Sir John had not observed the group, but he looked at them long enough to admit of Dr. Guthrie pulling out his box, taking one good snuff, and getting another ready for despatch in his fingers.
“Oh, yes,” said Sir John, “they are Mr. Barrie’s children;” then looking at James: “How are mamma and papa keeping?”
The children had risen, and the boys had taken off their caps when Sir John appeared. In answer to the question James said: “They’re quite well, thank you, sir; we’re all going to our new house to-day; we’re helping to flit.”
Dr. Guthrie took his reserve snuff, looked first at Sir John, then at the children, and swinging his hand so that it pointed to the children, then to the manse, and resting it now towards them and again towards it, he recited with much feeling, for he seemed deeply moved:
“From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
This makes her loved at home, revered abroad;
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
An honest man’s the noblest work of God.”
GIFF-GAFF.
By this time several of the villagers were attracted by the scene, and they scarcely could repress the cheer that was struggling for vent in their throats. Respect for Sir John, however, kept it down until he drove away, when a right hearty greeting was given to Dr. Guthrie, in whose eyes the tear still trembled, and many pressed forward to grasp his hand,—none more warmly than Kennedy the tailor, who, producing his snuff-box, said: