In London, and in any other part of the south of England, the weather was warm at this time of the year; but up on Craigie Muir it was cold, and the children looked desolate as they turned in their coarse clothes to meet their guardian.
Sir John came up to them with a smile. “Now, my dears, here I am—Betty, how do you do? Kiss your uncle, child.”
Betty raised her pretty lips and gave the weather-beaten cheek of Sir John Crawford an unwilling kiss. Sylvia and Hetty clasped each other’s hands, clung a little more closely together, and remained mute.
“Come, come,” said Sir John; “we mustn’t be miserable, you know! I hope that good Jean has got you something for supper, for the air up here would make any one hungry. Shall we go into the house? We all have to start at cockcrow in the morning. Donald knows, and has arranged, he tells me, for a cart to hold your luggage. Let’s come in, children. I really should be glad to get out of this bitter blast.”
“It is just lovely!” said Betty. “I am drinking it in all I can, for I sha’n’t have any more for many a long day.”
Sir John, who had the kindest face in the world, accompanied by the kindest heart, looked anxiously at the handsome girl. Then he thought what a splendid chance he was giving his young cousins; for, although he allowed them to call him uncle, the relationship between them was not quite so close.
They all entered the sparsely furnished and bare-looking house. Six deal boxes, firmly corded with great strands of rope, were piled one on top of the other in the narrow hall.
“Here’s our luggage,” said Betty.
“My dear children—those deal boxes! What possessed you to put your things into trunks of that sort?”
“They are the only trunks we have,” replied Betty. “And I think supper is ready,” she continued; “I smell the grouse. I told Jean to have plenty ready for supper.”