Yes, it was indeed a day to raise the spirits of any one possessed of a soul, and that is just one thing that Mackenzie had, and a very sensitive one too. Not that he was ever much cast down, even in the gloomiest or murkiest of weather, but when the sun glinted in silver radiance off the river that went singing past the old-fashioned manse, with its old-fashioned front garden, and its gate-posts made out of a whale’s jaw-bones;—when the sun was bright, I say, and warm balmy western winds were blowing, then, whether in his study or out of doors, Mackenzie could no more help singing than could the mavis on the lawn, or the starling on the one solitary poplar-tree.
Mac’s life was not a very busy one. He bothered himself far less in visiting even his sick parishioners, and praying with them or talking good things to them, than English parsons invariably do; for most of this sort of thing he could with confidence leave the honest elders of his kirk to perform. But on this particular morning it happened that one of those very elders was lying ill and must be visited. So soon after breakfast, Mac had ordered out the Shetland pony and the little four-wheel trap.
Few who have not seen these ponies in their own wild homes in Shetland, the sea-girdled peat-mosses of the Northern seas, nor seen them in the Highlands of Aberdeenshire, which county seems congenial to the development of their health and powers, could believe the strength they are able at times to put forth, and the self-willed determination they exhibit when they take an idea into their hirsute little noddles.
Larnie, the minister’s pony, was no exception. But indeed he never had been thoroughly broken, since bought for a five-pound note out of a drove at Alford market. Stuart, the minister’s orra man, or, in plain English, man-of-all-work, had pretended to break in the beastie, but Stuart hadn’t really done anything of the kind, and Mackenzie himself was easy-going and far too apt to take things for granted.
But soon Larnie with his little trap was on the gravel in front of the porch, and looking full of life and spirit, despite the fact that Stuart held him not only by the bridle but by the snout as well; and the little animal casting sharp sidelong glances towards the house, kept scraping up the gravel as if impatient to be off.
“Maggie May! Maggie May! are ye coming?” shouted the minister as he strolled out. “It’s a heavenly morning, my lassie.”
Maggie May had appeared in the porch for just a moment in answer to the summons.
A sweet-faced girl of little over twelve, but tall for her years, with blue eyes, an intelligent face, and a wealth of brown hair flowing loose over her shoulders. A slight shade of sadness seemed natural to her, but rather increased than detracted from her singular beauty.
But a smile lit up that bonnie face of hers when she went to smooth and cuddle Larnie.
“Come,” Larnie appeared to say, if ponies’ eyes can speak, “kissing is all very well, but I want some more substantial proof of the affection you pretend to have for me.”