"They're inside," said Gordon; "you'll see them in a minute." Then followed a few minutes of swift questioning and answering. "But come on in with us now," Gordon suddenly broke in, taking his father's arm as he spoke, "come, till I introduce you to my friends—come, Helen."
I slipped behind the older man; and then, in Indian file, Gordon leading, we returned to our wondering guests. A fine procession, too, we must have made; Gordon in his spotless evening dress, I in my very finest—and between us, tall and stooped, his white locks shaking as he walked, his eagle eye fixing itself half defiantly and half appealingly upon the upturned faces, stood Gordon's father in his homespun, the Scotch shawl still about his shoulders, the huge safety-pin that held it gleaming in the brilliant light.
Gordon introduced him to every guest: "My father," he said to each, and no one could fail to see the radiance on his face. Then the old man was given a seat at Gordon's right, the arrears of dinner were brought quickly in, and in a moment our new visitor was the centre of attraction. Before taking his seat he stooped and kissed both the children, looking at them earnestly, then at their father, "The laddie's like yir mither, Gordon," he said, his voice trembling a little; "aye, he's got Elsie's mouth," wherewith he kissed him again, the lad looking up in wonder. "The wee lassie favours yirsel', Mrs. Laird."
"My name's Helen," I said quietly.
The strong face glowed with pleasure; and I could see what joy my amendment had given Gordon. "The wee girl has yir ain bonnie face, Helen," he corrected, hesitating a little before he spoke my name.
It's wonderful what homing instincts children have! For a few minutes later little Dorothy, usually so shy, slipped out of her chair and stole over beside her grandfather, looking wistfully up into his face. He took her on his knee, stroking her head with beautiful tenderness.
His plate of soup was now before him, but still Grandfather Laird did not begin. Finally, in some perplexity, he turned to Gordon. "I'll tak' a wee drappie speerits, Gordon, if you please; I maistly tak's juist what ye'd notice afore supper—forbye, I'm tired."
Gordon flushed, hesitating. "We haven't such a thing about the house, father—we really never keep it," he began in some embarrassment. "It isn't much of a custom out here, father."
The old man sighed as he took up the snow-white napkin beside his plate, pushing it a little farther away lest it should get soiled. "I'm dootin' this country's no' juist what it's thocht to be. The first mon I clappit my eye on in Montreal, he was a beggar, wi' a cup—an' I thocht everybody had plenty siller in Canady. An' noo it seems ye ha'ena' a drappie aboot the hoose. Weel, it's nae matter; I can dae wantin' it. But I'll no' begin wi'oot the blessin'," he added gravely. "Wull ye say it, Gordon?" nodding to his reverend son.
"No, father—you say it yourself," replied Gordon, bowing his head, in which he was speedily followed by all of us.