"What did you say about your father?" my uncle asked involuntarily,
looking up impulsively from his plate. Now, uncle was a gentleman, if
ever one was born, but this intimation fairly swept him off his feet.
"You were speaking about your father, were you not?" he amended,
thinking the question more delicate in this form.
"Yes," said Mr. Laird, evidently quite unconscious of having caused a
sensation. "I was saying my father is a shepherd. He takes care,
along with other herds, of the gentlemen's flocks in Scotland--in
Midlothian. The shepherd gets so many sheep for himself each
year--that's part of his hire, you see."
"Yes, yes, I see," rejoined my uncle. "Have some more of the
ice-cream, Mr. Laird. Washington, pass the ice-cream to the
gentleman." It was funny, had it not been so real, to see uncle's
consternation. This was something new to my patrician relative.
"Do let me help you to a little more of this chocolate cake," broke in
my aunt.
"And your coffee cup is empty," added my mother. Both showed the
sudden perturbation that had laid hold of uncle, for which the only
outlet was this sudden freshet of hospitality.
"No, thank you," our guest answered quietly, "I've had quite
enough--you Southerners would soon kill a man with kindness. Yes," he
went on, resuming the interrupted theme, "the catechism goes well with
the shepherd's crook; if there's any one calling in the world that's
been productive of plain living and high thinking, it's the shepherd's."
"Half of that programme appeals to me," laughed Charlie Giddens,
helping himself generously to the chocolate cake. "I'm afraid I'd make
a poor shepherd." Charlie seemed unable to keep his eyes from Mr.
Laird's face; this candour of biography was quite beyond him.
"But it's a fact," our Scotch visitor went on quite earnestly; "it's
wonderful the difference there has been, as a class, between the
shepherds and the ploughmen, in Scotland. The shepherds have been so
much superior; their eyes were constantly lifted to the hills, you see,
and the others had to keep theirs on the ground. Besides, their work
developed a sense of responsibility--and it took a tender man to make a
good shepherd. Oh, yes, the shepherds of Scotland have been a noble
race of men."
"And your father is still living in Scotland?" enquired my mother from
across the table.
"Yes," he answered; "yes, he's still living."
"That's a phase of life we haven't been privileged to see," my uncle
remarked, concluding quite a lengthy silence; "indeed, we haven't seen
anything of your Scottish life at all. I have often thought I'd love
especially to see Edinburgh."
"I'd sooner see the shepherds on the hills," cried I. "I'd love to see
the heather--and the mists rolling back over the mountains, like I've
read about in Scott."
"Have you never been to the old world, Miss Helen?" our guest enquired
of me.
"No, never," I replied; "I've never been from under the stars and
stripes."
"But she's contemplating a European trip, Mr. Laird," Mr. Giddens broke
in, looking very knowingly at me.
"Yes," chimed my mother, a playful smile lurking about her mouth,
"perhaps you'll meet over there before very long."
Mr. Laird turned and looked at me. I know my face betrayed me. But if
he put two and two together he didn't give us the result. "I hope
you'll bring your mother with you when you come," was all he said.
"But Mrs. Randall's a poor sailor," quoth Charlie Giddens.
"So am I," was my remark.
"Then you must choose a fair-weather season for your voyage," pressed
Charlie, maintaining an excellent gravity.
"But you can't always tell," said I. "Often the storms don't come till
you get out to sea."