It was a delight to her motherly nature to dress and undress Fay’s bonny boy. She would prose for hours about Robbie and Elsie as she sat beside the homely cradle that had once held her own children, while Fay listened languidly. It was all she could do to lie there and sleep and eat. Perhaps it was bodily exhaustion, but a sort of lull had come to her. She ceased to fret, and only wondered dreamily if Hugh were very pleased to get rid of her, and what he was doing, and who dusted and arranged his papers for him now she was no longer there. But of course Mrs. Heron would see to that.
Jean had plenty of work on her hands, but she never grumbled. There was the baby’s washing and extra cooking, and the care of her old master. But in spite of her hard work, she often contrived to find her way to the pink room; for Jean worshiped babies, and it was a proud moment when she could get the boy in her arms and carry him out for a breath of air.
Mrs. Duncan told Fay that she had had great difficulty in making her husband understand the facts of the case. “His brain was just a wee bit clouded to every-day matters,” she said; but he knew that he had guests at the Manse, and had charged his wife to show every hospitality.
“There is a deal said about the virtue of hospitality in the Bible,” he continued. “There was Abraham and the fatted calf; and the good widows in the apostles’ time who washed the feet of strangers; and some have entertained angels unaware; and it shall never be said of us, Jeanie woman, that we turned anybody from the Manse.”
Fay went to see the old man when she was strong enough to leave her room, which was not for a fortnight after her arrival.
She found him lying on one side of the big bed with brown moreen hangings that she remembered so well, with his white head pillowed high, and his fine old face turned to the setting sun.
He looked at her with a placid smile as she stood beside him—a small girlish figure, now sadly frail and drooping, with her boy in her arms—and held out his left hand—the right arm was helpless.
“Mother and child,” he murmured; “it is always before our eyes, the Divine picture; and old and young, it touches the manhood within us. So you have come to bide a wee with Jeanie and me in the old Manse, my dear young lady; ay, and you are kindly welcome. And folks do say that there is no air so fine as ours, and no milk so pure as our brindled cow gives, and may be it will give you a little color into your cheeks.”
“Don’t you remember me, Mr. Duncan?” asked Fay, somewhat disappointed to find herself treated like an ordinary visitor. “Don’t you remember Fay Mordaunt, the little girl who used to play with you in the orchard? but I am afraid I was older than I looked.”
“Elsie used to play with me in the orchard,” replied the old man, wistfully; “but Jeanie says she has gone to Heaven with wee Robbie. Nay, I never remember names, except Jeanie—and may be Jean comes handy. And there is one I never forget—the name of my Lord Jesus;” and he bowed his old head reverently.