Bildy's respect for Val never waned. He never caught sight of the priest, even at some little distance, but his hand flew up to his cap in salutation, and remained there until Val had seen him and had returned his salute. This would happen if he saw Val at a window of our house just the same as when outside.
Penny took quite a motherly interest in the poor afflicted fellow. Whenever he came on any errand from the Lamonts he was always given a piece of cake or fruit—anything sweet, for he had a child's taste. But although Bildy was supremely delighted, he seldom said more than "thank you, Ma'am!" I once suggested that she should refer to Val, and the experiment was successful in opening Bildy's mouth. After that the conversation would almost invariably run thus:
"Did you see Father Fleming on Sunday, Bildy?"
"Aye, aye! He's the boy! Father Fleming's the boy!"
Next to the old widow, Bildy loved the cow. She was his particular charge, and he was soon on intimate terms with her. Not only did he carry on familiar conversations with her, on his part, but it appeared that the cow made him her confidant in return. If he began to murmur something to himself as he sat by the chimney corner, they would inquire what he was talking about. It was generally arrant nonsense that he told them. Once Robina asked:
"Wha tellit ye that rubbish, Bildy?"
"The coo," he gravely answered.
On a damp, misty morning he had gone out as usual to drive the cow out to the meadow to graze. Widow Lamont, from her place opposite the window, noticed that they did not pass out in the customary way, and notified the fact to Robina. The latter accordingly ran out at once to inquire the reason of the delay. She found Bildy quietly fastening the door of the byre before returning to the house.
"Ye havna' fetched oot the coo!" she exclaimed. "Gae in an' drive her oot, Bildy!"
"Na, na," replied he, solemnly shaking his head. "She says it's ower cauld the day. She'll bide inside."