"An' have I no seen Him?" answered Kirsty, triumphantly. "'Deed, bairn, I've whiles felt as near 'til Him as gin His fingers were wavin' aboun' my heid, wi' the verra words i' His mou', an' 'Peace be wi' ye.' I aye gaed oot o' His hoose wi' a blither hert an' o lichter fit than I gaed tilt."
The old woman had never been strong enough to go to the kirk since Morag's acquaintance with her, and she mourned over it as a great privation. Neil's cart was a rare luxury, only procurable indeed on Communion Sabbaths, which were held once a year in the Glen, when the scattered inhabitants came from its remotest parts,—many of them across miles of pathless hills, to share in the services of the day.
Never did Jewish peasant go up to the Holy City on the great day of the Feast with more joy and hope than did Kirsty Macpherson to the yearly communion at the village kirk. And, to the present occasion, she looked forward with special gladness; for had she not to give thanks for a dear one whom she knew, at last, to be safe in the home of God—the homeless wanderer, whose name had often been borne by her in agony from that communion-table to the ear of Him who came to seek and save the lost?
Morag was waiting in the castle court-yard on Sunday morning, long before the little châtelaine had completed her toilette to her maid's satisfaction. At last the door was swung open, and the wee leddy came running out to meet her friend, looking fresh and dainty in her spotless white dress and pretty blue hat, with which Ellis had adorned her—not without many regrets that such elegant garments should descend to such degraded uses as a seat in a cart; but, since she was going to church, her maid concluded that, of a necessity, she must wear her best attire.
"How bonnie ye look!" exclaimed Morag, gazing at her wee leddy with unfeigned admiration. "Ye're jist like the sky itsel', a' blue-and-white like."
"So I am! how funny! But oh, Morag, is not this a glorious morning? Won't Kirsty be pleased? I really think it's the finest day we've had since I came to Glen Eagle. I'm so happy," and Blanche danced gleefully on the soft turf. "Now, Chance, you needn't be wagging your tail. You are not to be invited to come with us to-day, my dear dog. It's Sunday, you know, and we are going to church with Kirsty and Kenneth; and dogs never do go to church you know, Chance."
"Ay do they, whiles!" interrupted Morag, patting the pleading Chance sympathizingly; "they gang to the kirk onyway. For I've often thought I wad jist like to be auld Neil's collie, when I've seen him passin' wi' Neil on a Sabbath mornin', and I was feelin' terrible lonesome at hame. Kirsty says, 'The dogs are mony a time quaieter than the bairns at the kirk, and that attentive-like.'" But Morag agreed that since Chance was not a dog of church-going habits, it would be wiser to leave him at home.
Neil's cart already stood on the road at the cottage gate when the little girls reached it. Kenneth was waiting at the horse's head, and Kirsty came forth in all the glory of a spotless white mutch (a high cap of muslin, worn by the old peasant women of Scotland). She wore also a pretty scarlet cloak, which had been her best attire for the last fifty years. In her hand she held her big, worn Bible, carefully wrapped in her ample white pocket-handkerchief, and from it there projected some stalks of thyme, and mint, and southernwood, as a preventive against possible drowsiness, during the long services of the day.
"Welcome til ye, my bairns," said she, greeting the little girls kindly, as she closed the little gate behind her. "Havna we gotten a bonnie Sawbbath-day? It's jist an oncommon fine mornin' for this time o' the year. May the Sun o' Richtyousness arise wi' healin' intil His wings the day, lichtin' up a' the dark herts,—jist as the bonnie sun this mornin' garred the drumlie licht weir aff the glen," added Kirsty, with a glad light in her calm gray eyes.
Blanche had already mounted into the cart, and was jumping about among the straw, greatly to the destruction of Ellis's careful morning toilette.