"How nice and cosy you do always look here!" exclaimed Blanche, glancing round the room, as she seated herself on Thrummy at Kirsty's feet. "When I'm an old woman, I mean to have a room exactly like this. I couldn't endure to live in a house with so many rooms as papa's, or as Aunt Matilda's. One never knows in which room they may be sitting, and can never picture them to one's self if you are away, and want to think of them. Now, Kirsty, when I go back to London, I shall always be able to think of you just as you are now," said the little girl, as she laid her hands on the lap of her old peasant friend. Kirsty was seated in the ingleneuk in her high-elbowed chair, knitting placidly. Her fingers moved rapidly round the rough blue stocking which she had in progress, but her eyes rested kindly on Blanche, and she smiled as she listened to her pleasant prattle. She, too, as well as Morag, had learnt to love this little English maiden, with her pretty, gracious ways, who had made herself so happy in the Highland glen, and showed such warm friendship for them all. Since the weather became colder, the scene of the reading lessons had been transferred from the fir-wood to the ben end of the cottage, and the old woman was always an interested listener, often unravelling knotty points by her shrewd remarks and wise decisions.
Sometimes, too, Blanche would entertain her Highland friends with descriptions of the world beyond the mountains, and expatiate on the many marvels of the great city she lived in. Morag's eye would dilate with wonder and awe as she described the grand old Abbey, filled with the dust of kings and statesmen, soldiers and poets, or dwelt on the varied delights of a day at the Crystal Palace or the Kensington Museum.
After Morag's fingers had laboriously travelled over a few pages of the "Pilgrim's Progress," she begged that Blanche would read a little. The little mountain maiden's reading capacities did not at all keep pace with her desire to know; and now she sat, coiled up at Kirsty's feet, listening with eager interest, as the wee leddy's clear voice flowed pathetically on, concerning the cruel treatment which the Pilgrims received from the people of Vanity Fair.
"Vanity Fair!—how funny!" exclaimed Blanche, as she tossed back her curls and looked up. "Do you know, Kirsty, there is a place in London, called Hyde Park, where I sometimes go to drive and ride with papa, though not nearly so often as I should like. Well, Kirsty, I remember one afternoon when we were there, papa met an old, very old gentleman—rather queer looking—whom he hadn't seen for ever so long. He held out his hand to papa, and I remember he said, 'Well, Arthur, you didn't expect to meet me in Vanity Fair, I daresay?' and then he laughed; and I wanted to ask papa afterwards what he meant, but I suppose I forgot. But, Kirsty, it surely can't be the same place where they were so unkind to the poor pilgrims, and called them names, could it?"
"'Deed, bairn, but I'm nae sae sure o' that noo. The Apostle Paul says that the carnal hert is enmity agin' God. And dinna ye min' how the Maister says Himsel', 'Marvel not though the warl' hate ye. Ye know that it hated me afore it hated you.' But forbid that I should say He hasna a remnant o' His ain intilt, bairn," said Kirsty, as she noticed Blanche's troubled face. "It's His ain prayer til His Father, ye ken, no to tak' them oot o' the warl', but to keep them frae the evil," she added solemnly.
"Oh! but indeed, Kirsty, I am sure that none of the people in the Park could possibly be cruel to the poor pilgrims," replied Blanche, rather on the defensive. "There are such pretty ladies and gentlemen, riding and driving about; I'm sure they wouldn't hurt anybody. I like so much to go to the Park! and papa says, when I'm grown up and have quite finished lessons, that I may go there to ride or drive every day, if I like. I'm sure I wish the time were come!" and the prospect seemed so inspiring that Blanche jumped up, upsetting Thrummy in her progress round the earthen floor in a gleeful waltz.
Morag's eyes followed her bonnie wee leddy wistfully. Somehow her heart sank at the vista which seemed to stretch out, so fair and pleasant, in Blanche's eyes. They were play-fellows now, but how would it be in these days to come, when her little friend merged into one of these grand ladies whom she had been describing?
Presently Blanche picked up her stool, and came to seat herself at Kirsty's feet again.
"Eh, my bonny lambie!" murmured the old woman, as she stroked the little girl's golden crown. "May the Guid Shepherd Himsel' gather ye in His ain arms, and carry ye intil His bosom a' thro' the slippy places, and keep ye a bonnie white lambie, til he tak's ye safe hame til the fauld!"
Morag did not say "Amen" audibly, for she had not yet learnt that conventional ending to a petition. But none the less did she join Kirsty in fervent asking, that the Lord Jesus Christ would preserve their bonnie wee leddy amid all the dangers of this terrible Vanity Fair, which had proved so full of perils for the pilgrims in the story.