“Never mind, Allie dear, I’ll tell you something. Do ye ken what that little housie is? It has neither door nor window. There is a hole on this side that is shut with a board. But it is a nice place. I have been in it whiles. That is the place where John Beaton makes headstones when he’s no’ away building houses on the other side of Aberdeen.”
“Do ye mean stanes for the kirkyard?”
“Just that. He’s a clever lad, John. He can do many things, Robin says. He’s Robin’s friend.”
“It maun be dreary wark.”
“But that wouldna trouble John. He’s strong and cheerful, and I like him weel. He’s wise, and he’s kind. He tells me about folk that he has seen, and places and things. And whiles he sings to me, and I like him best after my father and mother and my brothers—and you,” added Marjorie, glancing up at Allison. “I’m no’ sure which o’ the two I like best. I’ll ken better when I see you together. Ye’re the bonniest far!” said the child, fondly patting the cheek, to which the soft wind blowing upon it had brought a splendid colour. “Did Mrs Beaton never tell you about ‘My John’?”
“Oh! ay. But I dinna mind about it. I wasna heedin’.”
“But ye’ll like him when ye see him,” said Marjorie.
The mother was watching for them when they reached home, and Robin was there too. It was Robin who took the child from Allison and carried her in.
“Oh, mother! I have been over the burn, and I’ve seen the hills all covered with snow and the sun shining on them, and it was beautiful. And I’m not just so very tired. Are ye tired, Allie?”
“What would tire me? I would like to carry ye ilka (every) day to the top o’ Win’hill. It might do ye good.”