"This young gentleman is his grandson, Madam; and little good he doth Mr. Philip, I fear. If he were a wee bit more like his grandsire, I would be fain. Howbeit, grace goeth not by inheritance, as I know. He was a very kindly gentleman, Madam, this old minister; and when he had sat a while ben with Mr. Francis and Miss Magdalene, he oft would say, 'Now let me go but and speak unto the Leslies.' And one day—ah! that day!—when Roswith was very ill, I asked of him the thing which did exercise me. And he said unto me, gently and kindly, holding mine hand in his quavering hand, for he was a very ancient gentleman,—'Dear child,' quoth he, 'dost thou know so little thy Father? Thou mindest me of my little son,' saith he, 'when the fire brake out in mine house. When I hasted up into his chamber, which was above the chamber a-fire, and tare the blankets from his bed, and haled him thence somewhat roughly, the bairn greet, and asked of me what made me so angry.' Well, I could not choose but smile to think of the babe's blunder; and he saith, 'I see thou canst understand that. Why, dear child,' quoth he, 'thou art about just the same blunder as my bairn. Thy Father sendeth a messenger in haste to fetch thy soul home to Him; and lo! "Father," sayest thou, "why art thou so angry?" We are all little children,' quoth he, 'and are apt to think our Father is angry when He is but short with us because of danger. And dost thou think, lassie,' he said, 'that they which saw the face of God first thing after that storm, rebuked Him because He had fetched them thither by water?' So then I saw mine error."
"Did this old gentleman teach you a great deal, Patient? I keep wondering whence you have all the things you say to me. I don't think such things as you do; and even Cicely Aggett, who is some twenty years older than you, does not seem to know half so much about God as you do. Where do you get your thoughts and your knowledge?"
"Where the Lord doth mostly teach His children, Madam—'by the rivers of Babylon, where I sat down and wept.'[[18]] I think he that beareth the precious seed commonly goeth forth weeping,[[19]] for we cannot enter into the troubles and perplexities of others which have known none ourselves. And if it behoved Him in all things to be made like unto His brethren, that He might be a merciful and faithful High Priest,[[20]] who are we that we should grudge to be made like unto our brethren likewise? That is a deep word, Madam,—'Though He were a Son, yet learned He obedience by the things which He suffered.'[[21]] I have not got half down to the bottom of it yet. But for the matter of that, I am but just hoeing at the top of all Scripture, and scarce delving any depth."
"Well, Patient," said Celia, with a perplexed, melancholy air, "if you think you are but hoeing on the surface, what am I doing?"
"My dear bairn—I ask your pardon, Madam," corrected Patient.
"Don't ask it, Patient," replied Celia, softly; "I like that—it sounds as if somebody loved me."
"Eh, lassie!" said Patient, suddenly losing all her conventionality, and much of her English, "did ye no think I loved Miss Magdalene's bairn? I was the first that ever fed you, that ever dressed you, that ever bare you about. I was just fon' on you when you were a bit baby." Patient's voice became suddenly tremulous, and ceased.
Celia rose from her chair, and kneeling down by Patient's side, threw her arms round her neck and kissed her. Patient held her tight for a moment.
"The Lord bless you, my ain lassie!" she faltered, "You are just that Miss Magdalene o'er again—her ain brown eyes, and her smile, and her soft bit mou'! The Lord bless you!"
Celia resumed her seat, and Patient her calm, respectful tone; but the former understood the latter a great deal better after that episode, and never forgot what a wealth of love lay hidden under that quiet manner and somewhat stiff address.