It is not often that Ruby and he talk as they are doing now. Like all true Scotchmen, he is reticent by nature, reverencing that which is holy too much to take it lightly upon his lips. As for Ruby, she has never even thought of such things. In her gay, sunny life she has had no time to think of the mother awaiting her coming in the land which to Ruby, in more senses than one, is “very far off.”
Far in the distance the early sunshine gleams on the river, winding out and in like a silver thread. The tall trees stand stiffly by its banks, their green leaves faintly rustling in the soft summer wind. And above all stretches the blue, blue sky, flecked here and there by a fleecy cloud, beyond which, as the children tell us, lies God’s happiest land.
It is a fair scene, and one which Ruby’s eyes have gazed on often, with but little thought or appreciation of its beauty. But to-day her thoughts are far away, beyond another river which all must pass, where the shadows only fall the deeper because of the exceeding brightness of the light beyond. And still another river rises before the little girl’s eyes, a river, clear as crystal, the “beautiful, beautiful river” by whose banks the pilgrimage of even the most weary shall one day cease, the burden of even the most heavy-laden, one day be laid down. On what beauties must not her mother’s eyes be now gazing! But even midst the joy and glory of the heavenly land, how can that fond, loving heart be quite content if Ruby, one far day, is not to be with her there?
All the way home the little girl is very thoughtful, and a strange quietness seems to hang over usually merry Ruby for the remainder of the day.
But towards evening a great surprise is in store for her. Dick, whose duty it is, when his master is otherwise engaged, to ride to the nearest post-town for the letters, arrives with a parcel in his bag, addressed in very big letters to “Miss Ruby Thorne.” With fingers trembling with excitement the child cuts the string. Within is a long white box, and within the box a doll more beautiful than Ruby has ever even imagined, a doll with golden curls and closed eyes, who, when set upright, discloses the bluest of blue orbs. She is dressed in the daintiest of pale blue silk frocks, and tiny bronze shoes encase her feet. She is altogether, as Ruby ecstatically exclaims, “a love of a doll,” and seems but little the worse for her long journey across the briny ocean.
“It’s from Jack!” cries Ruby, her eyes shining. “Oh, and here’s a letter pinned to dolly’s dress! What a nice writer he is!” The child’s cheeks flush redly, and her fingers tremble even more as she tears the envelope open. “I’ll read it first to myself, mamma, and then I’ll give it to you.”
“My dear Little Ruby” (so the letter runs),
“I have very often thought of you since last we parted, and now do myself the pleasure of sending madam across the sea in charge of my letter to you. She is the little bird I would ask to whisper of me to you now and again, and if you remember your old friend as well as he will always remember you, I shall ask no more. How are the dollies? Bluebell and her other ladyship—I have forgotten her name. I often think of you this bleak, cold weather, and envy you your Australian sunshine just as, I suppose, you often envy me my bonnie Scotland. I am looking forward to the day when you are coming home on that visit you spoke of. We must try and have a regular jollification then, and Edinburgh, your mother’s home, isn’t so far off from Greenock but that you can manage to spend some time with us. My mother bids me say that she will expect you and your people. Give my kindest regards to your father and mother, and, looking forward to next Christmas,
“I remain, my dear little Ruby red,
“Your old friend,
“Jack.”
“Very good of him to take so much trouble on a little girl’s account,” remarks Mrs. Thorne, approvingly, when she too has perused the letter. “And what an exquisite doll! You must certainly write and thank Mr. Kirke, Ruby. It is the least you can do, after his kindness, and I am sure he would like to have a letter from you.”
“I just love him,” says Ruby, squeezing her doll closer to her. “I wish I could call the doll after him; but then, ‘Jack’ would never do for a lady’s name. I know what I’ll do!” with a little dance of delight. “I’ll call her ‘May’ after the little girl who gave Jack the card, and I’ll call her ‘Kirke’ for her second name, and that’ll be after Jack. I’ll tell him that when I write, and I’d better send him back his card too.”
That very evening, Ruby sits down to laboriously compose a letter to her friend.