Ellis had never taken the little native to her heart, in spite of her little mistress' frequent triumphant reminders that the ragged maiden of the fir-wood had proved no dangerous gypsy after all; but to-night she was most gracious, patting the trembling little Morag condescendingly on the head, as she led the way to Blanche's room, where Morag was summoned in the course of the evening.
The little bare, weather-beaten feet trod much more uneasily on the soft carpet than among the bracken; and the friendship which had sprung up and flourished among the woods and braes did not seem likely to thrive in the atmosphere of a luxuriantly-furnished apartment. Blanche was lying on the sofa, wrapped in a blue flannel dressing-gown, looking very feeble and subdued, when Morag entered the room. She looked wistfully at her little mountain friend, but did not speak, and Miss Prosser, who was seated at her pupil's side, noted the mutual shyness, and considerately withdrew.
Beckoning to Morag to come and sit beside her, she took the little brown hand into her fluttering fingers, and said, nervously, "Morag, dear, I want so much to speak to you. Do you know, though it was only such a moment of time, I thought so much when I felt going down, down among the dark moving water all alone. And you left the pleasant, sunny turf, and came to drown with me in that dreadful water. How could you venture, Morag? It was too brave and kind!" and Blanche's lip quivered.
Morag was going to interrupt her, but she went on. "Do you remember that chapter of the Bible we were reading to Kirsty yesterday, Morag? I'm afraid I didn't care much for it at the time, and only read it to please her; but since I've been lying here, I seem to hear one verse of it always. Wasn't it Jesus Christ who said that it was the greatest love to lay down one's life for a friend? Morag, that's what you did for me. I saw you do it. Oh, Morag, when I awoke and saw the rowan-wreath floating about in the water, and you not anywhere to be seen!" and Blanche covered her face and sobbed.
All Morag's shyness seemed to vanish when she had to take the part of a comforter. The little brown arm was quietly slipped round the bent head, and she whispered gently, "Ye mustna think nothing o' my slippin' in efter ye til the water. I couldna hae bidden ahin' for onything. But ye see if it hadna been for Kenneth, none o' us would hae been gotten oot o' the loch." And after a pause she continued, "I'm no thinkin' that word frae the Bible would even mean the like o' Kenneth, though. Will it no be meanin' the Lord Jesus Christ, that died o' the green hill,—as ye're bonnie hymn speaks o'? I weel min' the day I heard it;" and then she added, with an evident effort, "and I've aye been wantin' to tell ye that I love Him richt weel mysel' noo, sin' yon day i' the fir-wood."
"And is it because you love the Lord Jesus so much that you were so brave at the loch to-day, Morag?" said Blanche, looking questioningly at her.
"I'm no thinkin' that exactly," replied Morag, slowly, as if she were pondering her motives; "I'm thinkin' it was because I looed you, little leddy, and forby, life wouldna hae seemed muckle worth gin ye had been awa."
"D'ye min' the bonnie picter oot o' the 'Pilgrim's Progress?' I was jist thinkin' to mysel', on my road hame the nicht, that gin Kenneth hadna come, we would hae gotten thegither to the bonnie toon lyin' i' the sun,—like the droonin' folk i' the picter," and Morag looked at Blanche, and smiled brightly.
The little girl shook her head sadly. "You would have gone to the Golden City, Morag; but I'm afraid I shouldn't. You see I never really thought I should like to go to heaven. It seemed to me that it would be so much nicer to stay always here, in this beautiful world we know and love, than to be sent away to an unknown land. Do you know, Morag, I thought of all that to-day, as I looked at the pleasant sunny banks of the loch, just before the cruel, creeping water covered me all up. It made me feel so terrified."
There was silence for a few minutes. At last, Morag said, quietly—