"Ay, that is richt bonnie; and I'm thinkin' sic sweet words maun please Him weel. But there's jist something mak's me think He wad like a body's verra ain words best o' a'. Now, d'ye no think, gin ye was wantin' onything frae yer father, it wouldna be sic nateral like to read it oot o' a bonnie buik as jist to pit your arms roun' his neck, and plead wi' him a bittie, as I've seen you do, whiles,—and ye ken fine ye aye get the thing ye're wantin'," she added, smiling archly; and then she continued—"Weel, I'm thinkin' that maun be what He would hae us to do, frae what He says Himsel'. D'ye no think that yersel', leddy?" asked Morag, looking earnestly into Blanche's troubled face.
"I think I understand what you mean, Morag; but I never thought of speaking to Jesus Christ like that. Why did you not ever tell me that you did till to-night, Morag?" asked Blanche, reproachfully. "You remember you wanted so very much to know all about Him when I knew you first. Dear me, Morag, you must have found out a great deal about these things since then," added Blanche, regretfully.
"Ay have I," replied Morag, smiling brightly. "But it was frae yersel' I first heard His name. D'ye mind on't, leddy? I'm thinkin' I'll min' upon't as lang as I live—and maybe efter-hin. Kirsty was jist sayin' yestreen, she's richt sure folk dosna forget the travellin' days when they win safe hame til the Golden City."
"Oh! I remember. You mean that morning when I was gathering cones in the fir-wood, and began singing a hymn. I had been singing for a long time before I looked up and saw you. I was so astonished to see you leaning against the tree, and so glad that I had found you again," and Blanche laughed merrily at the recollection of the scene. Presently she became grave again, and taking Morag's hand in hers, she added, in a low tone—"But, Morag, you must not think I was singing about Jesus Christ because I loved Him, or cared for the words of the hymn. I think I chose them because they seemed to suit the air I wanted to sing. I think I do care now, though. O Morag! you might speak to Jesus Christ yourself just now, and I'll try, too. Perhaps he will listen to us both. Do ask Him to teach me to be good when I go back to London. I used to be so naughty often—you've no idea. Do, please," added Blanche beseechingly, for she knew Morag's extreme shyness, and feared that her request might not be complied with.
The little mountain maiden seemed quite lifted out of her reserve. At once the dark tangled locks went down among the bright chintz cushions, and Morag spoke in low, reverent tones to the listening friend she had come to know and love during these autumn days.
Morag was still kneeling when Ellis came bustling into the room to say that the keeper had come to fetch his little daughter. Blanche looked much disappointed. The time had passed so quickly, and there was still much she wanted to talk about, but she had to content herself with arranging a meeting at Kirsty's cottage on the following afternoon.
"We shall have so much to tell her, shan't we? And only fancy, Morag, papa is coming, too! He says he will drive me there—that he wants to see Kenneth to thank him. Is it not funny to think that papa has never seen Kirsty? He says he is quite anxious to be introduced to her. Won't it be fun to see them together? I have been telling him all the things I want him to look at, and what chair it will be best to sit on—it would be a pity if he took Kirsty's chair, you know. I'm only afraid he may be too tall to get in at the door. I've been telling him he'll have to stoop ever so much." And Blanche laughed merrily at the idea, as Ellis hurried Morag away, saying that her father would be impatient.
The next day was cold, and wet, and scowling. Blanche seemed very tired and feverish, and was not allowed to leave her bed, to which, indeed, she made no resistance—the loch adventure seemed so completely to have exhausted her. She dozed comfortably till evening, when her papa came to sit beside her, and she became quite lively as she listened to his account of his visit to Kirsty's cottage, which he had paid that afternoon.
"Now, Blanchie, is there anything more you can possibly think of asking concerning this visit?" said Mr. Clifford, laughingly, as he replied to Blanche's eager questioning. "I couldn't have endured a greater fire of cross-questioning if I had come from one of Her Majesty's drawing-rooms, and you wanted a description of each toilette. Did I see a stool called 'Thrummy?' Well, I was almost precipitated into the fire-place, just as I was going to make my bow to Kirsty, by stumbling over a bundle of rags which answers to your description, so I suppose I did see the historical 'Thrummy.'" Smiling, he continued: "Then I sat down—I hope on the right chair—but you may be sure I was dreadfully afraid of making a faux pas after all your instructions, Blanchie. I ended by having quite a long talk with your friend Kirsty, though I had considerable difficulty in understanding her dialect. She is really a very fine specimen of a peasant woman. I quite admire your taste, pussy. There is a wonderful amount of sense and pathos in her way of viewing things in general, notwithstanding that atrocious northern dialect."
"Oh, papa! don't say it's atrocious! I like to listen to it so much now. I'm sure I could never like an old woman half so well if she did not speak like Kirsty. She is the first I have ever known,—and I love her so much," added Blanche with a sigh, when she thought how soon she would be far away from the ben-end of Kirsty's cottage, where she had spent some of the pleasantest hours of her life.