A shade of seriousness stole across Blanche's face as Kirsty's long thin fingers played among her hair, while she uttered this blessing-prayer; but the shadow did not linger long there. The little girl had never thought of life as being difficult and dangerous, and did not feel the need of a friend and guide. Moreover, she did not like anything that made her feel serious, so she quickly closed the book, and, restoring it to its place on the shelf, ran away to the cottage door, warbling a gay song, as she plucked some berries from one of the old rowan trees to make a wreath for Morag, and crown her queen of gypsies.
Presently the old woman came and seated herself on the door-step. Her knitting was in her hand, but it lay idly on her lap, and she sat watching the little girl with tear-dimmed eyes. She trembled for the many snares and dangers which the days to come would be sure to bring to the beautiful high-born child. But Kirsty forgot that there were shorter, safer, smoother paths to the golden city than through the many windings of Vanity Fair.
"I have just been to old Neil's, grandmother," said Kenneth, as he walked in at the little gate on his return from a message to the carrier of the Glen. "He says he'll be happy to oblige you with the cart on Sunday for the kirk. He'll not be able to go himself, because of his rheumatism; but he is to lend the cart if I'll yoke the horse."
"I'm richt glaid to hear't, laddie," replied Kirsty. "It's mony a Sawbbath day sin' I ha' been i' the kirk. 'Deed I thocht never to sit at His table upon the earth anither time."
"Morag, hae ye speird gin yer father be gaein' to lat ye gang wi' me til the kirk?"
"Ay, Kirsty, I've been askin' him, but he hasna said yet. I'm no thinkin' he'll do't, though. But he said he would see yersel' afore that time. Maybe he'll be up the nicht."
"Oh, Kirsty, are you really going to that pretty little church in the village on Sunday? Do let me go with you; I want so to see the inside of it," chimed in Blanche, eagerly. "It will be so much nicer than reading prayers with Miss Prosser in that dreadful school-room."
"Weel, I'se be richt glaid to tak' ye wi' me, bairn, gin yer folk doesna objec'; but I'm no thinkin' they would lat ye gang ava. It's a lang road, and, ye see, we'll jist hae Neil's cartie, wi' a puckle strae intilt, and that'll maybe no be fit for the like o' you."
"Oh, yes, of course it would—perfectly delicious," cried Blanche, clapping her hands. "I must really go with you, Kirsty. I shall ask papa to-night, if I have a chance; it would be such fun, wouldn't it, Morag?"