“It’s a pity. But it’s yours. On your hand it would hae keepit awa’ evil. Ye must put it on a ribbon and hang it roun’ ye’re neck, and it may do the same. It will keep ye in mind yoursel’, if it minds naebody else.”
Allison gazed at her with eyes full of trouble. But in the face so deeply marked with the cares and sorrows and discontents of many years, she saw nothing to awaken distrust or fear. There were tears in the pale, sunken eyes, and the tremulous movement of the lips told only of kindly interest. Whatever she knew or suspected, Allison felt that the old woman did not mean her harm.
“Why should you be so kind to me—a stranger?” said she gently.
“I hardly ken mysel’, except that I wish ye weel. And then ye mind me o’ my ain youth, partly that ye’re sae like what I once was, and partly that ye are sae different. I can see now where I gaed wrang. And ye hae your life afore ye. Hae patience, and make the best of it that ye may.”
“I’ll try,” said Allison humbly. And so they parted.
Allison got a glimpse of the grim old face among those who were standing about the door to see them set off in the morning. And she never saw it more. Before Allison came back to Nethermuir again the schoolmistress was done with her toils, and troubles, and discontents, and was at rest. And Allison never knew what the old woman might have known or guessed of her life before she came to the manse.
There were a good many others there to see the travellers away. Marjorie was in the “gig” with her father and mother, who were to take her to join Mrs Esselmont at Firhill, so her time for tears was not come, nor was theirs. The child looked round on the faces of her friends and smiled and nodded, and was sorry, and glad, at the same time, but she was not, as she had told them, in the least afraid of what might be before her.
The same might be said of her father and mother—with a difference. They were glad, and they were sorry, and the mother was a little fainthearted for them both at the thought of the long days, that lay before them. But they were not afraid. They trusted their child in the Good Hand which had “led them all their life long until now,” and they had confidence in Allison Bain.
Allison herself wondered a little at their perfect faith in her. The night before, when worship was over, she had stayed behind the others to hear a few last words which were yet to be spoken. When the father and mother had said all they had to say and Allison was at the door to go away, she paused a minute or two, then coming back again she said gravely:
“I think if you had known me all my days,—if you had seen all my life till now,—I think you would still be willing to trust me with your Marjorie. But I cannot tell you. There is a reason—it is better to say nothing. Some day, I hope, I may be able to tell you all.”