“Ay; what then?”
“Eh! I know her.”
“Do you, my boy?”
“Ye–yes; sh–she’s dyin’!”
The result of this remark was that the sailor-boy turned deadly pale, and stared at his little friend without being able to utter a word. Mere human nature taught Jacky that he had made a mistake in being so precipitate: but home education had not taught him to consider the feelings of others. He felt inclined to comfort his new friend, but knew not how to do it. At last a happy thought occurred to him, and he exclaimed eagerly—
“B–but sh–she’s not dead yet!”
“Does she live in the same cottage?” asked the boy, in a low, husky voice, not considering that his companion could not know what cottage she had occupied in former days. Jacky, also ignoring this fact, nodded his head violently, being past speech with excitement, and pointed in the direction of the hut.
Without another word, Billy, (more correctly speaking, Willie), at once took to his heels, and was followed by Jacky as fast as his short legs could carry him.
Flora Macdonald was administering a glass of hot wine and water to her patient, when the door was quickly, yet gently, opened, and a sailor-lad sprang into the room, fell on his knees beside the lowly couch, seized the old woman’s hand, gazed for a few seconds into her withered face, and then murmuring, “Granny, it’s me,” laid his head on her shoulder and burst into tears.
Flora gently drew the boy away.