'Yes, my boy; and I don't think you 'll mind when it's explained to you. The "lady" whom my Hollyhock wouldn't mention is your own mother.'
'Mother!' cried Emerald, in a voice of rapture. 'Eh, mother, I have missed you!'
He was only a little fellow—the youngest of the Precious Stones—and he suddenly burst out crying.
'There, now, be a brave lad,' said Mrs Constable. 'No tears, my little son, for they don't become a gentleman. They don't become the son of Major Constable. Ho died fighting for his country, and no son of his and mine should be seen with tears in his eyes. You all do come back to your mummy, my children, and a lot of other boys come as well; and The Paddock is to be partly changed, so that I can mother you, my Emerald, but not teach you—no, no, none of that. There 'll be that fine gentleman, the Reverend James Cadell, to put Latin and Greek into you; and there'll be Alan Anderson to teach you games, as boys should play them; and there 'll be young Mr Maclure to help him with your English and your lessons all round. I 'll have my five Precious Stones sleeping again under my roof; and your food will be prepared by that maid of ours, Alison, of whom you have always been so fond; and old Mrs Cheke will be the housekeeper and look after your wants. And for foreign languages Mrs Macintyre will send over at certain hours each day some of her governesses. Now then, children, I think we are all going to be as happy as happy. It was decided by a wise woman that Mrs Macintyre's mixed school would eventually prove a mistake, for a good many mothers object to sending their girls to such places, although I myself see no harm in them whatsoever. But, my dear boys, we must think of Mrs Macintyre, who will have a very large school of girls. On Monday next you will see many new faces at Ardshiel, and the arrangement that you, my little loves, are to spend Saturday till Monday all together is to continue. So now do let us sing a fresh song of that wondrous bard, Robbie Burns, because I feel so absolutely Scots of the Scots to-day that I simply cannot stand any one else.
'Hark, the mavis' evening sang
Sounding Clouden's woods amang;
Then a-faulding let us gang,
My bonnie Dearie.
'Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them whare the heather grows,
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes
My bonnie Dearie.
We'll gae down by Clouden side,
Through the hazels spreading wide,
O'er the waves, that sweetly glide
To the moon sae clearly.
'Yonder Clouden's silent towers,
Where at moonshine midnight hours,
O'er the dewy bending flowers,
Fairies dance sae cheery.
'Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
Thou 'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near,
My bonnie Dearie.
Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stown my very heart;
I can die—but canna part,
My bonnie Dearie.