"Now, Ellis, listen! I'd rather suffer all the tortures we read of yesterday at Kirsty's, in Foxe's Book of Martyrs, than tell you where that jacket is!"
Morag had been about to expostulate with the wee leddy; but now she felt much too awed to utter a word. As she stood gazing at her, the fir-tree was immediately transformed in her imagination to a stake, and visions of lighted faggots and rising flames coursed through her brain. Ellis, too, seemed rather impressed, and Blanche took advantage of her position to remark in her most imperious tone, as she quitted her dramatic pose, "Now, Ellis, if you say another word about that jacket, I shan't go home with you a step. Perhaps to-morrow I may tell you what has become of it," she added, bending her head graciously, as she volunteered to start for home under these conditions.
At this juncture, Kirsty suddenly emerged from the tartan folds. She had been reminded that the little girls still waited by hearing the sound of voices, and she came now to urge them to return home at once.
The moon was now giving a clear, plentiful light. It shone on Kirsty's placid face, and showed her another face which she had not looked on for many a year, and it seemed strange that she should see it to-night. The keeper looked as much startled as if he had seen a ghost, when the old woman moved slowly towards him, and holding out her hand, said, solemnly, "Alaster Dingwall, is that you?" and still holding his hand, she added, "Weel do I min' the nicht I saw ye last. But come ben, and hear o' the goodness o' the Lord frae this dyin' woman. Eh! but He's slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy. The soul o' my lang-lost Kenneth is safe wi' Himsel'. He has granted me the desire o' my hert. Com ben, and see Kenneth's wife!"
Dingwall's usually inflexible face showed traces of strong emotion as he listened to Kirsty. He made no reply, but was about to follow her into the tent, when Ellis, more mystified than ever by these strange dealings with these disreputable gypsies, who had already given her so much trouble that afternoon, shouted in angry tones, "Well, keeper, if you're going to stay in this wood longer, I'm not. Come along, missie, we must find our own way as best we can." And without waiting for a reply, the indignant maid hurried off with her reluctant charge.
Morag stood watching her father, as he followed Kirsty, bending his tall figure to creep into the low tent, and then she sat down on the old grey dyke outside, to await the next scene of this strange evening. She could not help feeling very glad that her father and Kirsty were going to be friends at last, though it was such a sorrowful occasion which seemed to have brought the reconciliation about. Presently she saw Kenneth slip out of the tent, looking very grave and sad. He came and leant silently against one of the fir-trees, and stood gazing into the pale larch plantation, with its long dark grass shimmering in the white moonlight. Morag knew that he was looking so sorrowful because his mother was going to leave him, and she felt very sorry too, and longed to be able to do something to comfort him; but she thought that perhaps it was best to keep quite quiet there, and let him think his own thoughts. She wondered whether Kenneth knew and loved his grandmother's Friend, and was able now to tell Him all his trouble.
When the keeper entered the tent, the dying woman fixed her great restless eyes upon him, and looked questioningly at Kirsty. The old woman stooped down, and said, "It's Alaster Dingwall—him, ye ken, that was Kenneth's"—friend, she was going to say; and then she glanced sadly at the keeper, and did not finish her sentence. But presently she added, "Eh! but He's been good and forgien us muckle, and we maun be willin' to forgie," and taking the thin, white fingers, she laid them in the keeper's broad, brown palm.
"Yes, yes," gasped the woman; "I remember the name. My husband said something about him when he was dying, too; but I can't recollect now." Her memories of the troubled past were growing dim in the haze of death.
"My boy, where is he?" she asked, presently, turning to Kirsty. "I've brought him to you—you'll love him for your own Kenneth's sake, won't you? He's a good boy; it's hard to leave him in this wicked world alone; but you will look to him, won't you?" and she looked beseechingly at Kirsty. "We've travelled many a weary mile to reach you—he'll tell you all about it after. But it's all over now—all past, and the rest is coming," she murmured, and then she lay quite still for a few minutes, and her lips moved as if in prayer.
Presently she seemed to remember something, and, putting her hand into her breast, she drew out a little bag with one or two gold pieces in it. Handing it to Kirsty, she said, "It's all there is left—he's very ragged I'm afraid, and I'll be to bury. But you are good and kind, he always said, and you'll be kind to my boy, for Christ's sake, and for your own Kenneth's, grandmother, won't you? I haven't remembered all his messages, I'm so tired to-night. He wanted your forgiveness so much—but you'll see him again—we'll both be waiting you and Kenny!"