When mother and son left the Stuart home for the Eastville packet steamer, Helena whispered to Don in parting, “We are charmed with your mother. She is a most delightful lady and you must take good care of her, and ... keep up your attentions to our mutual friend. ‘Faint heart’ ... you know. Au revoir!”
Eastville greeted the McKenzies next morning in most auspicious weather, with a blue sky, smooth sea, and clear autumn sunshine, and as they passed inside the Capes, Donald pointed out the various landmarks. “And there’s the spot, Mater, where we’ll build our house later on ... in that hollow among the spruce trees just back of the head-land. You get a magnificent view of the sea and harbor from there, and the hollow faces the south and is sheltered from the cold winds. The sun shines there all day long ... it’s a lovely spot.” And he rambled on, until at last they were on the wharf and shaking hands with Judson Nickerson.
“Come along up to the house, Mrs. McKenzie,” he said cordially. “We’ll have breakfast there. Your trunks will be sent up to your own place—don’t worry about them. I’m glad to see you both safely landed here.” And he chattered away in an effort to make both feel that they were at home and among friends.
Breakfast at the Nickerson home that morning was an event, and Janet McKenzie was most cordially received. The old ship-builder’s voice boomed in welcome, and his keen eyes beamed hospitably through his steel-rimmed glasses, and Mrs. Nickerson and Ruth charmed the mother with their courtesy and kindness. They had been up to the cottage the day before and had fixed it all ready for occupancy, and Jud had piled the wood-shed with kindling and stove-wood. And the breakfast itself was a thing to be remembered. Corn meal porridge and hot corn cake, fried fresh mackerel and bacon strips and hash brown potatoes, new-baked biscuits, honey, stewed blueberries and delicious coffee—a typical Down-east matutinal meal! Mrs. McKenzie was delighted with everything, and with a heart aglow with happiness, confided to her son, “I’m sure I’ll love this place. Your friends are so kind. What lovely people they are. I’m very, very happy, Donald-laddie, now that I have a home and you!”
And when he took his mother up to the cottage on the hill—Shelter Harbor—that was a joyous occasion. “This is our little place, Mater,” he said proudly as they walked, arm in arm, up the front path. “It’s small, but it’s cosy.” He opened the door and ushered her in, and when she surveyed the clean and homey interior, he waited, almost breathlessly for her comments. From room to room they went, and when every part of the place had been examined, Mrs. McKenzie sat down in a chair and with eyes glowing, said with excess of happiness in her voice, “My! ... it’s just lovely, Donny-dear! Just perfect!” And Donald felt, with her pronouncement, that life was indeed sweet and everything was worth while. “Of course, Mater, it isn’t anything like our old villa in Glasgow, but it’s not too bad,” he went on. “Here’s the stove for heating the place—you’ll have to get used to these Canadian heaters—and the pump is just at the kitchen door. It’ll be a little hard for you here while I’m at sea, as you’ll have to get your wood out of the shed and your water from the pump—”
The mother laughed. “And you think that is a hardship? Why, my dear child, I was brought up on a farm and I had to do a great deal harder work than that. I cleaned stables, planted and pulled potatoes in the fields, milked cows, and gathered hay and oats and stacked them. I was born a poor country girl and know what work is. Don’t you worry about me in this cosy little place. It’s paradise compared with what I’ve had to do.” By these admissions, Janet McKenzie showed that she had profited by misfortune and the old arrogance and “high-falutin’” ideas of palmier days had passed away. She, too, had gone through the mill and come out ground!
The Nickersons had invited them to stay with them for a day or two, but Janet courteously declined. She was eager to get into her own home, and within a half-hour of her entry, she had the kitchen stove alight, the kettle on, and a dinner under way, and Donald busied himself stacking up fire-wood in the wood-box behind the stove. “We must have some chickens,” observed the mother as she peeled potatoes, “and next spring I’ll plant a vegetable garden so that we can have our own potatoes, onions, cabbages and such. Maybe, later on, we can buy a cow, and I’ll make butter and I’ll be able to give you real cream, and butter made with my own hands.”
Donald made a negative gesture. “That’s very nice, Mater, but a cow means hard work for you. I don’t want you to slave—”