"Three," corrected Marget, "that was when we took her after the passing of oor bonnie lassie."
"And how she loved to follow me around like a kitten."
I had never asked Tammas and Marget for Elsie's history. I knew it had been sad to them.
"I did not tell you about her. I did not tell you, lad, it was all too sad," said Marget, as if guessing my thoughts, "but noo that it is so long ago and you have grown, you and Elsie, I think it only fair that we tell you only a bit of it, so that you may not misjudge her, nor us," and she looked inquiringly at Tammas.
Tammas nodded.
"She was oor only daughter," she said, "we never saw him. He stole oor lassie when she lookit jist as ye see yon ane, and nae aulder, an' because she wasna' o' his station, his graun' folk scorned her and her bairn. Aye, but he was true, tho', standing up for oor lassie till—till. Weel, there was a tragedy, an' he had to flee for his life. He gaed to the war somewhere—we never saw him—an' we dinna ken. Then she died, and syne we cam' here wi' Elsie."
I saw the tears start into her eyes. "E-lsie, E-lsie, here's our Mr. Jack come back," she called.
Instantly there was a flutter of feet withdrawn from the pool. The pitcher was left on the bank, and the hat also. She came running, her blue eyes smiling at me, quite unembarrassed, and even singularly calm.
She came up, put both her hands into mine, and her blue eyes flashed at me.
"Kiss him," laughed Marget, "it's oor ain Mr. Jack."