But Allison shook her head. “Nothing that it would please you to hear; and it is all over now, and I am going away.”
“Yes, you are going away. I may not be here when you come back again, and I must say one thing to you. I trust you, Allison Bain. I believe you to be good and true, whatever trouble may have come into your life by the ill-doing of others. May the Lord have you in His keeping, and bring you safe through all trouble ‘into a large place.’ Kiss me, my dear.”
Allison stooped and kissed her, and went away without a word. As she turned from the door a hand was laid upon her arm, and a voice said:
“Is it you, Allison Bain? I would like a word wi’ ye. I’ll no’ keep ye lang.”
Allison was tired and sad at heart, and she longed to be alone. She could not but yield, however, to the entreating voice of the mistress, and she crossed the street to her door. The lamp was lighted, and a small, bright fire burned on the hearth, and one of the chairs had been taken down from the high dresser for the expected visitor.
“Sit ye doon, Allison,” said the schoolmistress. “I saw ye when ye gaed into Mistress Beaton’s, and I waited for you, but I winna keep ye lang. And ye’re going farawa’? Are ye glad to go? And are ye ever comin’ back again?”
“I must come back with Marjorie. Whatever happens, I must bring home the child to her father and her mother,” said Allison, gravely.
“Ay, ye must do that, as ye say, whatever should happen. And may naething but gude befall ye. I’ll miss ye sairly; ye hae been a great divert to me, you and the minister’s bairn thegither—especially since the cloud lifted, and ither things happened, and ye began to tak’ heart again. Do ye mind the ‘Stanin Stanes’ yon day, and a’ the bairns, and John Beaton wi his baps? Oh! ay. I’ll miss ye mair than ye ken.”
The old woman sat for a time looking in silence at Allison, then she said:
“Eh! woman! It’s weel to be the like o’ you! Ye’re young, and ye’re strong, and ye’re bonny; and ye hae sense and discretion, and folk like ye. It’s nae ance in a thousand times that a’ these things come to a woman thegither. Ye mind me o’ mysel’ when I was young. I had a’ that ye hae, except the sense and discretion. But that’s neither here nor there, at this late day,” added she, rising.