“Did you think I wad throw them awa’? All our lads grew quick, they ne’er wore out a suit, and I put their wee breeks and coaties awa’. I thought they might come in for their ain bairns, and lo and behold! Allan’s little lad is, like as not, to come into his feyther’s Sunday raiment.”
“Did you save their shirts and such like?”
“Why wouldn’t I? But vera few linen things are left. They were too easy to wear and tear, to be long-lived, but I fancy I can find a sleeping gown for the bairn, and maybe a shirt or twa. But stockings are beyond mention. They got them into unmendable holes, and left them in the boats, or the 125 fish sheds, and I fairly wore my knitting needles awa’ knitting for lads wha wouldna use their feet ony way but skin-bare.”
So the grandmother went to find what clothes she could for a little lad of eight years old, and Christine sat down to answer Neil’s last letter. To herself she called it an “overflowing screed.” Indeed it was full of the great Reginald Rath, his fine family, his comfortable wealth, his sister, Roberta, and her highly respectable house in the Monteith Row o’erby the Green of Glasgow City. Christine told him in reply that she was glad he had found a friend so conformable to all his wishes. She asked him if he had heard lately from Angus Ballister, and casually mentioned that the Domine had received ten days ago a letter from the Colonel about the school building, and that Angus had sent her some bonnie pictures of the city of Rome. She also informed him that his nephew was coming to Culraine, and that she herself was going to take the charge of him, and so might not have time to write as often as she had done.
In the afternoon Faith came from the village to help with the nets a-mending, and she brought the village gossip with her, and among the news of all kinds, the date of her own marriage. She was going to wed the Largo man on Christmas Day, and she had forgotten her loneliness and melancholy, and laughed and joked pleasantly, as she went over her plans with Christine. Margot watched her, and 126 listened to her with great interest, and when at sunset the lassie went down the hill, she said to Christine: “Wonders never cease. Faith Balcarry was moping melancholy, she is now as merry as a cricket. She was sick and going to die, she’s now well and going to marry. She had nane to love her, and nane she loved. Her whole talk now is o’ the Largo man, and the wonderfu’ love he has for her, and the untelling love she has for him. Weel! Weel! I hae learned ane thing this afternoon.”
“What hae you learned, Mither?”
“I hae learned, that when a lass is dying wi’ a sair affliction, that there is parfect salvation in a lad.”
It was the evening of the third day ere James Ruleson returned home. He had met no difficulties with Mrs. Allan Ruleson that were not easily removed by the gift of a sovereign. And he found the little lad quietly but anxiously waiting for him. “My feyther whispered to me that you would come,” he said softly, as he snuggled into James’ capacious breast. “I was watching for you, I thought I could hear your footsteps, after twelve o’clock today they were coming nearer, and nearer—when you chappit at the door, I knew it was you—Grandfeyther!” And James held the child tighter and closer in his arms, and softly stroked the white, thin face that was pressed against his heart.
“I’m going to tak’ you hame to your grandmither, and your aunt Christine,” James whispered to the 127 boy. “You are going to get well and strong, and big, and learn how to read and write and play, yoursel’, like ither bairns.”
“How soon? How soon?”