“Did they, indeed!” said Kate, with a toss of her head. “Ye'll be glad to ken he can well afford it!” and she sniffed at the parcel redolent of perfumes strange and strong.
“Ye needna snap the nose off me,” said the postman; “I only made the remark. What—what does the fellow, do?”
“He's a traveller for railway tunnels,” retorted the maid of Colonsay, and shut the window with a bang, to tear open the parcel in a frenzy of expectation and find a bottle of Genuine Riga Balsam—wonderful cure for sailors' wounds!—another of Florida Water, and a silver locket, with a note from Charles saying the poem she had sent was truly grand, and wishing her many happy returns of the day. Like many of Charles's letters now, its meaning was, in parts, beyond her, until she could learn from Bud the nature of the one to which it was an answer—for Bud was so far enraptured with the wandering sailor that she sometimes sent him letters which the servant never saw. That day the breakfast service smelled of Florida Water, for Kate had drenched herself with the perfume, and Miss Bell was sure she had washed the dishes again with scented soap, as was the habit of the girl when first she came from Colonsay and thought that nothing but Brown Windsor would do justice to Grandma Buntain's tea-set used on Sundays. But Bud could see the signs of Shipping Intelligence, and as soon as she could she hastened to the kitchen, for it was Saturday, and on Saturdays there were no lessons in the Dyce Academy. Oh, how she and Kate fondled the bottles lovingly, and sniffed passionately at their contents, and took turn about of the locket! The maid had but one regret, that she had no immediate use for Riga Balsam; but Bud was more devoted than that—she gently pricked the palm of her hand with a pin and applied the Genuine. “Oh, how he must love me—us, I mean!” she exclaimed, and eagerly devoured his letter.
“What did you say to him in the last?” asked Kate. “He's talking there about a poetry, and happy returns of the day.”
Bud confessed she had made a poem for him from his beloved Kate, and had reckoned on fetching a gift of candy by telling him her birthday was on Monday. “It really I'd just as lief have the balsam,” said she; “it's perfectly lovely; how it nips!”
“It's not my birthday at all,” said Kate. “My birthday's always on the second Sunday in September. I was born about the same time as Lady Anne—either a fortnight before or a fortnight after; I forget mysel' completely which it was, and I dare say so does she.”
“No, but Monday's my birthday, right enough,” said Bud, “and seeing that we're sort of loving him in company, I s'posed it would be all the same.”
“So it is; I'm not complainin',” said the maid. “And now we'll have to send him something back. What would you recommend?”
They considered many gifts appropriate for a sailor—sou'westers, Bible-markers, woollen comforters, and paper-knives, scarf-pins, gloves, and ties. Bud was sure that nothing would delight him like a book about a desert island, but Kate said no, a pipe was just the very ticket—a wooden pipe with silver mountings; the very one to suit was in the window of Mrs. Wright's Italian warehouse.
“What's an Italian warehouse?” asked the child. “You have me there,” said Kate, “unless, maybe, her husband was Italian before he went and died on her. 'Italian Warehouse' is the only thing that's on her sign. She sells a thing for almost any price you like to offer, because the Bible says it's not the thing at all to argy-bargy.”