Gibbie took her hand, and led her towards the path she had left; she yielded without a movement of question. But he did not lead her far in that direction; he turned to the left up the mountain. It grew wilder as they ascended. But the air was so thin and invigorating, the changes so curious and interesting, as now they skirted the edge of a precipitous rock, now scrambled up the steepest of paths by the help of the heather that nearly closed over it, and the reaction of relief from the terror she had suffered so exciting, that she never for a moment felt tired. Then they went down the side of a little burn—a torrent when the snow was dissolving, and even now a good stream, whose dance and song delighted her: it was the same, as she learned afterwards, to whose song under her window she listened every night in bed, trying in vain to make out the melted tune. Ever after she knew this, it seemed, as she listened, to come straight from the mountain to her window, with news of the stars and the heather and the sheep. They crossed the burn and climbed the opposite bank. Then Gibbie pointed, and there was the cottage, and there was Nicie coming up the path to it, with Oscar bounding before her! The dog was merry, but Nicie was weeping bitterly. They were a good way off, with another larger burn between; but Gibbie whistled, and Oscar came flying to him. Nicie looked up, gave a cry, and like a sheep to her lost lamb came running.
“Oh, missie!” she said, breathless, as she reached the opposite bank of the burn, and her tone had more than a touch of sorrowful reproach in it, “what garred ye rin awa?”
“There was a road, Nicie, and I thought you would come after me.”
“I was a muckle geese, missie; but eh! I’m glaid I hae gotten ye. Come awa an’ see my mither.”
“Yes, Nicie. We’ll tell her all about it. You see I haven’t got a mother to tell, so I will tell yours.”
From that hour Nicie’s mother was a mother to Ginny as well.
“Anither o’ ’s lambs to feed!” she said to herself.
If a woman be a mother she may have plenty of children.
Never before had Ginny spent such a happy day, drunk such milk as Crummie’s, or eaten such cakes as Janet’s. She saw no more of Gibbie: the moment she was safe, he and Oscar were off again to the sheep, for Robert was busy cutting peats that day, and Gibbie was in sole charge. Eager to know about him, Ginevra gathered all that Janet could tell of his story, and in return told the little she had seen of it, which was the one dreadful point.
“Is he a good boy, Mistress Grant?” she asked.