A most intelligent child, and always cheerful and full of merriness and life.
Phœbe thought there was no one in all the wide, wide world half so clever, so brave and handsome, as her brother Barclay, and the boy fully reciprocated the fondness she bestowed upon him.
Well, as soon as supper was over Barclay got a footstool and sat down by the fireside by his mother’s knees. Phœbe squatted on the hearthrug beside the great honest-faced tabby. Then the lad told them all about his adventure in the old windmill. He told his little story graphically, and embellished it almost theatrically, but he spoke nothing but the truth.
When he finished by saying that he was going to meet the little man next day at twelve, a shade of uneasiness spread over Mrs. Stuart’s face.
“I think, Barc,” she said, “you had better not go. Who can tell what this strange being may be?”
“Oh, he’s not a ghost anyhow, mother. His hand is as hard as yours or mine, and you could run right through a ghost, you know.”
“No, boy, I didn’t mean that he might be a ghost, but he may be some evil man.”
“Oh no, mother. He was so, so kind and gentle, and besides, I promised.”
“Well, dear boy, if you did promise, you must go, and I know you’ll take care of yourself. Now, Priscilla, if you’ll bring the Book we’ll have prayers.”
They were a very simple family this—would there were more like them. Evening prayers are, I fear me, much neglected in England and in Lowland Scotland, though far away in the wild Scottish Highlands and Islands every night you may hear the hymn of praise rising skywards, as rises the blue peat-smoke from the humble cottars’ huts. Heigh-ho! I fear that as a nation we are not so good as we used to be.