“Surely ye’ll no be minding on my bits o’ scones, Missy?” inquired Mrs. Macbean graciously. “The likes o’ you lassies I never did see! Weel, I’ve nae doot I can obleege ye; and ye’ll likely no refuse a whang o’ the cream cheese that the fairm-wife sent till the maister this morning. Come awa’ wi’ ye, Missies, ben the ither room, and I’ll bring the dishes in. It’s one o’clock—late eneuch for bairns.”
Elizabeth bustled away, secretly well pleased that it was once more her lot to wait on gentlefolk. Perhaps there was in the peasant woman’s nature a strain of sympathy which, if it made her jealous for her “maister’s” rights and dignity, was no less capable of appreciating the trouble which had fallen on Jim’s “fine leddy mither and sister”.
The girls ran upstairs to wash their dusty hands, and chased each other down again amid peals of laughter, which brought indulgent smiles to Mrs. Macbean’s face and sent her with good-will to her serving.
“Fancy dining in Jim’s den!” laughed Frances, pausing at the door. “We shall need to use the sitting-room for meals, I suppose, when we’ve a proper table there. I’m glad we’re going in here to-day. It’s a lovely place, Florry,—all shelves and saw-dust, and dear little saws and hammers and things. Don’t you like a carpenter’s shop? I do. I always envied the boy Altruists—”
Frances, having by this time led the way into “Jim’s den”, stood just beyond the threshold, too absolutely surprised at what she now saw to remember after what fashion she had envied the boys. The room had undergone a transformation. The walls had been freshly covered with a pretty paper; the wide, latticed windows had been hung with dainty Madras muslin, with sage-green draperies at either side to be drawn across at night. The carpet was of the same soft tint, and so were the furnishings of two or three wicker chairs placed at cosy points. The deep window-seat held a couple of big cushions of yellow silk, and was thickly padded, and covered to match the chairs. On a table close to the window stood the Altruist work-basket. Most of the shelves which Frances had admired still ran along the walls, and on them were neatly ranged, not the paraphernalia of handicrafts, but the many special possessions of Frances and Austin. Their own treasured volumes filled two plain book-cases, whence had been banished the hoarded sum of Jim’s library.
Before her eyes had taken in half the details, Frances turned to Florry and exclaimed impetuously: “Oh, what made him do this? How could he? Jim has given up his den to us!”
“He is a brick!” said Florry heartily. “Now you know where your things are going, Frances. I believe they are all here. There’s your mother’s Christmas present”—Florry pointed to the desk on a side-table spread with the children’s writing materials. “There’s your easel, and your paint-boxes are on the shelf close at hand. What’s behind that inviting-looking curtain hung between those two shelves?”
“Austin’s photographic things,” replied Frances, peeping; “here are his cameras, plates, papers, chemicals, and everything. He is to use the bath-room for developing; he has been covering the window with red stuff. Fancy a bath-room in a cottage like this! Jim’s grandfather built it out at the back.”
“Austin will be very much obliged to him.”
“Florry,” said Frances, a troubled look in her eyes, “I don’t think Austin and I ought to take this room from Jim. He cannot possibly have anywhere else to go. I think I will just find my way to the smithy this very moment, and talk to him about it.”