And as she sat keeping vigil, there came to her memory the story of a very sorrowful night, of which she had been reading with Kirsty only the day before. It was the scene in the old garden of Gethsemane, where the Lord Jesus Christ spent those terrible hours, "exceeding sorrowful even unto death."
It was the first time that Morag had heard of it, and the hot tears of pity stole down her face as she listened. Kirsty had looked up, and said gently, as she laid her hand on her head, "Bairn, I dinna wonder though ye greet. It was a sair dark nicht i' the history o' the warl'. But jist ye read a bittie farther on, aboot how they garred Him tak' His ain cross up the brae; the women grat for verra pity, and syne He turned Himsel', and spak' til them, sayin', 'Daughters o' Jerooslem, weep no for me, but for yersels and for yer children.'" And Morag thought that she understood why Jesus was called the "Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world."
At last the chill grey morning light came stealing through the dark green boughs and among the tall fir-trees. Presently the lonely watch was broken by the arrival of messengers from the castle, bringing with them every comfort which could be stowed away in a huge hamper.
"'Deed it's richt mindfu' o' the wee leddy o' the castle to sen' sic a hantle o' things," said Kirsty, rising slowly to receive the servants. "An' I'm thinkin' she left her bonnie white coatie yestreen to mak' a safter heid for the puir lamb. Ye'll jist tak' it wi ye noo, gin it please ye, sirs—and a' the ither things, forby. We dinna need them here. Tell ye the wee leddy that the puir weary craeter she saw lyin' sae low yestreen i' the fir-wood is awa this mornin' among the green pasters and the still waters o' the Father's hoose, where there's nae mair hunger, nor sorrow, nor cryin', for the auld things hae passed awa."
[IX.]
VANITY FAIR.
T was nearly the end of September now, the air of Glen Eagle began to feel chilly, and the purple bloom was fading from the hills, but the interior of Kirsty's cottage looked as warm and bright as ever, when one afternoon Blanche Clifford came bounding in with glowing cheeks, after a race across the heather, followed by Morag, to pay a visit to their old friend.
Kenneth had just been piling one or two sturdy birk logs on the peat-fire, in preparation for their arrival. His grandmother's cottage was his home now; the cheery fire which he had just made was quite a fitting emblem of the brightness which he had brought into the lonely dwelling. His mother had been laid in the quiet grave-yard on the hillside, and the boy often stole out in the gloaming to hover round the fresh-laid turf. He seldom, however, spoke of the past, and already began to lose his careworn expression, which had so touched the hearts of the little girls in the fir-wood. Indeed he appeared daily to gain strength and manliness; while Kirsty watched the change with mingled feelings, remembering a Kenneth of other days, whose strength had once been her pride.