Dr. Guthrie, who had been spending a day or two in the neighbourhood, was calling at the post office. Soon, as his quick eye rested on the singular group, his face became radiant with such a smile as he could give, and which the children returned very frankly. He went close to them, stooped down and patted Mary’s cheek, got his hand under her chin and stroked it playfully, all the while looking kindly in her face; then glancing at her lap, he said:
“What’s the name of that fine doll, my wee pet? is it Sambo, or Pompey, or what?”
“That’s black Tam,” said Mary. “It was Nellie’s doll, and I’m taking it to our new house.”
“Nellie’s, was it? And is Nellie too old for dolls now, and has she given it to you? He looks as if he had seen better days.”
“Oh! please; sir, Nellie’s dead,” said Mary, looking towards the churchyard; “she’s buried over there.”
“But Bell and mamma say that Nellie’s in heaven,” said Lewie very decidedly.
The suddenness and beauty of Lewie’s answer strongly affected Dr. Guthrie. He took out his snuff-box and took a moderate pinch, then clapped Lewie’s head, and said:
“Yes, my wee man, you’re right; Nellie’s in heaven. But what’s your name?”
James now took speech in hand: “My name’s James Barrie, and this is Mary, and this is Lewie. We’re flitting from the manse over yonder;” and he pointed in the same direction as Mary had looked. But Dr. Guthrie, thus suddenly brought into contact with this stern reality of the Disruption, had again to apply to his snuff-box, and was in the act of taking it out of his pocket when Sir John McLelland drove up to the post office and alighted. Dr. Guthrie and he knew one another as members of Assembly, and they shook hands cordially, Sir John expressing surprise at seeing the doctor there.
“Sir John,” said the doctor, “excuse me,”—and he dried the tear that was coursing down his cheek,—“do you know these children?”