“Ay, it is a very bonny shilling, dear,” said she, kissing him, and casting a parting look at the petrified fisher.
“Mamma, mamma!” repeated Lindsey to himself an hundred times, trying it with every modulation of his voice. “This is the most extraordinary circumstance I ever witnessed. Now, who in the world can comprehend that thing called woman?—Who would not have sworn that that rural beauty there was the most pure, innocent, and untainted of her sex?—And yet, behold! she has a fine boy running at her side, and calling her mamma!—Poor girl, is she not to be pitied?—When one thinks how some tender parent might rejoice over her, anticipating so much better things of her! It is plain she has been very indifferently used by the world—most cruelly used—and is she the less interesting on that account? I wish I knew how to make her some amends.”
Thus reasoned our moral fisher with himself, keeping all the while a sidelong glance towards her, till he saw her enter a little neat white-washed cottage not far from the side of the stream; there were sundry other houses inhabited by cottagers in the hamlet, and the farm-house stood at the head of the cluster. The ground belonged to Lindsey, and the farmer was a quiet sober man, a widower, with a large family. Lindsey now went up the water a-fishing every day; and though he often hovered a considerable while at the washing-pool, and about the crook opposite to the cot, pretending all the while to be extremely busy fishing, he could never get another sight of the lovely Wool-gatherer, though he desired it above all present earthly things; for, some way or other, he felt that he pitied her exceedingly; and though he was not greatly interested in her, yet he was very much so in the child—he was certain it was the child that interested him so much—nevertheless, he was sorry too on account of the mother, for she seemed very gentle, and very amiable, and must have been abominably used; and therefore he could not help feeling very sorry for her indeed, as well as deeply interested in the child. On the second and third day that he went up, little George came out paddling to meet him at the water side, on which he always sent him in again with a fish in one hand, and some little present in the other; but after that, he appeared no more, which Lindsey easily perceived to originate in the Wool-gatherer’s diffidence and modesty, who could not bear the idea of her little man receiving such gifts.
The same course was continued for many days, and always with the same success, as far as regarded the principal motive, for the trouts were only a secondary one—the beauteous Wool-gatherer was thenceforward invisible. After three weeks perseverance, it chanced to come on a heavy rain one day when he was but a little way above the farm-house. Robin the farmer, expecting that he would fly into his house until the shower abated, was standing without his own door to receive him; but he kept aloof, passed by, and took shelter in the Wool-gatherer’s cottage; though not without some scruples of conscience as to the prudence of the step he was taking. When he went in she was singing a melodious Scotch air, and plying at her wheel. “What a thoughtless creature she must be,” said he to himself; “and how little conscious of the state to which she has fallen.” He desired her to go on with her song, but she quitted both that and her wheel instantly, set a chair for him, and sitting down on a low form herself, lighted sticks on the fire to warm and dry him, at the same time speaking and looking with the utmost cheerfulness, and behaving with all that ease and respect as if she had been his equal, and an old intimate acquaintance. He had a heart of the greatest integrity, and this was the very manner that delighted him; and indeed he felt that he was delighted in the highest degree by this fair mystery. He would gladly have learned her story, but durst not hint at such a thing for fear of giving her pain, and he had too much delicacy to enquire after her at any other person, or even to mention her name. He observed that though there was but little furniture in the house, yet it was not in the least degree like any other he had ever seen in such a cottage, and seemed very lately to have occupied a more respectable situation. Little George was mounching at a lump of dry bread, making very slow progress. He kept his eyes fixed on his benefactor, but said nothing for a considerable time, till at length he observed him sitting silent as in pleasing contemplation; he then came forward with a bounce upon his knee, and smiled up in his face, as much as to say, “You are not minding little George?”
“Ah, my dear little fellow, are you there? Will you have a muckle shilling of me to-day?”
“Na, na; be vely solly. Mamma quite angly. She scold me.”
“Well, but since you have never come to help me to catch the fish for so long a time, I will only give you a very little one to-day.”
“Dear sir, if you would not distress me, don’t mind him; he is a little impudent fellow.—Go off from the gentleman, George.”
George clapped both his hands upon his head, and went back without hesitation, gloomed at his mamma, and took again up his luncheon of dry bread.
“Nay, pardon me,” continued Lindsey; “but you must always suffer me to give my little new acquaintance something.” So saying, he put a guinea into the child’s hand.