“But what need to cross the sea?” cried Mrs Smith; “It’s a pity but folk should ken when they’re weel aff. What could the like o’ him do in a country he kens nothing about, and with so many bairns?”
“It’s for the bairns’ sake he’s thinking of it. They say there’s fine land there for the working, and no such a thing as payin’ rent, but every man farming his own land, with none to say him nay. And there’s room for all, and meat and clothes, and to spare. I’m no’ sure but it’s just the best thing the minister can do. They had near made up their minds afore, ye ken.”
“Hoot, woman, speak sense,” entreated her friend. “Is the minister to sell rusty knives and glass beads to the Indians? That’s what they do in yon country, as I’ve read in a book myself. Whatna like way is that to bring up a family?”
“Losh, woman, there’s other folk there beside red Indians; folk that dinna scruple to even themselves with the best in Britain, no’ less. You should read the newspapers, woman. There’s one John Caldwell there, a friend o’ the minister’s, that’s something in a college, and he’s aye writing him to come. He says it’s a wonderful country for progress; and they hae things there they ca’ institutions, that he seems to think muckle o’, though what they may be I couldna weel make out. The minister read a bit out o’ a letter the ither night to Miss Graeme and me.”
“Janet,” said her friend, “say the truth at once. The minister is bent on this fule’s errand, and you’re encouraging in it.”
“Na, na! He needs na encouragement from the like o’ me. I would gie muckle, that hasna muckle to spare, gin he were content to bide where he is, though it’s easy seen he’ll hae ill enough bringing up a family here, and these laddies needing more ilka year that goes o’er their heads. And they say yon’s a grand country, and fine eddication to be got in it for next to nothing. I’m no sure but the best thing he can do is to take them there. I ken the mistress was weel pleased with the thought,” and Janet tried with all her might, to look hopeful; but her truth-telling countenance betrayed her. Her friend shook her head gravely.
“It might have done, with her to guide them; but it’s very different now, as you ken yourself, far better than I can tell you. It would be little else than a temptin’ o’ Providence to expose these helpless bairns, first to the perils o’ the sea, and then to those o’ a strange country. He’ll never do it. He’s restless now; and unsettled; but when time, that cures most troubles, goes by, he’ll think better of it, and bide where he is.”
Janet made no reply, but in her heart she took no such comfort. She knew it was no feeling of restlessness, no longing to be away from the scene of his sorrow that had decided the minister to emigrate, and that he had decided she very well knew. These might have hastened his plans, she thought, but he went for the sake of his children. They might make their own way in the world, and he thought he could better do this in the New World than in the Old. The decision of one whom she had always reverenced for his goodness and wisdom must be right, she thought; yet she had misgivings, many and sad, as to the future of the children she had come to love so well. It was to have her faint hope confirmed, and her strong fears chased away, that she had spoken that afternoon to her friend; and it was with a feeling of utter disconsolateness that, she turned to her work again, when, at last, she was left alone.
For Janet had a deeper cause for care than she had told, a vague feeling that the worldly wisdom of her friend could not help her here, keeping her silent about it to her. That very morning, her heart had leaped to her lips, when her master in his grave, brief way, had asked,—
“Janet, will you go with us, and help me to take care of her bairns?”