Book First.
IN PIPING TIMES OF PEACE.
CHAPTER I.
WEE JOHNNIE GREYBREEKS.
It was what is called a real old-fashioned Yuletide. The snow had been falling, falling, falling all day long; it had begun at grey daylight in the morning, in little pellets like millet seed, which lay white and unmelted on the frozen pavements. But as the hours went by, these were changed for flakes as big and broad as butterflies' wings, that fell fast and "eident" all the day; and that night the more aristocratic thoroughfares of Glasgow were as silent as a city of the dead.
Not that they were deserted by any means, for passengers flitted about in garments draped with snow, and snow-laden cabs drove past, but not a sound could be heard from hoof of horse or foot of man.
It was not cold, however. There was no high wind to powder the flakes or grind them into ice-dust, or raise wreaths along the pathways; and so pure was the air, that but to breathe it for a little while was to purify every drop of blood in one's body from heart to head and heels, to heighten the vital flame, and to make one feel as happy and contented as one should ever be about a Christmas time.
From the windows of many a beautiful villa in this picture of a winter's night there shone, directly out upon the snow-clad lawns and ghost-like bushes, the ruddy light of cosily-furnished rooms, where rosy children romped and played, while around the fire sat their elders, "doucely" talking about the days of "auld lang syne."
One room in a villa of larger size and more pretentious architecture than its fellows looked particularly bright and cheerful. It was tastefully furnished, and here and there in corners stood tall lamps with coloured shades, while in the centre was placed a lordly Christmas tree. No wonder that the ring of prettily-attired children around gazed with admiration on this masterpiece of decoration. It was indeed very beautiful, its green and spreading branches laden with light and the sunshine of a hundred toys.
But listen! the music of a piano and harp strikes up, and now the children, big and little, join hands and go daftly dancing round the tree. Till one wee toddler tumbles; then the ring is broken, and half a dozen at least are piled on top of her. The very house seems to shake now with the sound of mirth and laughter, the shrill treble of the youngsters receiving a deep and hearty bass in the voices of two jolly-looking elderly gentlemen, who are standing on the hearth with their backs to the fire.
But once again the ring is formed, once again the music that had been partially interrupted is heard, and once again the children dance jubilantly round, madder and wilder now than ever, singing,—