Jamie, now Professor Murdoch, remained long enough to visit his sisters in their own homes. He spent the evening after the funeral under the roof that had sheltered him in his boyhood; the sisters were there also. After speaking of the dead mother, her virtues, her faith in God, and the eternal happiness with the redeemed upon which she had now entered, the conversation became more general, running in various channels. Jamie had much to ask about the other families, but he took a special interest in Davie's little twin daughters. They looked so much alike that he declared he could not tell which was Maggie and which Nannie. They had large blue eyes and curly flaxen hair. It was their father's delight to sit with one on each knee, trotting them in his clumsy fashion, singing to them the rhymes that were sung to all babies, turning his face from side to side meantime, and gazing fondly at one or the other.
"Well, Davie, you look about as proud and pleased as a parent can be," remarked Jamie.
"Why should I no look proud? I will leave it to yoursel, Jamie; saw ye ever bonnier bit lassies?"
Jamie smiled good-naturedly. "I think not," he replied.
"Davie," interposed Jeannie, "ye are aye praisin' the bairns. Dinna be makin' ither folk praise them too. Do ye no ken that all parents see their bairns in the same way? Jamie has bairns o' his ain."
"Ay," replied Davie, "but Jamie has nae lassies in his family."
"No, I have no lassies, and my sons are as tall as I am; so I quite enjoy the novelty of seeing your wee daughters." Then, addressing his sisters, he continued, "I must see more of my nephews and nieces before I return. Some of them I saw only at the funeral, and I hardly recognized them, so much have they grown."
"Dear knows," said Annie, "my bairns do naething but graw. Jennie is half a heid taller than I am, and Robin is as tall as she is. The wee lad, my seven-year auld Donald, is weel grawn for his years."
"Let me see—how many bairns have we among us?" asked Jamie.