With this explanation Junkie was fain to rest content at the time, for the party had reached a part of the hill where it became necessary to station the guns at their several posts. In regard to this drive, we have only to say that it ended in nothing except heavy rain and a severe draft on the patience of the sportsmen, without any reward, save that which may be derived from mild martyrdom.
Now, when the events which we have described were taking place on the mountains of Loch Lossie, a very different scene was occurring in the nursery of Kinlossie House. In that interesting apartment, which was one of the chief country residences of the spirits Row and Smash, little Flora was seated all alone in the afternoon of that day. Her seat was a low chair, before her was a low table to match. On the table sat her favourite doll, Blackie, to whom she was administering counsel of the gravest kind, in tones the most solemn. The counsel, we need scarcely say, gave unquestionable proof that her mother’s admonitions to herself had been thoroughly understood, though not always acted on. Flo was in the midst of one of her most pathetic appeals to Blackie to be “dood,” when her mother entered hastily.
“Come with me, darling, to visit poor old Mrs Donaldson. She is not very well, I hear.”
Flo required no second bidding, for she was extremely fond of the keeper’s mother—and love needs no persuasion.
As we have said, Mrs Donaldson’s little cottage stood behind that of her son Ivor. It was very small, consisting of only one apartment with a box bed and a few articles of old furniture, the most cherished of which was a little clock with a staring face, and a poor landscape on it.
“What caused the bruise, Maggie?” asked Mrs Gordon, after much talk on the subject of fomentations and bandages. The old woman hesitated to tell, but after a little pressing she said, in half apologetic tone,—“Weel, mem, it was na Ivor’s fau’t, but the day before yesterday he cam in—fou—ye ken he’s fond o’ his glass, mem, an’ he was swingin’ aboot his airms, poor falla, an’ withoot the least intention, his haund cam doon wi’ sik a ding on my heed that knockit me doon. But he kens na aboot it, so ye’ll no speak o’t to him—or to the laird.”
“You may depend upon it, poor Maggie, that I will not. My mentioning it could do no good. And, as you say, Ivor was not quite himself at the time.”
“Thank’ee, mem, that’s just it. An’ he’s the best sons to me—whan he’s sober.”
Soon afterwards a shout outside told that the sportsmen had returned from the hills, so, bidding the old woman good-bye, Mrs Gordon and her sympathetic child returned to the house.