“It’s no muckle Randall Home heeds about me, and you ken that,” said Jenny; “and for a’ he didna see me, I saw him the last time he was here. I’ll just tell you, Miss Menie, yon lad, to be a right lad, is owre heeding about himsel.”
“You’re not to say that, Jenny; it vexes me,” said Menie, with simple gravity; “besides, it is not true. You mistake Randall—and then Johnnie Lithgow.”
“I wouldna say but what I might be pleased to get a glint o’ him,” said Jenny. “Eh, my patience! to think o’ Betty Armstrong’s son sitting down with our mistress. But I’ll be sure to ca’ them by their right names afore the folk. I canna get my tongue about thae maisters. Maister Lithgow! and me minds him a wee white-headed laddie, hauding up his peeny for cakes on the Hogmanay, and pu’ing John Glendinning’s kail-stocks at Hallowe’en. What would I put on my gown for, bairn? As sure as I gang into the room, I’ll ca’ him Johnnie.”
But Jenny’s scruples at last yielded, and Jenny came forth from her chamber glorious in a blue-and-yellow gown, printed in great stripes and figures, and made after an antediluvian fashion, which utterly shocked and horrified the pretty Maria, Miss Annie Laurie’s favourite maid. Nor was Miss Annie Laurie herself less disconcerted, when honest Jenny, the high shoulder largely developed by her tight-fitting gown, and carrying a cake-basket in her brown hands, made her appearance in the partially-filled drawing-room, threading her way leisurely through the guests, and examining, with keen glances and much attention, the faces of the masculine portion of them. Miss Annie made a pause in her own lively and juvenile talk, to watch the strange figure and the keen inquiring face, over which a shade of bewilderment gradually crept. But Miss Annie no longer thought it amusing, when Jenny made an abrupt pause before her young mistress, then shily endeavouring to make acquaintance with some very fine young ladies, daughters of Miss Annie’s loftiest and most aristocratic friends, and said in a startling whisper, which all the room could hear, “Miss Menie! ye might tell folk which is him, if he’s here; but I canna see a creature that’s like Johnnie Lithgow o’ Kirklands, nor ony belanging to him, in the haill room.”
Miss Annie Laurie, much horrified, rose from her seat somewhat hastily; but at the same moment up sprang by her side the guest to whom her most particular attentions had been devoted—“And Burnside Jenny has forgotten me!”
Burnside Jenny, quite forgetful of “all the folk,” turned round upon him in an instant. Not quite Johnnie Lithgow, the merriest mischief-doer in Kirklands parish, but a face that prompted recollections of his without dispute—blue eyes, dancing and running over with the light of a happy spirit—and a wisp of close curls, not many shades darker in colour than those of the “white-headed laddie,” whose merry tricks Jenny had not forgotten. “Eh, man! is this you?” said Jenny, with a sigh of satisfaction. “I aye likit the callant for a’ his mischief, and it’s just the same blithe face after a’.”
Randall Home stood leaning his fine figure against the mantelpiece, and took no notice of Jenny. Randall was somewhat afraid of a similar recognition; but Johnnie Lithgow, who did not affect attitudes—Johnnie Lithgow, who was neither proud nor ashamed of being a cottager’s son, and who had a habit of doing such kindly things as occurred to him without consideration of prudence—drew her aside by both her brown hands, out of which Jenny had laid the cake-basket, to talk to her of home. A slight smile curled on the lip of Randall Home. How well he looked, leaning upon his arm, his lofty head towering over every other head in Miss Annie’s drawing-room, with his look of conscious dignity, his intellectual face! Menie Laurie and Menie Laurie’s mother did not find it possible to be other than proud of him; yet the eyes of both turned somewhat wistfully to the corner, to dwell upon a face which for itself could have charmed no one, but which beamed and shone like sunshine upon Jenny, greeting her as an old friend.
“Your friend is a literary man?” said somebody inquiringly, taking up a respectful position by Randall’s side.
“Yes, poor fellow; he spins himself out into daily portions for the press,” said Randall.
“A high vocation, sir; leader of public opinions and movements,” said the somebody, who professed to be an intellectual person, a man of progress.