The forester’s house was in the bosom of the wood under his charge. A narrow foot-road, winding through the trees, ran close to the bounding hedge of its well-stocked garden, and nestling warmly below the thick foliage, the house stood snug in the corner of its luxuriant enclosure, presiding in modest pride, like some sober cottage matron, conscious of decent comfort and independence, over its flourishing cabbages, and stately bushes of southern-wood, ripe gooseberries, and abounding roses. Within, it was as clean and bright as forest cottage could be, and with its long vistas of noble trees everywhere, and the one thread of communication with the outer world that ran close to its door, was a pleasant habitation—homelike and cheerful. Bessie’s aunt was, like her cottage, soberly light-hearted, kind and motherly. Upon her well scoured white deal table, she had set out a row of glancing cups and saucers, flanked with delicate bannocks of various kinds, and jelly more plentiful than Miss Crankie’s. It was early in the afternoon. Mrs. Young, honest woman, hospitably purposed entertaining her guests with a magnificent tea before her husband and stalwart sons came in to their ruder and more substantial meal. She gave her niece’s friend a hearty welcome; the two girls, after their dusty walk of four miles, by no means thought the kindly auntie’s preparations unseasonable; but after Mrs. Young had turned a deaf ear to two or three hints from Bessie, she explained her delay at last.
“Ye see, lassies, there’s an auld neighbor coming this gate this afternoon. Her and me served in one place before I was married, and she’s been lang in a gentleman’s house, south—near Berwick. She’s an auld lass; a thrifty weel-doing carefu’ woman, wi’ a guid wage, and siller to the fore; but she’s come to years when folk are lone, if they have nae near friends, and Rob Miller, her brither, has a housefu’ o’ weans; and I’m no sure that his wife can be fashed fyking about a pernickity single woman. So ye maun see and be ceevil, and take note o’ Jean—how weel put on and wise-like she is—and tak a pattern by her; it’s a’ her ain doing; she’s been working for hersel’ a’ her days.”
Bessie drummed upon the table—looked at the tea “masking” before the fire, the smooth, well-baked bannocks, and beautiful red currant jelly upon the table—and became impatient.
“I wish she would come then, auntie. It’s awfu’ stourie on the road.”
“Yonder’s somebody in among the trees,” said Jacky, glancing out.
It was Mrs. Young’s friend at last, and the good woman bestirred herself to complete her table arrangements, while Bessie conveyed the mighty Leghorn bonnet and wonderful Paisley shawl, which Rob Miller’s eldest daughter already looked forward to as a great inheritance, into the inner room. Mrs. Young’s friend was a tall, bony, erect woman, with a thin brown face, and projecting teeth, and sandy hair carefully smoothed beneath a muslin cap, modestly, tied with a scrap of blue ribbon. She was a very homely, unhandsome-looking person, yet had an unassuming simplicity about her, not common in the upper servant class. Jean Miller had known evil in her day. The long upper lip pressing above these irregular ill-shaped teeth of her’s had quivered with deep griefs many times in the painful and weary past years, which had left no record of themselves or of her course in them, save that most deeply pathetic one engraven in her own solitary high heart—a high heart it was, humble and of slight regard as was the frame it dwelt in—much stricken, sorely tried, and with an arrow quivering in it still.
Jean’s hands were rigidly crossed in her lap; she was never quite at ease in idleness. Mrs. Young good-humoredly drew her chair to the table, called Bessie, placed the teapot on the tray, and began her duties. There was a simple blessing asked upon the “offered mercies,” according to the reverent usage of peasant families in Scotland, and then the dainties were discussed.
“And how is Andrew winning on wi’ his learning, Jean?” said Mrs. Young.
There was a slight quivering of the thin upper lip—very slight—no eye less keen than Jacky’s could have perceived it.
“They tell me very weel,” said Jean, meekly; “he’s been getting some grand books in a prize, and they’re unco weel pleased wi’ him at the college.”