“Is the little girl well?”
“The lassie’s weel an I’d be laith to part wi her did I no ken there are they wha hae a better richt to her. Noo, tell me; what hae ye learned about her folks?”
“There have been some enquiries; her people know that she is safe.”
“Wha are they? I’ll gang an see them.”
“There’s no need. You go home and you’ll hear from them.”
A good deal of conversation followed, but Mrs Crowdie could get no particular information about the parents, further than that they were satisfied she was in safe hands, and they would call or send for their child in a short time. Forced to be satisfied with this, she returned home, and when Roose threw her arms round her neck in welcome, she could not forbear the secret wish that the parents might never come. There was some mystery and she hoped that it might result thus. She watched the child pattering about during the afternoon, listened to her prattle, and helped to amuse her, and when the evening gathered, and the sun set beyond the forest, leaving the clouds burning in crimson and gold, she sat with her in her lap. Something in the peaceful scene stirred up old memories, and, with thin and quavering voice, the old woman began the 23rd psalm. To her surprise, the child chimed in, knowing both the words and the old world tune Mrs Crowdie sang them to. “Wha taught ye that, ma dawtie?” she asked, as finishing the psalm, she hugged the child in closer embrace, the moisture glistening in her eyes. “Mama,” said the child. “She maun be a guid woman, and a Presbyterian, too.” And clasping the child, Mrs Crowdie sat thinking in silence and did not move into the house until it grew chill, when she said “the bairn micht catch cauld.”
THE MYSTERY IS CLEARED UP.
The section of Hinchinbrook in which Mrs Crowdie lives is a very pleasant one to look upon; the landscape being relieved from monotony by low knolls and ridges which break the wide intervales. In the middle of September, the bush, that runs as a straggling and somewhat ragged fringe over the ridges, was still green, with only here and there a branch or tree whose brilliant red foretold the coming glory. The day was bright and warm, the sun’s rays being chastened by the faint smoky haze that softened the distant features of the landscape. Her work being over until milking time came round, Mrs Crowdie took a seat by the open window and began knitting. Her little charge had gone to watch a preposterous hen, which, after being given up as having furnished supper to a fox, had appeared that morning clucking with joy over the solitary chicken that followed her; the yellow hairy little thing a source of delight to the child. While Mrs Crowdie’s fingers moved actively with the needles, her thoughts were wandering away to the past. The advent of the child had stirred her nature and wakened memories, she knew not how, that she had stifled so long ago that she thought they were dead. And to judge by her face, they were not pleasant memories. Casually raising her head, she was astounded to see a woman standing at the door intently watching her; a comely woman, neatly dressed.
“What’s brocht you back?” demanded Mrs Crowdie, breaking silence, “I told you I was dune wi’ you; that gin ye had made yer bed, you could lie on it.”
“O, mother!”