Bildy's hero-worship of my brother increased as time went by. He regularly came to Mass, and obedient to Robina's instructions sat still and looked "straicht at Father Fleming." On one particular Sunday, when we had a priest staying with us (an old friend of Val's), the latter invited him to preach. This did not suit Bildy at all. After Mass he walked home alone, not waiting for Robina, who was chatting with her neighbors outside the church, and showed by his manner that something was amiss. Widow Lamont put down her book, in which she had been piously reading her "Prayers for Mass," and accosted him with the usual formula:
"Weel, Bildy, what kind o' preachin' had ye the day?"
But the answer was not that which they took a simple pleasure in drawing from him usually. Bildy began to bite his hand—a trick he had when annoyed.
"That's nae preachin'," he cried indignantly. "Yon monnie canna' preach! Wha's the reason Father Fleming canna' preach the day? Eh!" (with withering contempt.) "Sic a monnie preach!"
The diminutive, in Bildy's phraseology, implied depreciation; that was why he stigmatized a regular six-footer as a "monnie."
When Doddy came to Ardmuirland, Bildy discovered his real vocation! Doddy—or, in English, Georgie—was the orphan child of Robina's sister. His father had married a second wife and had gone out to Canada, and Widow Lamont had insisted upon having the little chap with her; for his father and step-mother were both Protestants, and Doddy stood little chance of being reared in the faith of his baptism. So the man agreed, and undertook to pay a trifle weekly for the child's keep, until he could earn something for himself.
Doddy was almost a baby—not more than four, and quite small of his age; but he soon discovered that he had a slave at his beck and call in the spellbound Bildy. The man seemed to worship the little fellow. Whenever Bildy was free from his ordinary occupations he was playing with Doddy, as though they were both children—with this difference: Doddy was always the tyrant, and Bildy the submissive subject.
It was a proof of the man's absolute harmlessness that he never so much as touched any one who angered him. Sometimes other children, attracted by Doddy, would come to join in the games, and often drove poor Bildy away. He would slink off, the picture of misery, and make his way home, biting his hand—his only sign of displeasure.
When Doddy was five, and had to attend school, Bildy would watch with the utmost patience the road by which the child had to return, until he caught sight of the tiny figure in the distance; then he would run to meet Doddy with every demonstration of joy, pick him up, set him on his shoulder, and amble off up the hill to the cottage.
Bildy had been about six years in Ardmuirland, and had become a favorite with every one. The poor fellow was so unfeignedly pleased to receive any little notice from any one that all accosted him kindly, and no one in the district would have dreamed of causing him unhappiness. Doddy had grown into a sharp little lad of seven, and was no longer so dependent upon Bildy for companionship. Yet Bildy did not relinquish altogether his post of guardian, but kept a wary eye upon the movements of his little master, ready at all times to do his bidding.