Very curious “fun” it was. About a dozen young men and women, very respectable-looking, and wonderfully dressed, though the women had their muslin skirts pretty well draggled,—not surprising, considering the miles they had trudged over mountain and bog, in the damp dawn of the morning,—were dancing with all their might and main, the lassies with their feet, the lads with feet, heads, hands, tongues, snapping their fingers and crying “hech!” or whatever it was, in the most exciting manner. It was only excitement of dancing, however; none of them seemed the least drunk. They stopped a minute, at sight of the lady and child, and then went on again, dancing most determinedly, and as solemnly as if it were to save their lives, for the next quarter of an hour.
English Lizzie, who had never seen a Highland reel before, looked on with as much astonishment as Sunny herself. That small person, elevated in her mamma’s arms, gazed on the scene without a single smile; there being no music, the dance was to her merely a noise and a scuffle. Presently she said, gravely, “Now Sunny will go away.”
They went away, and after drinking a glass of milk,—oh, what delicious milk those Highland cows give!—they soon heard the distant paddles of the boat, as she steamed in between the many islands of which this sea is full.
Then mounting an extraordinary vehicle, which in the bill was called a “carridge,” they headed a procession, consisting of the wedding party walking sedately two and two, a young man and young woman arm in arm, down to the pier.
The married couple were put on board the boat (together with Sunny, her mamma, and her Lizzie, who all felt very small, and of no consequence whatever), then there was a great shouting and waving of handkerchiefs, and a spluttering and splattering of Gaelic good wishes, and the vessel sailed away.
By this time it was broad daylight, though no sun was visible. Indeed, the glorious sunrises seemed ended now; it was a gray, cheerless morning, and so misty that no mountains could be seen to take farewell of. The delicious Highland life was all gone by like a dream.
This homeward journey was over the same route that Sunny had travelled a fortnight before, and she went through it in much the same fashion.
She ran about the boat, and made friends with half a dozen people, for no kindly face is long a strange face to Little Sunshine. She was noticed even by the grim, weather-beaten captain (he had a lot of little people of his own, he said), only when he told her she was “a bonnie wee lassie,” she once more indignantly repelled the accusation.
“I’m not a bonnie wee lassie. I’m Sunny, mamma’s little Sunny,” repeated she, and would not look at him for at least two minutes.
She bore the various changes from sea-boat to canal-boat, etc., with her usual equanimity. At one place there was a great crush, and they got so squeezed up in a crowd that her mamma did not like it at all, but Sunny was perfectly composed, mamma’s arms being considered protection against anything. And when the nine locks came, she cheerfully disembarked, and walked along the towing-path for half a mile in the bravest manner. Gradually, as amusement began to fail her, she found several playfellows on board, a little dog tied by a string, and a pussy-cat shut up in a hamper, which formed part of the luggage of an unfortunate gentleman travelling to London with five daughters, six servants, and about fifty boxes,—for he was overheard counting them. In the long, weary transit between the canal-boat and the sea, Sunny followed this imprisoned cat, which mewed piteously; and in its sorrows she forgot her own.