“The sweetest in the world!” cried Auntie Bell. “I wonder to hear you haivering.”
“I'm afraid you're not a judge of music,” said the brother. “Scotch songs are very common—everybody knows them. There's no art in them, there's only heart—a trifling kind of quality. If you happen to hear me singing 'Annie Laurie' or 'Afton Water' after you come home, Bud, be sure and check me. I want to be no discredit to you.”
“No, I sha'n't, Uncle Dan,” said the child. “I'll sing 'Mary Morison' and 'Ae Fond Kiss' and 'Jock o'Hazeldean' at you till you're fairly squealing with delight. I know. Allow me! Why, you're only haivering.”
“Have mercy on the child, Dan,” said his sister. “Never you mind him, Bud, he's only making fun of you.”
“I know,” said Bud; “but I'm not kicking.”
Kate—ah, poor Kate!—how sorry I should be for her, deserted by her friend and tutor if she had not her own consoling captain. Kate would be weeping silently every time the pipe was on in the scullery and she thought how lonely her kitchen was to be when the child was gone. And she had plans to make that painful exile less heart-rending: she was going to write to her sister out in Colonsay, and tell her to be sure and send fresh country eggs at intervals of every now and then, or maybe oftener in the winter-time, to Lennox, for the genuine country egg was a thing it was hopeless to expect in. Edinburgh, where there wasn't such a thing as sand or grass or heather—only causeway stones. She could assure Lennox that, as for marriage, there was not the slightest risk for years and years, since there wasn't a house in the town to let that would be big enough (and still not dear) to suit a captain. He was quite content to be a plain intended, and hold on. And as for writing, she would take her pen in hand quite often and send the latest news to Lennox, who must please excuse haste and these d-d-desperate pens, and having the post to catch—not that she would dream of catching the poor, wee, shauchly creature; it was just a way of speaking. Would Lennox not be so dreadful homesick, missing all the cheery things, and smothered up in books in yon place—Edinburgh?
“I expect I'll be dre'ffle homesick,” admitted Bud. “I'm sure you will, my lassie,” said the maid. “I was so homesick myself when I came here at first that my feet got almost splay with wanting to turn back to Colonsay. But if I'm not so terribly good-looking, I'm awful brave, and soon got over it. When you are homesick go down to the quay and look at the steamboats or take a turn at our old friend Mr. Puckwuck.” Four days—three days—two days—one day—tomorrow; that last day went so fast it looked as if Wanton Wully had lost the place again and rang the evening bell some hours before it was due. Bud could only sit by, helpless, and marvel at the ingenuity that could be shown in packing what looked enough to stock Miss Minto's shop into a couple of boxes. She aged a twelvemonth between the hand-glass at the bottom and the bath-sheet on the top.
“And in this corner,” said Miss Bell, on her knees, “you'll find your Bible, the horehound mixture, and five-and-twenty threepenny bits for the plate on Sundays—some of them sixpences.”
“Irish ones, apparently,” said Uncle Dan.
“Some of them sixpences, for the Foreign Mission days, and one shilling for the day of the Highlands and Islands.”