Warmly was she welcomed by old nurse. Not long had she been in discovering the change that had taken place in her darling's heart; and many a time now, as she stroked back the golden brown locks off the broad brow, she loved to think that a fairer diadem than that of this world would one day rest there.
On the morning we write of, a more than usually hearty welcome greeted Nora.
"Come in, come in, my lambkin; I'm wantin' sore to see ye. Look ye here; I've had news o' my puir misguided laddie. He's livin', Miss Nora, sore broke down, they write, in mind an' body, but ower prood to say a word to his auld grannie, wha loes him dearly yet, in spite o' a' his faults."
"How got I the news, you ask? Weel, ye see, it's this Duncan Finlay; ye'll mind o' him?—Jean Finlay's son, doon the glen. Weel, he's been in furrin pairts, a sailor lad; an' in the ship comin' hame, wha should he see but Johnny—my Johnny—workin' his passage hame (for it seems he's been i' the Indies, puir laddie); and when he saw Duncan, he made him promise he'd no tell ony o' his folk where he was, or what he was daein'."
"An' at first Duncan had kind o' agreed to that; but when they were nearin' England, Johnny fell sick, an' Duncan has been rale kind to him, got him intil lodgin's, an' tended him like a brither. But my puir laddie's gettin' nee better; an' noo Duncan feels he canna' keep silence ony langer, an' so he wrote to his mither to tell her a' this—And oh, Miss Nora, he says, for a' Johnny appears hardened-like to his hame, he thinks his heart turns fondly to his auld grannie still: for in his sleep, he ca's for me, an' speaks aboot the auld hills an' the bonny pass, whiles fancyin' he's helpin the gentry to fish i' the river, or gangin' wi' them as he's dune mony a time ower the muirs when they're shootin' the grouse. An' aince, missie, only think Duncan writes—" and as she spoke, tears ran down the old woman's cheeks—"he thocht he was in the kirk, an' began singin' oot the words o' the psalm, 'The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want.'"
"'Deed, Miss Nora, my heart's fair like to break, when I think o' my bairn lyin' in yon great city, among strangers noo; for Duncan has to leave to join his ship again. An' since it's the Lord's will, I canna get to him, I've been thinkin', if only you would write to Maister Ronald, he'd seek him oot and comfort him a bit. See, here's the address I've gotten frae Duncan."
Nora looked at it. "Oh yes, nurse," she said; "I'll write at once to Ronald; I know he and my cousin, Mr. Arbuthnot, often visit among the lodging-houses in London; and Ronald will be so pleased if he can help poor Johnny in any way. Keep up your spirits, nurse; perhaps the illness may be God's way of drawing poor Johnny to himself."
"Ay, ay," was the old woman's reply. "I'm trustin' in him, missie; the Good Shepherd goes into the wilderness after his errin' sheep, an' sometimes, even against their will, carries them home to the fold in his ain lovin' arms. And ye'll write soon, missie, an' tell me whenever ye hear?"
"That I will," said Nora, rising; "but I must run off now, for I have one or two sick people to see down the glen, and auntie told me not to linger too long."
And calling Cherry to come away from the cosy fire, she set off, having cheered up by her bright looks and loving words the heart of the old woman.