“Is she big as me?” asked the little girl, all unmindful that Sandy’s child mate had had many years in which to grow.
A moment the old man hesitated, then, very gently, he told the child upon his knee of that other child away in bonnie Scotland; told her that when his little mate was a child, he had been a child too; that he had known her all his young life; that she had grown old as he had, and now—but here he paused, and practical little Prue, looking up at him, asked, “Is it far to Scotland?” Sandy told her that it was very far indeed.
“Too far to send letters?” was the next question.
“No,” he assured her; “it was not as far as that.”
“Then why don’t you send the little girl a letter?” questioned Prue.
Those who had heard the question were fearful that the old Scotchman would be displeased.
For a moment a look of amazement rested on Sandy’s face as he stared at the innocent questioner; then, as with an effort, he said, “I will, little lass, I will.”
“I would,” said little Prue, “and tell her there’s another little girl, what you know, sends her love to her, will you, Sandy?”
“Bless the bairn! Ye hae mair wisdom than ye ken;” adding under his breath, “a deal mair wisdom than Sandy McLeod.”
It was Helen, who, while walking by his house, had heard Sandy playing the pipes ever so softly, and looking in, had seen him playing, and, at the same time, looking lovingly at the old Scotch costume as it lay spread out upon the wooden chest in which it was usually kept. She had coaxed a part of his story from him that day, and he had declared he felt better for the telling.