"I would do so to please you, Robert. I do not want to be paid for that," replied Christina. Robert smiled and went away in such a happy temper, that Jepson said as he took his place at the head of the kitchen breakfast table: "The master is off in high spirits this morning. The bride is winning her way, I suppose. She seems rather an attractive woman."

"You suppose! And pray what will your supposing be worth, Mr. Jepson?"

Mrs. McNab asked this question scornfully from the foot of the table.

"Attractive, indeed! She's charming, she's captivating, she's enchanting, she's bewitching; and if she was only Highland Scotch, she would soon be teaching thae sour old women the meaning o' them powerful words. She would that! But she's o'er good, and o'er good-tempered for the like o' them."

"You are talking of the mistress, McNab."

"I am weel acquaint wi' that fact, and I'll just remind you that my name is Mistress McNab, when you find sense enough to give me my right. And if it isna lawfu' to talk o' Mistress Traquair Campbell, there's no law forbidding me to talk o' them Lairds and Crawfords. If they ever come here again, the smoke will get through their porridge, and they'll wonder what the de'il is the matter wi' Mistress McNab's cookery."

"The guests of the house, McNab, ought to have a kind of consideration."

"Consider them yoursel', then."

"The Crawfords and Lairds both are the most respect----"

"Ill-bred, and forwardsome o' mortals. I could say much worse----"

"Better not."

"Bouncing, swaggering, nasty, beggarly creatures! They turn up their lang noses, and the palms o' their greedy hands at the like o' you and me, but there isna a lady or a gentleman at this table, that wouldna scorn the dirty things they did here."

"They gave none o' us a sixpence when they went awa," said Thomas, the second man.

"Sixpence! They couldna imagine a bawbee or a kind word to anybody but themsel's. They wouldna gie the smoke aff their porridge--but I'll tell you the differ o' them. The young mistress, G.o.d bless her, sends her maid to me last night, and the girl--a civil spoken creature--says: 'Mrs. McNab, my mistress would like her coffee and rolls in her own parlor, and there will be due you half-a-crown a week for your trouble, and thank you.' That's the way a lady puts things. And mind you, if there's the like o' a fresh kidney, or a few mushrooms coming Mrs.

McNab's way, they will go to my lovely lady in her own parlor--and Jepson, you can just tell the auld woman I made that remark."

"What is said at this table goes no further, Mrs. McNab, and that you know."

"Then the auld woman has the far-hearing, that's a'----" and being by this time at the end of her temper and her English speech, she plunged into Gaelic. It was her sure and unconquered resort, for no one could answer unp.r.o.nounceable and untranslatable words. All her companions knew was, that she rose from the table with an air of victory.

The next week was very wet. Day after day it was rain only interrupted by more rain, and Robert seemed to take a kind of pride in its abundance. "Few countries are so well watered as Scotland," he said complacently:

"_The West wind always brings wet weather, The East wind wet and cold together, The South wind surely brings us rain, The North wind blows it back again._"

This storm included Sunday, and every one went to church except Theodora. She had a headache, and having been told by Christina that the Kirk would size her up the first Sabbath she appeared, she resolved to put off the ordeal. The pleasure of being quite alone for a few hours was a temptation, for she needed solitude more than service, bewildered as she was by the strange household ideas and customs which had suddenly encompa.s.sed her life.

She had thought that religion, or some point of nationality, would be the most likely rocks of offence, but as yet all her trials had come from some trivial circ.u.mstance of daily life. She had been embarra.s.sed by such small differences, that she hardly knew in the hasty decisions they compelled, what to defend and what to abandon.

It was also a wearisome experience to be constantly exchanging suspicious courtesies with her husband's family, and by no effort of love or patience could she get beyond these. Their want of response made her sad, and checked her affectionate and spontaneous advances, but she knew that in the trials of domestic life all plans must come at last to the give and take, bear and forbear theory. So after some reflection, she said softly to herself: "These women are the samples of humanity given me with my husband, and I must make the best of them. I can choose my friends, but I must take my relations as I find them. They are not what I wish, not what I expected, but I fear nothing comes up to our expectations. The real thing always lacks the color of the thing hoped for."

Such despondent musings, however, were not natural to her hopeful temper. "There must be a bright side to the situation," she continued, "and I must try and find it." So she roused herself from the rec.u.mbent position she had taken. "Stand up on thy feet, and look for the bright side, Theodora." As she did so, her eyes fell upon the small book in her hand, and she read these words:

"Take a good heart, O Jerusalem, for he that gave thee that name will comfort thee." With a joyful smile she read it again, and this time aloud:

"Take a good heart, O Theodora, for he that gave thee that name will comfort thee!"[1] The glorious promise inspired her at once with strength and joy; she felt her soul singing within her, and her first impulse was to open the piano and pour out her thanksgiving.

"O come let us sing unto the Lord, let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation."

[Footnote 1: Baruch. Chap. 4, v. 30.]

At this point McNab rushed into the room crying: "For goodness sake, my lady, stop! You'll be having the police in, and the de'il to pay all round, disturbing the Sunday saints and the like o' it. Excuse me, ma'am, but you don't know what you're up to."

"I am singing a psalm, McNab. Is there anything wrong in that?"

"You've put your finger on the wrong, ma'am. Singing a psalm isna a thing fit to be done in your ain parlor on the Sunday. It is a' right in the Kirk, but it is a' wrang in the parlor."

"How is that?"

"You be to ask wiser folk than I am what's the differ. If you were singing the psalm o' the blessed Virgin itsel' and folk heard you, there would be no end o' the matter. You can sing without the piano, ma'am, it's the piano that's the blackguard on a Sunday."

"Thank you, McNab, for warning me. I have not learned the ways of the country yet."

"You'll never learn them, ma'am. They must be borned in ye, sucked in wi' your mither's milk, and thrashed into ye wi' your school lessons.

Just gie them their ways, and stick to your ain. You can do that, McNab does. They are easy satisfied if it suits their convenience. Every soul in this house is at church but mysel', for I hae made collops the regular Sunday dinner, and no one but McNab can cook collops to suit Mrs. Traquair Campbell."

"I am sure she would not keep you from church to make collops."

"I am a Catholic, and she keeps me at home to make collops, to prevent me going to my ain church. G.o.d save us! she thinks she is keeping me from serving the devil."

"So you are a Catholic?"

"Glory be to G.o.d, I am a Catholic! Did you ever taste collops, ma'am?"

"I never heard of them."

"Weel, they arena bad, and when McNab makes them, they are vera good. I shall put a few mushrooms in them to-day for your sake."

"Thank you!"

"And you can sing twice as much the morn. I'm sure it is a thanksgiving to listen to you."

Then the door closed, and Theodora closed the piano, put away her music, and went upstairs to dress for dinner. The thanksgiving was still in her heart, and she sang it with her soul joyfully, as she put on one of her most cheerful and beautiful costumes. It seemed natural and proper to do so, and without reasoning on the subject, she felt it to be in fit sympathy with her mood.

Even when the churchgoers came home drabbled and dripping, and as cross and gloomy as if they had been to hear a Gospel that was bad news, instead of good news, she did not feel its incongruity with her environment, until her mother-in-law said:

"You are very much over-dressed for the day, Dora."

"It is G.o.d's day, and I dressed in honor of the day."

"Then you should have gone to church to honor Him."

Before his wife could reply, Robert made a diversion: "What did you think of the sermon, mother?" he asked.

"It was a very strong sermon."

"Who was the preacher?" asked Isabel.

"Dr. Fraser of Stirling," said Robert.