“Wait, Ranald, a moment,” cried Mrs. Murray. She ran into the next room, and in a few moments returned with two or three books and some magazines. “These,” she said, handing him the books, “are some of Walter Scott's. They will be good for week-days; and these,” giving him the magazines, “you can read after church on Sabbath.”
The boy's eyes lighted up as he thanked Mrs. Murray, and he shook hands with her very warmly. Then, with a bow to the company, and without looking at Maimie again, he left the room, with Hughie following at his heels. In a short time Hughie came back full of enthusiastic praise of his hero.
“Oh, mother!” he cried, “he is awful smart. He can just do anything. He can make a splendid bed of balsam brush, and porridge, and pancakes, and—and—and—everything.”
“A bed of balsam brush and porridge! What a wonderful boy he must be, Hughie,” said Maimie, teasing him. “But isn't he just a little queer?”
“He's not a bit queer,” said Hughie, stoutly. “He is the best, best, best boy in all the world.”
“Indeed! how extraordinary!” said Maimie; “you wouldn't think so to look at him.”
“I think he is just splendid,” said Hughie; “don't you, mother?”
“Indeed, he is fery brown whatever,” mocked Maimie, mimicking Ranald's Highland tongue, a trick at which she was very clever, “and—not just fery clean.”
“You're just a mean, mean, red-headed snip!” cried Hughie, in a rage, “and I don't like you one bit.”
But Maimie was proud of her golden hair, so Hughie's shot fell harmless.