“And how are the bairns pleased with the prospect?” asked her mother.
“Ah! they’re weel pleased, bairn-like, at any thought o’ a change. Miss Graeme has her doubts, I whiles think, but that shouldna count; there are few things that look joyful to her at the present time. She’s ower like her father with her ups and downs. She hasna her mother’s cheerful spirit.”
“Her mother’s death was an awfu’ loss to Miss Graeme, poor thing,” said the mother.
“Aye, that it was—her that had never kent a trouble but by readin’ o’ them in printed books. It was an awfu’ wakening to her. She has never been the same since, and I doubt it will be long till she has the same light heart again. She tries to fill her mother’s place to them all, and when she finds she canna do it, she loses heart and patience with herself. But I hae great hope o’ her. She has the ‘single eye,’ and God will guide her. I hae nae fear for Miss Graeme.”
And then they spoke of many things—settling their little matters of business, and arranging their plans as quietly as though they looked forward to doing the same thing every month during the future years as they had done during the past. Nothing was forgotten or omitted; for Janet well knew that all her time and strength would be needed for the preparations that must soon commence, and that no time so good as the present might be found for her own personal arrangements. Her little savings were to be lodged in safe hands for her mother’s use, and if anything were to happen to her they were to be taken to send Sandy over the sea. It was all done very quietly and calmly. I will not say that Janet’s voice did not falter sometimes, or that no mist came between the mother’s eyes and the grave face on the other side of the table. But there was no sign given. A strong sense of duty sustained them. A firm belief that however painful the future might be, they were doing right in this matter, gave them power to look calmly at the sacrifice that must cost them so much.
At length the children’s voices were heard, and at the sound, Janet’s heart leaped up with a throb of pain, but in words she gave no utterance to the pang.
“Weel, Sandy, lad, is this you,” said she, as with mingled shyness and pleasure the boy came forward at his grandmother’s bidding. He was a well-grown and healthy lad, with a frank face, and a thick shock of light curls. There was a happy look in his large blue eyes, and the smile came very naturally to his rather large mouth. To his mother, at the moment, he seemed altogether beautiful, and her heart cried out against the great trial that was before her. Sandy stood with his hand in hers, while his grandmother questioned him about the errand on which he had been sent, and she had time to quiet herself. But there was a look on her face as she sat there, gently stroking his fair hair with her hand, that was sad to see. Marian saw it with momentary wonder, and then coming up to her, she laid her arm gently over her neck and whispered,—
“Sandy is going with us too, Janet. There will be plenty of room for us all.”
“I’ve been telling Menie that I canna leave grannie,” said Sandy, turning gravely to his mother. “You’ll hae Norman and Harry, and them a’, but grannie has none but me.”
“And wouldna you like to go with us too, Sandy, man?” asked his mother, with a pang.