“Ay, lad, put on ’ee clothes and come down.”
David had not taken off his clothes, and therefore had not to put them on. He instantly descended the narrow stairs and stood before his grandmother.
“I never knew ’ee to dress so quick, lad,” she said.
“That was because I was not undressed. What can I do first, granny?”
“Ay, indeed! ’Ee’s been sitting up all night! It was a useless loss of rest, Davie, but well meant. Take ’eeself off now to the shed and bring in some wood, lad.”
The young man went out to do her bidding, and soon returned with an armful of brown hickory logs, which he laid upon the fire.
Then he took the tea-kettle out and filled it from the cistern and brought it back and hung it over the blaze.
Every movement of the old woman and the young man was made quietly and noiselessly, so as not to disturb the calm sleeper, who as yet gave no signs of waking.
“Now, lad, I’ll leave ’ee here to watch the kettle. Take it off as soon as it boils, and don’t forget to turn the johnny cake,” said Dame Lindsay, as she took her fresh sweet pail and went out to milk the cow, a duty she would never allow David to do for her. Indeed, the act of setting a man or boy to milk would have shocked her ideas of the fitness of things. She would have thought it an insult to the cow.
When she had closed the door behind her, David Lindsay gave a glance to the fireplace, to see that all was right there, and then he went on tiptoe to the side of the bed and gazed reverently on “the sleeping beauty.”