Into the dark poor little Sunny had also to go; a drive of nine miles across country, through dusky glens, and coming out by loch sides, and under the shadow of great mountains, above whose tops the stars were shining. Only the stars, for there was no moon, and no lamps to the carriage; and the driver, when spoken to, explained—in slow Highland English, and in a mournful manner, evidently not understanding the half of what was said to him—that there were several miles farther to go, and several hills to climb yet; and that the horse was lame, and the road not as safe as it might be. A prospect which made the elders of the party not perfectly happy, as may well be imagined.
But the child was as merry as possible, though it was long past her tea-time and she had had no tea, and past bedtime, yet there was no bed to go to; she kept on chattering till it was quite dark, and then cuddled down, making “a baby” of her mamma’s hand,—a favourite amusement. And so she lay, the picture of peace, until the carriage stopped at the welcome door, and there stood a friendly group with two little boys in front of it. After eleven hours of travelling, Little Sunshine had reached a shelter at last!
CHAPTER VI.
Sunrise among the mountains. Who that has ever seen it can forget it? Sunny’s mamma never could.
Arriving here after dark, she knew no more of the place than the child did. But the first thing she did on waking next morning was to creep past the sofa where Sunny lay,—oh, so fast asleep! having had a good scream overnight, as was natural after all her fatigues,—steal cautiously to the window, and look out.
Such a sight! At the foot of a green slope, or sort of rough lawn, lay the little loch so often spoken of, upon which Sunny was to go a-fishing and catch big salmon with Maurice’s papa. Round it was a ring of mountains, so high that they seemed to shut out half the sky. These were reflected in the water, so solidly and with such a sharp, clear outline, that one could hardly believe it was only a reflection. Above their summit was one mass of deep rose-colour, and this also was repeated in the loch, so that you could not tell which was reddest, the water or the sky. Everything was perfectly still; not a ripple moved, not a leaf stirred, not a bird was awake. An altogether new and magic world.
Sunny was too much of a baby yet to care for sunrise, or, indeed, for anything just now, except a good long sleep, so her mamma let her sleep her fill; and when she woke at last she was as bright as a bird.
Long before she was dressed, she heard down-stairs the voices of the five little boys who were to be her companions. Their papa and mamma having no objection to their names being told, I give them, for they were five very pretty names: Maurice, Phil, Eddie, Franky, and Austin Thomas. The latter being the youngest, though by no means the smallest or thinnest, generally had his name in full, with variations, such as Austin Tummas, or Austin Tummacks. Maurice, too, was occasionally called Maurie,—but not often, being the eldest, you see.
He was seven, very small for his age, but with a face almost angelic in its delicate beauty. The first time Sunny saw him, a few months before, she had seemed quite fascinated by it, put her two hands on his shoulders, and finally held up her mouth to kiss him,—which she seldom does to any children, rather preferring “grown-ups,” as she calls them, for playfellows. She had talked ever since of Maurice, Maurice’s papa, Maurice’s boat, and especially of Maurice’s “little baby,” the only sister of the five boys. Yet when he came to greet her this morning, she was quite shy, and would not play with him or Eddie, or even Franky, who was nearer her own age; and when her mamma lifted up Austin Thomas, younger than herself but much bigger in every way, and petted him a little, this poor little woman fell into great despair.
“Don’t kiss him. I don’t want you to kiss Austin Thomas!” she cried, and the passion which can rise at times in her merry blue eyes rose now. She clung to her mamma, almost sobbing.