Then the women set him in a big chair, and admired and loved him from head to feet—his fair hair, his wonderful eyes, his little hands so white and thin—his wee feet in their neat, well-fitting shoes—his dress so good and so becoming—this new bairn of theirs was altogether an unusual one in Culraine.
Ruleson quickly made himself comfortable in his usual house dress. Christine began to set the table for their evening meal, and Margot buttered the hot scones and infused the tea. This meal had a certain air of festivity about it, and the guest of honor was the little child sitting at Ruleson’s right hand.
They had scarcely begun the meal, when there was a knock at the door, and to Margot’s cheerful “Come in, friend,” Dr. Trenabie entered.
“Blessing on this house!” he said reverently, and then he walked straight to the child, and looked earnestly into his face. The boy looked steadily back at him, and as he did so he smiled, and held up his arms. Then the Domine stooped and kissed him, and the thin, weak arms clasped him round the neck.
It was a tender, silent moment. The man’s eyes were misty with tears, and his voice had a new tone 130 in it as he said, “Ruleson, this little lad is mine, as well as yours. I have been spoken to. Through him we shall all be greatly blessed, and we shall yet see a grand preacher come out of the boats and the fisherman’s cottage.”
There was a few moments’ silence, and then Margot said, “Take your sitting, Sir, and a cup o’ tea will do you mair gude than doing without it.”
“I’ll sit down gladly.” Then they talked of the child’s extreme weakness and nervousness, and the Domine said that with plenty of fresh milk, and fresh fish, and with all the fresh air he could breathe, and all the sleep he could shut his eyes for, the little one would soon be well. “Then Christine,” he said, “must give him his first lessons. After they have been learned, it will be joy of Magnus Trenabie to see him safe through school and college. Give me so much interest in the boy, Ruleson, for he is called and chosen, and we have in our hands the making of a Man of God.”
Later in the evening, when the school affairs had been discussed and the boy and Christine had disappeared, the Domine was told the few sad incidents which made up the whole life of little James Ruleson. There was a strong tendency on his grandfather’s part to make excuses for the mother of the neglected boy. “You see, Domine,” he said, “she has never been sick, and her ither children are as rugged as hersel’. She couldna understand 131 James. She didna ken what to do wi’ him, or for him.”
“I know, Ruleson, but physical pride is as real a sin as spiritual pride, and is the cause of much suffering and unhappiness. My own father was one of those bronze men, who thought weakness to be cowardice, and sickness to be mostly imagination. His children were all weak and sensitive, but he insisted on our roughing it. Fagging and hazing were good for us, he enjoyed them. Bodily strain and mental cram were healthy hardening processes. I had a little sister, she was weak and fearful, he insisted on her taking the cold water cure. Nerves were all nonsense! ‘Look at me!’ he would say proudly, ‘I get up early, I work all day, I know nothing about headaches, or neuralgia, or nerves’—In the world he passed for a genial, hearty man.”
“We hae plenty o’ such unfeeling fellows,” said Ruleson. “I dinna fret, when they hae a hard spell o’ rheumatism. Not I!”