Blanche did not remember about it, so Kirsty handed her the old Bible, and she read St. Luke's account of the Last Supper, finishing with the words—"And when they had sung a hymn, they went to the Mount of Olives."
"Why, Kirsty, how funny! That's just something like what we've done to-day. And I'm sure the Mount of Olives couldn't be half so nice as this burn-side; could it, Morag? I shall be sure to remember this Sunday when I go to Holy Communion, Kirsty. But that will be ever so long yet. I've got to be confirmed first, you know. Miss Prosser says it's proper to go to Holy Communion when one is about seventeen; but, oh dear! it's a long time till then. I do wish I were grown up," said Blanche, with a sigh over the slow progress of Time.
"Eh, but my dear lambie, ye maun let Him intil yer hert lang afore that time comes roun'. Will ye no listen til the Guid Shepherd's voice callin' ye the day? There's a hantle o' rough slippy bits o' life afore ye, my bonnie bairn, I'm thinkin'. Will ye no lat Him tak' ye intil His arms, and carry ye safe through them a'?" said Kirsty, as she looked fondly at the little girl.
Blanche did not reply, but sat nervously plucking blades of grass. Presently she jumped up, and ran to join Kenneth, who had gone to catch the old cart-horse grazing by the waterside, to yoke him in the cart again, and prepare for the homeward journey.
Then Morag gave Kirsty a shoulder to help her from her low seat on the greensward; and as she stooped to pick up the basket, she said in a low, eager tone, "Kirsty, werna ye richt glad to see father i' the kirk the day? I never thocht he was comin' tilt."
"Ay was I,—glaider than ye can ken' o', bairn," replied Kirsty, her gray eyes beaming with joy. "'Deed I'm thinkin' there maun hae been joy amang the angels themsels, the day when they saw yer father sitting at the table o' the Lord—a bran' plucked frae the burnin'. Eh, bairn, ye that's ain o' His ain lambs yersel', arna ye glaid to think that yer puir father's nae latten bide oot i' the cauld."
Morag's face flushed with joy to hear Kirsty call her a Christian, and she was going to make some reply when they heard Blanche's clear, silvery tones calling them to come—that the cart was all ready to start.
"There's that bonnie wee leddy, wi' her sweet tongue," said Kirsty, as she moved to go. "Dear lamb! may the Guid Shepherd mak' goodness and mercy to follow her a' the days o' her life. She's a winsome bit thing as I ever set eyes on. I wad like richt weel to ken that she gied her young hert to the Lord, Morag. There's a heap o' snares and dangers o' the great warl' for the like o' her. They tell me she's fat they ca' an heiress, and has heaps o' hooses and lan' in Englan' belongin' til hersel'. It wad be a richt sair maitter gin she were like the young man—him ye ken that we read o' i' the Scripter, wha turned awa frae the Lord sorrowfu'-like, because his hert was set upon his gran' possessions. She has sic a hantle o' bonnie ways aboot her, and as sweet a like natur' as ever God made. Ye maun be earnest wi' the Lord for yer wee leddy, Morag, my lass."
This was a subject about which Morag longed greatly to talk to Kirsty, though she had never yet been able to break through her shyness and reserve. She looked up eagerly in the old woman's face, and was about to reply, when Blanche pushed aside the fringing birk-trees in search of them, and they left the quiet green nook, and turned into the dusty highway.
Many a time in after years, when these autumn days lay far away in the dim haze of distance, Morag Dingwall would leave the beaten path, if she chanced to pass that way, and wander in among the whispering birk-trees and the scented bog-myrtle, to stand and gaze at this little spot of mossy-turf. Time having brought many changes for her, she would stand pensively and gaze at this still unchanged spot, where the little singing burn flowed on in its sparkling glee, heedless of the vanished voices which had once mingled in its sport. And as she stood there her thoughts would go slipping back—