No one except Miss Betsey, grannie felt gratefully, as she turned into the house again—Miss Betsey, who seemed made of iron, and never owned to being tired. She slept one night in three, when Katie and her mother kept the watching, and at other times she took “catnaps” in the rocking-chair, or on Mrs Fleming’s bed, when grannie was at her brightest and could care for Davie in the early part of the day.
And poor Davie tossed and muttered through many days and nights, never so delirious as to have forgotten the summer’s work, but never quite clear in his mind, and always struggling with some unknown power that, against his will, kept him back from doing his part in it. Till one day he looked into his grandfather’s face with comprehending eyes, and said weakly, but clearly:
“It must be time for the cutting of the wheat, grandfather; I have been sick a good while, surely?”
“Ay, have you; a good while. But you are better now, the doctor says. But never heed about the cutting of the wheat. Mark Varney has done all that, and more. We have had a good harvest, Davie.”
“Have we, grandfather?” said Davie, looking with surprise and dismay at the tears on his grandfather’s face.
“God has been good to us, laddie,” said Mr Fleming, trying to speak calmly, and then he rose and went out.
“So we’ve had a good harvest, have we? And Mark Varney! I wonder where he turned up. Oh, well! it’s all right I daresay—and—I’m tired already.” And he turned his head on the pillow and fell asleep.
Yes, Mark Varney had taken Davie’s work into his own hand. He came over with Mr Maxwell as soon as he heard the lad was ill. He made no formal offer of help, but just set himself to do what was to be done. He had all his own way about it, for Mr Fleming was too anxious to take much heed of the work, since some one else had taken it in hand; and no one knew better how work should be done than Mark. He had all the help he needed, for the neighbours were glad to offer help, and give it, too, in this time of need. The harvest was got through and the grain housed as successfully as the hay had been before Davie, lank and stooping, crept out over the fields of Ythan.
It was Sunday afternoon again when Katie and he went slowly down the brae toward the cherry-trees. Their grandfather and grandmother looked after them with loving eyes.
“The Lord is ay kind,” said Mrs Fleming, and then she read the 103rd Psalm in the old Scottish version, which she “whiles” liked to do. She paused now and then because her voice trembled, and on some of the verses she lingered, reading them twice over, seeking from her husband audible assent to the comfort they gave: