"No, nursie," was the quick reply; "I've no fear of God failing to keep his word; but oh, I fear for myself. You'll pray I may never be 'ashamed to own my Lord,' nor ever hide his banner. I've enlisted into his army, nursie, and by his grace, and with his help, have promised to be a faithful soldier and a true knight, to help the weak, and, if possible, set free the oppressed."
The boy's eyes shone as he spoke; the old woman looked at him with emotion.
"The Lord be praised for his work begun in your heart, my bairn; an' may he keep you faithful thro' all temptations, an' at last gie you the golden crown to cast at your Saviour's feet. Your mother left her orphan children to the Lord's care, an' he's no ane to prove faithless to such a charge, even tho' for a while they stray in their blind ignorance afar from him."
She was silent for a minute, then said, "You'll mind Johnnie, my Johnnie, Maister Ronald; my dead daughter's only bairn? Aweel, his mother gi'ed him too into the Lord's hands, and yet—" and here a tear fell on the old cheek—"he wearied o' his quiet hame amid our grand old hills, and left his grannie in her auld age, and wandered off wi' an idle companion into the wide world. And it's three years sin' I heard frae him; an' yet tho' my heart wearies sair to see him, I can trust him to the Lord and believe. He can and will draw him to himself yet, even tho' my een should be closed to earth afore then. Ay, the Lord is a promise-keeping God. The world is wide, Maister Ronald, I ken that; but should you ever fall in wi' Johnnie Robertson, ye'll mind him o' his auld Grannie Cameron, and the Highland glen where he spent his young days? He had a kind heart, the bit laddie that I loved like my ain son; and had he ta'en heed to the command o' the wise king, 'My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not,' he'd been here still earnin' his livin', as his faither did afore him, as an honest tiller o' the ground."
Ronald felt for the old widow. Well did he remember the handsome lad, some four years his senior, who had been induced about three years before by an idle cousin to leave his home and try his fortune in London. Only once had he written to the grandmother he had seemed really to love, and since then no word had come from him, and none knew whether he was living or dead; but from the lowly hut in the lovely Highland pass the widow's prayers of faith and trust ever rose for the orphan boy she had reared so fondly.
Ere parting Ronald knelt down and asked the old woman's blessing. She gave it to him in the name of the Father of the fatherless, and once more charged him not to forget his old friend Johnnie.
The lad promised, though he smiled to himself as he thought of the small chance he had of meeting the youth, although his school was in the suburbs of the great metropolis.
Back again through the pass he walked, with his firm, elastic step, drawing in with delight every breath of the free mountain air. Before re-entering the house, he turned aside by a path which led down to the old churchyard, and stood for a moment by his mother's grave. The sunbeams were shining there, glistening on the autumn flowers, which the loving hands of her children had planted. The boy plucked one to be taken to his new home, and as he did so a prayer rose to his lips that the remembrance of his mother, and her loving words and firm trust in God, might never pass from his mind, but nerve him for the battle of life which lay before him.
At the door of the house he was met by his brother and sister and his two little cousins, Minnie and Charlie, and the rest of the afternoon was spent in boyish frolics with them.
On the morrow came the parting. Nora's tears fell fast as the dog-cart bore her brother, accompanied by Mr. Macleod, out of sight. But in her ears rang Ronald's parting words: