My aunt lay there on the great bed, her dark hair damp and clinging to the white brow, and one arm crooked round her child, and she was gazing at his head where the hair was already thickening, when Belle came to the bedside.
"It's not red," said my aunt. "I feared it would be red, for there are red ones here and there in his house . . . look, woman, it's not red; it will not be red."
"Na, na, it's fair, Leddy—fair and fause; but it'll darken wi' the years, never fear. What ails ye at rid, Leddy—the prettiest man in these parts is rid enough?"
"Poor Dan," cried my aunt, with a bright smile and no hesitation. "The Laird tells me he's wasted enough keep for many bullocks laying the yard with straw lest his horses should wake me in the mornings, but I've missed his songs lying here. They were merry enough too in the fine spring mornings if the words were . . ." And a delicate flush crept over her neck and face, and she smiled a little as at the fault of some wayward boy.
The door was opened softly, and a tall woman entered—a tall woman with a world of sorrow in her wise old eyes, and years of patience in the clasp of her hands.
"Betty," cried the patient—"Betty, is everything done well, now I'm tied to my son," and she put her cheek to the downy head.
"The weemen are flighty and the lads are quate, and the hoose will no' be itsel' till ye will be moving about again, an' Miss Janet's lad will . . ."
"I will not have Dan called that, Betty," says my aunt. "Ewan
McBride's lad he is, if ye must deave me with his forebears . . ."
"My dearie, my ain dearie, did I not nurse his mother when she grat ower his wee body and a' the warl' was turned on her, and her man at the great wars. Ech, ech, a weary time, and her crying to him in the nicht, and throwin' oot her white arms in the stillness and crying: 'My brave fierce lad, my brave wild lover, come back and let me dee wi' your arms aboot me.' Ay, and her wild lad, her kindly lad, lying stark on yon bluidy field and the corbies maybe at his bonny blue een. I love Dan, for I took him frae his mither's caul' breast; but ech, why will he be shaming his name, and shaming his ain sel'—but I shouldna be haverin', my dearie . . . and here's your soup now."
Jean—she of the stable raid—with a haughty look at the gipsy, who had stood in a corner by the fire all this time, came with the bowl of soup, but Belle slid forward noiselessly.