“Then I’ll kipper for you, Mither, as long as we both live. The hill is now o’er much for you—and the noisy women, and skirling bairns! Christine will go to Mother’s shed, and Mother will bide at hame, and red up the house, and have a cup of tea ready for hungry folk, as they come weary hame.”
And Margot let it go at that, but she was as she said, “dowie and despondent.” Ruleson begged her to go with him to Edinburgh, and get the advice of a good physician, but Margot would not listen to any entreaty.
“I’ll no do any such thing,” she answered. “Not likely! The Domine can gie the pain a setback, and if God wants me here, He’ll keep me here, sick or well, and if He doesna want me here, I’m willing to go where He does want me.” From this position Margot was not movable, and now that the herring fishing was over, there did not appear to be any reason for making her restless and unhappy. So she naturally drifted into that household position, where everyone took care not to tire, and not to vex, grandmother.
One morning in the early days of October, Christine was sitting sewing, and Margot was making shortcake. They had been talking of Neil and wondering where he was.
“I’m thinking it is whole o’ a month, since we heard from the lad,” said Margot.
“I dare say it’s mair, Mother; and that letter was from some strange French seaside place, and he was thinking that they wouldna stay there very long. He has mebbe gane further awa’ than France.”
“I wouldn’t wonder—setting a young man traveling is like setting a ball rolling down a hill. Baith o’ them are hard to turn back.”
Margot had scarcely finished speaking, when Sam Brodie opened the door. He had been to the town post office and seen, in the list of uncalled-for letters, a letter addressed to Christine, so he had brought it along. It proved to be from Neil, and had been posted in Rome. Christine was familiar with that postmark, and it still had power at least to raise her curiosity. Neil’s handwriting, however, spoke for itself, and before she broke the seal, she said, “Why, Mither! It is from Neil.”
“I thought that, as soon as Sam came in. I was dreaming of a letter from Neil, last night. I dinna dream for naething. Make haste with the news—good or bad—read it all. I want to hear the warst of it.” Then Christine read aloud the following letter: