“I have brought you a book, granny; it will amuse you when you are able to get up and read. There now, no thanks—you positively must lie down and try to sleep. I see your cheek is flushed with all this talking. Good-day, granny!”
“The next whom we will visit is a very different character,” said Flora, as they walked briskly along the road that followed the windings of the river; “he dwells half a mile off.”
“Then you will have time to tell me about old Moggy,” said Lucy. “You have not yet fulfilled your promise to tell me the secret connected with her, and I am burning with impatience to know it.”
“Of course you are; every girl of your age is set on fire by a secret. I have a mind to keep you turning a little longer.”
“And pray, grandmamma,” said Lucy, with an expressive twinkle in her eyes, “at what period of your prolonged life did you come to form such a just estimate of character in girls of my age?”
“I’ll answer that question another time,” said Flora; “meanwhile, I will relent and tell you about old Moggy. But, after all, there is not much to tell, and there is no secret connected with her, although there is a little mystery.”
“No secret, yet a mystery! a distinction without a difference, it seems to me.”
“Perhaps it is. You shall hear:—
“When a middle-aged woman, Moggy was housekeeper to Mr Hamilton, a landed proprietor in this neighbourhood. Mr Hamilton’s gardener fell in love with Moggy; they married, and, returning to this their native hamlet, settled down in the small hut which the old woman still occupies. They had one daughter, named Mary, after Mr Hamilton’s sister. When Mary was ten years old her father died of fever, and soon afterwards Moggy was taken again into Mr Hamilton’s household in her old capacity; for his sister was an invalid, and quite unfit to manage his house. In the course of time little Mary became a woman and married a farmer at a considerable distance from this neighbourhood. They had one child, a beautiful fair-haired little fellow. On the very day that he was born his father was killed by a kick from a horse. The shock to the poor mother was so great, that she sank under it and died. Thus the little infant was left entirely to the care of his grandmother. He was named Willie, after his father.
“Death seemed to cast his shadow over poor Moggy’s path all her life through. Shortly after this event Mr Hamilton died suddenly. This was a great blow to the housekeeper, for she was much attached to her old master, who had allowed her to keep her little grandson beside her under his roof. The sister survived her brother about five years. After her death the housekeeper returned to her old hut, where she has ever since lived on the interest of a small legacy left her by her old master. Little Willie, or wee Wullie, as she used to call him, was the light of old Moggy’s eyes, and the joy of her heart. She idolised and would have spoiled him, had that been possible; but the child was of a naturally sweet disposition, and would not spoil. He was extremely amiable and gentle, yet bold as a young lion, and full of fun. I do not wonder that poor old Moggy was both proud and fond of him in an extraordinary degree. The blow of his removal well-nigh withered her up, body and soul—”