David Fleming's Forgiveness

by Margaret M. Robertson

Davie came back for the last time with his full pails, and Miss Elizabeth was glad that the talk should come to an end, for her father was showing signs of weariness and weakness. There was a little discussion about the propriety of boiling all the sap down to-night, so that the morning’s “batch” of sugar should be the larger. That was Davie’s plan, but his grandfather objected, and to Katie’s intense delight Davie yielded to his decision cheerfully enough. So he set to work to build up the fires, that the process of boiling to syrup what was now in the kettle might be hastened, for it must be taken from the fire and strained and put safely into the camp before they went home.

Katie’s sugar was by this time pronounced ready to be tested, and Davie hastened to bring from some distant hollow a bucketful of the snow which still lingered in shady places. Over this a spoonful or two of the clear brown liquid from the kettle was spread, and as it stiffened, and after a little became solid, it was pronounced to be sugar—though to unaccustomed eyes it would have seemed only a brown syrup still. But by the time it cooled it would be mostly solid sugar, and when the remaining moist part should be drawn off, it would be maple sugar of the very best, Squire Holt declared, and no one knew better than be.

It is not to be supposed that the old people had cared much to have the sugar made for them, or that they tasted it very freely now that it was done. But they had enjoyed seeing it made, and had had a pleasant afternoon. They did not fall into much talk after this. It was nearly sunset, and time for the squire to be at home. So he and Elizabeth did not return to the house, but took the buggy at the point where it had been left, and went straight to the village. Mr and Mrs Fleming went home together over the fields, and Katie was left to help Davie with the straining of the syrup, which was nearly ready now.

“We have had a pleasant afternoon,” said Katie; “I only wish the minister had been here, and Miss Betsey, and Mr Burnet. If we had known we might have sent for them.”

“It is better as it was. Grandfather liked it better,” said Davie. “The minister was here the other day.”

“And you didna tell us!”

“Well—I’m telling you now.” And in a little he had told the whole story, shamefacedly, but quite honestly. Katie did not say that she thought the minister had been hard on him—thought it for a while. However, Davie did not think he had been hard, she could see, and no harm was done.

In Katie’s opinion Davie had been wonderfully good and thoughtful all winter. He had very rarely laid himself open to his grandfather’s doubts or displeasure. But after this time there was a difference that made itself apparent to eyes that were less watchful than Katie’s. “Loving loyalty,” that was just the name for it. In great things and small, after this, the lad laid himself out to please his grandfather.

He was captious with his sisters “whiles,” she acknowledged in secret; he was arbitrary with his little brothers when they neglected tasks of his giving; and tried his mother and his grandmother, now and then, as young lads always have, and always will try their mothers and grandmothers, until old heads can be put on young shoulders.

But with his grandfather he was gentle, patient, and considerate, to a degree that surprised even Katie, who had been gentle, patient, and considerate with him all her life. She used to wonder whether her grandfather noticed it. He never spoke of it, but he found fault less frequently, and was less exacting as to times and seasons for work, and as to the lad’s comings and goings generally.