Allison turned toward her with startled eyes.
“Yes, it was my mother,” said she.
“Ah! what a thing it must be to have a daughter!” went on Mrs Beaton; and it was on her lips to ask if her mother were living still, but the look on Allison’s face arrested the words. There was silence between them till Mrs Beaton was laid in her bed again. Allison washed the dishes she had used, and put the room in order. Then she swept the hearth and covered the fire, and then she said good-night. After she had shut the door, she opened it again and said:
“I might look in on you in the morning, but it would need to be early, and I might disturb you.”
“You wouldna disturb me. But I doubt you would have ill leaving.”
“Oh! I can come, but I canna bide long.”
She went next day and for several days, and their friendship grew in a silent way. And then Mrs Beaton was better, and the little lass who came in the mornings to make the fire and do what else was to be done returned, and Allison’s visits ceased for a while.
Indeed she had little time for anything but the work of the house, and the care of the bairns as the winter wore on. The little boys and Marjorie had their turn of the cough, but happily much less severely than had been feared for them. Still there was enough to do for them, and as their mother was not very strong, Allison took Marjorie in charge by night as well as by day, and the child got bravely through it all. Allison made a couch of her high kitchen-dresser, when it could be done without interfering with the work of the moment, and Marjorie lay there for hours among her pillows, as content as if she had been with her mother in the parlour.
It was good for the child to have such constant and loving care, and it was good for Allison to give it. For many a word of childish wisdom did she get to think about, and sometimes foolish words to smile at, and in listening to Marjorie, and caring for her comfort at all times, she forgot for a while to think of her own cares.
In the long evenings, when the rain or the darkness prevented the usual run, after the next day’s lessons had been prepared, the elder boys used to betake themselves to the kitchen fireside, and on most such nights some of their companions found their way there also. Then there was story-telling, or the singing of songs and ballads, or endless discussions about all things under the sun. Now and then there was a turn of rather rough play, but it never went very far, for the sound of their father’s step, or a glimpse of their mother’s face at the door, made all quiet again, at least for a time.