It was also Bessie's pleasure to send us many things, among which I well remember a fine brood of chickens. I was glad of these for mother's sake. She attended to them very gladly. She loved to watch the bonnie wee things and see them grow. The care of them kept her from always thinking of the past, so that they were a benefit to us in more ways than one.
But mother's usual place was by the ingle. There she sat and knitted most of the day, and sometimes far into the night. There stood the stand upon which was her Bible, which she read frequently. Our life was free from disturbance; we gradually became accustomed to our lot, and even began to feel some small degree of comfort. There was, as it were, a faint misty light breaking over us. We began to notice the changes in nature. Morning and evening were not now as one to us. We greeted the coming of day with something of the old feeling; we were solemnized at nightfall, but no longer terrified. The Sabbath was now indeed a day of rest. We were no longer wandering over moor and glen, through summer's heat and winter's cold, to win our way to some remote place in order to hear the preached Word, or, when there was no preacher, to exhort and comfort one another; but we were gathered again in our own kirk, where we had all worshipped in our youth. On those peaceful Sabbaths I could forget the present and think gladly of our holy dead who had entered upon the never-ending Sabbath above.
Little by little much of the old glad life crept into the homes of our neighbors; but for myself I have known comparatively little of what the world calls happiness. I had scarcely passed childhood when my life was beclouded by the evil that pursued us until I reached middle age, at which time I was already longingly looking forward to death as a relief from life's sorrows and anxieties. Yet for my mother's sake, and for the dear ones that called me "Aunt Effie," I have aye prayed for strength to endure.
There is one sorrow that I have not told in earthly ears. I never speak of Robert. I visit his grave alone. Sometimes I find the birds singing joyously above it; and though their glad song jars a little on my ear, I ever bid them sing on, for their music makes his resting-place more cheerful. I planted seeds and roots of flowering-plants on the grave so as to make the place bonnier, and also that I might pluck the blossoms that grew above him and wear them near my heart; for though this regard for him came to me late in life, it was none the less real and tender.
At Steenie's grave it was different. Mother, Janet, and I often sat around it. Janet needed not to hide her sorrow. She could mourn her dead in the presence of his mother and sister without reserve.
I scarcely knew how I passed my time some days. My fingers drew out the threads and my foot turned the wheel, but my mind was often far away, recalling the words and deeds of our happy dead. I remembered the look and tone of each. I was again a child standing beside my sister, who patiently combed and plaited my hair; I was at father's knee with my book; I was being borne in the arms of Jamie or Richie; I was playing with Steenie at the burn, or I was thinking of what happened long afterwards—thoughts that I cannot write. From these memories I would be roused by my mother's gentle call, "Effie, the fire is low and it is nearly time for the evening meal."
Five years we two bided alone. Often, too often, we recounted our sorrows; but we aye took them to the Fountain-head of love and strength, and oftentimes we received "the oil of joy for mourning and the garment of praise for heaviness." At the end of this time came a change.
Our dear old friend Bessie McDougal sickened. We often went to her, but we always found her wishes anticipated by the affectionate thoughtfulness and skilful hands of Janet. Indeed, she almost refused to share the care of the sick with any one. Not even after her own cheek grew pale with nightly watchings would she willingly give place to me. Bessie would sometimes tell her to rest herself; but as soon as Janet left the room the sick woman would weary for her.