The children had a younger neighbour, though, a pale-faced, roll-shouldered boy who lived in the garret with his old mother, and used to play the fiddle on the street to support her. Very sweetly he did play, too, though his airs were very sad.
Little Peter, as he was called, used to come downstairs frequently to tea, and bring his fiddle. Well, the tea was almost an imaginary entertainment. It was a delightful sort of a make-belief. To be sure, there was bread and a scraping of butter, and thin, thin tea, with but little milk and less sugar; but then there were oyster-shells and round "chuckie-stanes" to take the place of cakes and currant-buns and all kinds of nice things. And with Maggie presiding in such a dignified and lady-like way, it was quite easy for Little Peter to imagine that an oyster-shell was a slice of delicious tea-cake, or a "chuckie-stane" a pasty.
Then there were really more laughing and fun at these make-believe tea-parties than if everything had been edible.
But that fiddle of Little Peter's was real. There was no mistake about the musical part of the entertainment. But when poor Mrs. Mackenzie fell ill, the sealskin-sack people came but seldom. It might be something catching, you know. The young minister was kind, however, though somewhat too solemn for a sick-room.
It would have been a sad and dreary time, then, for the little family but for their kindly neighbours. Poor Mrs. Malony, with her rough, red hand and her plain face, became a sort of a saint. She allowed Malony to take his "pick" of dinner out of doors, and made him always take Johnnie Greybreeks with him, and keep him all day—there were no Board schools in those days, you know. Malony had also to make his own cup of coffee when he returned at night, buying a polony and a roll on the way to eat with it. But Malony had his pipe, and took things very easy. How gentle Mrs. Malony was with the poor invalid; how softly she spread the bed and softened the hard, small pillows! Ah, it was indeed a treat to have her there. She was very plain-spoken, however. Here, for example, was a specimen of the kind of verbal comfort she used to give Mrs. Mackenzie:—
"An' sure, Mrs. Mackenzee, ye needn't be throublin' yourself aboot dyin' at all. For whin ye're dead and in the soilent grave, it's meself and Malony will be lookin' after the childer. Indade I'll bring thim up as me own, and it's the beautiful blacksmith that Johnnie will make; so niver be grievin', but die whin ye plaze wid an aisy mind, an' sure it's the angels will be waitin' for ye evermore."
Was it any wonder that as she listened to consolation like this, and her mind reverted to her father's beautiful home, or to her life with Donald in the wee cottage by the banks of the bonnie Clyde, tears stole down her pale cheeks? But then she would say to herself, "Oh, how ungrateful I am!" and so she would seize and press Mrs. Malony's kindly hand, and cry,—
"O dear Mrs. Malony, how good you are to me! I'm sure I don't deserve it."
"Is it good ye're sayin', Mrs. Mackenzee? Sure I need all me goodness. An' after all, isn't it the same you'd be doin' for me if I was sick and ill? There now, don't cry. Indade it's just as wake [weak] as a baby ye are."
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