“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Eric, when Léon had been carried off by the authorities to have keys put down his back, his eye bathed, and to be generally cleaned up; and we were all five sitting in solemn conclave on the largest wheelbarrow—the twins had joined us, much excited by recent events—“I’ll tell you what it is: you kids must drop that Waterloo business, and we must none of us mind his queer clothes any more. He’s a ripping good sort, and, after all, he can’t help being French!”
“And he wouldn’t help it if he could!” cried Jennie. “France is a great country.”
For a wonder nobody contradicted her. We were all busy readjusting preconceived ideas.
THE OLD RELIGION
God is above the sphere of our esteem,
And is the best known, not defining Him.
Robert Herrick.
It’s a far cry from a busy street in Leith to a village in the loveliest part of wooded Gloucestershire; but, at eight years old, vicissitude is borne with a calm philosophy seemingly unattainable in later years, and Maggie McClachlan expressed no great wonder at her new environment, rather to the disappointment of her worthy aunt, who was fully aware of her own extreme good nature and condescension in “taking the lassie for the whole summer, and paying her fare both ways.”
Measles followed by an obstinate “hoast,” was the commonplace cause that transported Maggie to this strange new country. The long, roaring, whirring, bewildering journey—in which she was passed by a kindly official into the varied guardianship of such passengers as were going her way—left her dazed and puzzled, but not unhappy. Her childless uncle and aunt were kind, and there were the woods.
The first thing that struck Maggie about these woods was the singular absence of bits of paper; neither did she come upon any broken bottles in the course of her wanderings. This lack seemed even more wonderful to her than the presence of innumerable foxgloves. She had spent an occasional afternoon in the woods at Aberdour, but always in a crowd. Here the spaciousness and peace attracted her, even as it filled her little soul with an awe that was a thing apart from fear. If in after years Maggie should read what Mr. Henry James has written of “a great, good Place,” she will understand it better than most people.