“The Christian Year says,” said Mysie, in her free, simple way:
”‘Thankful for all God takes away,
Humbled by all He gives—’
“That is what you meant, isn’t it?”
Arthur listened, half in admiration of Mysie’s goodness—he thought, as others like him have done, his lady-love so good—and half with the shyness of young manhood of devotional, apart from theological, language.
“Nothing so saintly, I fear, as that,” he said. “But I see what the last part means. What!”—as Mysie started and shrank up to him—“not afraid of cows, still, my little one!”
“N-o,” said Mysie, doubtfully, as half-a-dozen cows and a couple of woolly little calves turned out of a field, noisily and quickly. “No; it is very silly, and I am almost cured; but I did not expect them.”
Arthur put a protecting arm around her, very willing to forgive the fear that made her cling to him.
“Flossy does tease me so about it; but I shall always hate cows and strange dogs and guns,” said Mysie, in whom a sort of physical timidity contrasted strangely with her quiet self-possession in other ways.
“You must not walk by yourself if they frighten you, darling,” said Arthur; “but these are very harmless beasts. Come, here’s the garden-gate—and there’s Hugh. Tastes differ, but a herd of buffaloes would be a trifle; here goes!”
Mysie vanished, and Arthur advanced towards his cousin, into whose ears Mrs Crichton had already poured the whole story.