, from the garden or barn-yard, was

never forgotten. But she always returned from these visits crestfallen

and grieved. "He does not take to his books, Mrs. Macpherson; I fear

we'll never be able to make a scholar of him," the parish schoolmaster

would say, shaking his head, and adding, as he noticed the mother's

disappointed face, "He's a fine, manly, truthful boy, though; you'll

find he will be good for something yet."

But Kirsty was not satisfied, and went on praying that God would give

her son a hearing ear and an understanding heart in things intellectual

and spiritual. And so the years of boyhood passed, and Kenneth grew up

a great anxiety to his widowed mother. Sometimes he would leave home for

whole nights and days of rambling among the hills with other lads. He

was an immense favorite among his companions, and their chosen leader in

every wild exploit. Bold and frank and fearless he certainly was, and

possessed much of seeming unselfishness, but it was a quality of a very

different kind from that which his mother practised at home. Nobody

could wile so many trouts from the river as Kenneth; and nobody so

generously shared his basketful among his comrades. He knew every foot

of the Glen by heart, every lonely pass, each deceptive bog. He had set

his heart on being a gamekeeper, but his mother looked upon it as an

idle trade, and always hoped that he might yet show some leaning towards

another employment.

Alaster Dingwall was many years older than Kenneth, though a great

friendship sprang up between the two. Dingwall had been under-gamekeeper

at some distance from the Glen, but he had lost his situation, and

returned to lounge about the village, on the outlook for work. He

admired the bold, reckless young Kenneth, and the boy was greatly

attracted by his older companion, and felt flattered by his

appreciation. Kirsty noticed that the companionship only served to

foster Kenneth's idle habits, and she did all she could to discourage

it, but in vain.

One Sunday evening Kenneth had been induced to stay quietly indoors, and

sat reading to his mother, who was feeling intensely happy in having him

with her. But presently she heard a whistle outside, which she had

learned to know and dread, for she knew that it was a summons for her

boy to join his idle companions.

"That's Dingwall's whustle; I ken it fine. Dinna gang out til him,

Kenny--bide wi' me the nicht, my laddie. He'll no want ye for ony guid."

But the warning, "My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not,"

fell unheeded on the foolish Kenneth's ear, and a sorrowful reaping-time

for all after-life was the result of this brief sowing-time of folly.

"It's only for a bit o' a walk, mother. There's no ill," pleaded

Kenneth, as he hurriedly shut the book; and taking his bonnet, he

prepared to go out. "I'll no be long, mother," he added, as he went out

whistling, and Kirsty could hear through the clear frosty air his merry

laugh re-echoing among his companions, and stood listening to it at the

door of the cottage till the sound died away in the distance. Then the

mother went back to the empty room, and prayed for her son till the grey

morning broke, and still he did not return.

At last she crept away to bed, and in the morning she was awakened from

her troubled slumbers by a loud knocking. On opening the door, she saw

Kenneth standing, pale and haggard, with blood-besmeared clothes,

between two strange men. One of them stepped forward, and said to the

bewildered Kirsty--

"Sorry for it, missus; but this chap must go with me. Found a snare set

in the larch plantation yonder--all but caught him at it, in fact. It's

not the first offence, I'm thinking. There's been a deal of poaching

lately in the neighborhood; but we've caught the thief at last."

"Mother, I didna do it! I never set the snare! I didna even ken that it

was amang the grass!" gasped Kenneth, looking pleadingly at his mother,

as if he cared more that she should not think him guilty of the deed

than for the serious consequences which seemed to threaten him, whether

he was guilty or not. And his mother looked into his eyes and knew that

he was innocent, as indeed he was. He had been simply used as a tool by

his false friend.

Since he had been out of employment, Dingwall had gained his livelihood

by poaching. But, having reason to suspect at last that he was being

watched, he resolved to shift the suspicions on Kenneth by enlisting him

in the service, and offering him a share of the gains. He thought, too,

that if the offence were discovered, it was more likely to be lightly

treated if the offender were a mere boy, like Kenneth, so he resolved on

that evening to divulge the plan to his boy-friend, who, as yet, was

entirely ignorant of the way in which Dingwall gained a livelihood, and

little guessed on what mission he was being led into the larch

plantation.

Kenneth had seated himself on the lichen-spotted dyke to smoke, while

the more cautious, because guilty, Dingwall stood darkly by, having

slipped his pipe into his pocket long before they reached the wood. He

was pondering how he should best confide his secret to Kenneth, and was

about to propose that he would show him the snare which he had set,

when his keen eye detected traces of danger and discovery. He

immediately crept away in base silence to hide himself, and presently

his innocent boy-friend was seized by the emissaries of the law. Then

Kenneth understood that he had been betrayed; but he would not betray in

return. He simply asserted that he had not set the snare, and knew

nothing whatever about it.

"Come, come, now; that's all very fine--didn't do it, forsooth. Strange

place for a walk on a winter night--the larch plantation," said the man,

smiling sneeringly to his companion, as he listened to Kenneth assuring

his mother that he was innocent, while they stood at the cottage door.

"Come along with us. In the meantime," he continued, as he laid his hand

on Kenneth's arm to drag him away, "if you're able to prove that you

didn't do it, all the better for you, my boy, I can tell you."

Kenneth turned with a look of anguish to his mother, who stood gazing at

him with a face of marble. She asked no questions; it was no time for

reproaches then, and, somehow, Kenneth felt that she understood how it

had all happened, she looked so pitiful and so loving. When she saw that

the men were really going to take him away, she went and prepared him

some breakfast; but Kenneth said he could not eat, and turning to the

men, volunteered to accompany them at once. He looked cold and faint in

that chilly November morning: and just as he was starting, his mother

brought his father's plaid, and wrapped it tenderly round him, but she

did not utter a word.

"Come now, there must be no more coddling of this bird, old lady! Time's

valuable, and there isn't a minute to spare!" said the man roughly, as

he led the boy away.

When Kenneth had got beyond the garden gate, and was being hurried along

the highway by his jailer, he turned and looked with unutterable agony

and remorse toward his mother, who stood, stricken and desolate, at the

door of his home, which was to be blighted during so many years for his

sake.

A few weeks afterwards he was tried, and sentenced to a short term of

imprisonment. He had pleaded not guilty; but could not explain how he

came to be in the larch plantation at such an hour, and declined to give

any information concerning the real offender.

Kirsty knew him to be none other than Alaster Dingwall. In her anguish

she went to him, and implored that he would not sacrifice the innocent,

speaking burning words from the depths of her broken mother's heart; but

she only met with the sneering rejoinder that she would find some

difficulty in proving that he had anything to do with the matter.

And then the news came that the wretched boy had escaped from prison;

and from that day forward Kirsty heard nothing of her son. Seventeen

long years she sat at her lonely fireside, waiting, and hoping, and

praying! For a long time she left the door nightly open, in the hope

that he might at least come and visit her in the dark. But he never

came; and long ago Kirsty's deferred hope had changed itself into a

prayer, that wherever he might be roaming throughout the wide world,

they might meet in the home of God at last.

Sometimes, after a long night of prayer for her lost son, the mother

felt as if she heard a voice, saying, "I have seen his ways, and I will

heal him;" and she would begin the lonely day with lightened heart. And

now, at last, she had the joy of knowing from the lips of his dying wife

that the wanderer, who feared to come again to the Glen, and had sought

refuge for his blighted life in distant lands, had, at last, been led

unto the fold above, and had learnt to know the Shepherd's voice, and to

follow it in the midst of many earthly trials and hard experiences

through which he had to pass.

So this sorrowful night was mingled with great joy to Kirsty, as she

kept watch in the fir-wood. Morag felt sure that she must have much to

say to her unseen Friend, as she sat resting her head on her long thin

hand, and gazing into the red embers among the stones. The little girl

crouched silently by her side, often glancing at the tartan folds that

covered the weary sleeper below, and pondering over the events of this

strange afternoon.

And as she sat keeping vigil, there came to her memory the story of a

very sorrowful night, of which she had been reading with Kirsty only the

day before. It was the scene in the old garden of Gethsemane, where the

Lord Jesus Christ spent those terrible hours, "exceeding sorrowful even

unto death."

It was the first time that Morag had heard of it, and the hot tears of

pity stole down her face as she listened. Kirsty had looked up, and said

gently, as she laid her hand on her head, "Bairn, I dinna wonder though

ye greet. It was a sair dark nicht i' the history o' the warl'. But jist

ye read a bittie farther on, aboot how they garred Him tak' His ain

cross up the brae; the women grat for verra pity, and syne He turned

Himsel', and spak' til them, sayin', 'Daughters o' Jerooslem, weep no

for me, but for yersels and for yer children.'" And Morag thought that

she understood why Jesus was called the "Lamb of God, who taketh away

the sin of the world."

At last the chill grey morning light came stealing through the dark

green boughs and among the tall fir-trees. Presently the lonely watch

was broken by the arrival of messengers from the castle, bringing with

them every comfort which could be stowed away in a huge hamper.

"'Deed it's richt mindfu' o' the wee leddy o' the castle to sen' sic a

hantle o' things," said Kirsty, rising slowly to receive the servants.

"An' I'm thinkin' she left her bonnie white coatie yestreen to mak' a

safter heid for the puir lamb. Ye'll jist tak' it wi ye noo, gin it

please ye, sirs--and a' the ither things, forby. We dinna need them

here. Tell ye the wee leddy that the puir weary craeter she saw lyin'

sae low yestreen i' the fir-wood is awa this mornin' among the green

pasters and the still waters o' the Father's hoose, where there's nae

mair hunger, nor sorrow, nor cryin', for the auld things hae passed

awa."