"They know you are to be trusted with the child. You have done her much good, poor wee lammie."

"She has done me much good," said Allison.

"I am sure of it. In the way of kindness done, as in other ways, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' You are a good nurse, Allison."

"I love the child. It is a great pleasure to do for her."

"It is your love for her that makes you wise and firm in dealing with her. And you have been a sick-nurse, I hear."

Mrs Esselmont was thinking of the time which Allison had pa.s.sed in the infirmary, but Allison had for the moment forgotten that. Her thoughts had gone back to her home and her mother, who had needed her care so long.

"My mother was long ill, and there was no one but me to do for her. I learned to do many things to ease and help her first, and my father afterward."

"Have they been long dead?" asked Mrs Esselmont gently.

"A long while it _seems_--but it is not so very long. There was little time between them, and all things seemed to come to an end when they were gone."

Mrs Esselmont listened in wonder to the low, pathetic voice which told her this. Was this the girl who had never spoken of her past life in the hearing of any one--who had never named father or mother or home, except perhaps to little Marjorie? Mrs Esselmont was a wise woman.

She would have liked well to hear more, but she asked no question to startle her into silence again. After a little she said:

"They were happy in having a loving daughter to close their eyes." And she sighed, thinking of her own dearest daughter who was faraway.

Marjorie stirred in Allison's arms, and there was no need to answer. By and by Jack came with the lantern, and it was time to go home.

After this, in their brief intercourse--during a few minutes in the garden, or by the parlour fire, while the child was being wrapped up to go home--Mrs Esselmont had many a quiet word with Marjorie's faithful nurse and friend, and their friendship grew slowly but surely.

Allison's revelation of herself, and of her past life, was for the most part quite unconsciously made. Mrs Esselmont listened and made no comments; but in her own thoughts, when she "put this and that together," she owned that not often in the course of a long life had she come into contact with one in whose character, strength and gentleness, firmness and patience, were more happily combined. Without being aware of it, she was beginning to regard this strong and silent young woman not as a mere maid-servant in the manse, who came and went, and worked for wages like the rest, but as one who, for reasons not to be revealed, had chosen, or had been forced by an untoward fate, to begin a new life in a sphere in which she had not been born. But much as she desired to know more about her, she waited for Allison herself to speak.

Summer pa.s.sed all too quickly and the "dowie fall o' the year" was drawing on. There was no more going through the lanes to follow or to flit the cows for Marjorie. The harvest was over, and the patient creatures had the range of all the narrow fields, and cripple Sandy had leisure to do his duty toward them without the help of any one. But whenever a bright day came, or even a gleam of sunshine when the day was dark, the child had still a turn in the lanes, or round the garden in Allison's arms. All the days were busy days, but none of them were so full of work or care as to hinder Allison in this labour of love, which indeed was as good for herself as for Marjorie.

For there were times as the days began to grow dark and short when Allison needed all the help which her love for the child could give her to keep her thoughts from the cares and fears which pressed upon her.

No word came from Willie, though she had written to Mr Hadden to tell him that her brother was free, and that she hoped he would soon be in America, and that he might safely write to her now.

It was time for a letter unless Willie had lingered longer at home than he had promised. Was he there still? or had any ill happened to him?

She could wait with patience for the sight of him, even for years, if she could but be sure that he was safe and well. And she could only strive to wait with patience whether she heard or not.

She was saying something like this to herself as she sat in the silent house one night, when the kitchen-door opened and Saunners Crombie came in. The minister was not at home, and Mrs Hume, who was not very well, was up-stairs with her little daughter. All this Allison told him, and asked him to sit down, with no thought that he would do so, for few words had ever pa.s.sed between them. He sat down, however, and leaned over the fire with his hands spread out, for "the nicht was cauld," he said.

Allison brought dry peats and mended the fire, and then took to her stocking-mending again. It would not have been easy for her to begin a conversation with Crombie under any circ.u.mstances. It seemed impossible to do so now, for what could she say to him? Saunners had been in deep affliction. His wife was dead, and he had just returned from her burial in a distant parish, and it seemed to Allison that it would be presumption in her to utter a word of condolence, and worse still to speak about indifferent things.

She stole a glance at him now and then as she went on with her work.

How old, and grey, and grim he looked! And how sad and solitary the little house at the edge of the moss must be, now that his wife was not there! His grey hair and his bowed head 'minded her of her father; and this man had no child to comfort him, as she had tried to comfort her father when her mother died. She was very sorry for him.

Her sympathy took a practical turn, and she rose suddenly and went out.

The tea-kettle was singing on the hearth, and when she returned she went to the dresser and took the teapot down.

"Ye're chilled and weary, and I am going to make you a cup of tea," said she. Saunners looked up in surprise.

"There's nae occasion. I'll get my supper when I gae hame."

He made a little pause before the word, as though it were not easy to say it.

"Ay, will ye. But that will be a while yet. And I must do as I am bidden. The mistress would have come down, but she's no' just very well the night, and is going to her bed. The minister may be in soon."

So the tea was made and b.u.t.ter spread upon the bannocks, and then Allison made herself busy here and there about the kitchen and out of it, that he might have his tea in peace. When his meal was finished and the dishes put away, she sat down again, and another glance at the bowed head and the wrinkled, careworn face, gave her courage to say:

"I am sorry for your trouble."

Saunners answered with a sigh.

"Ye must be worn out wi' that lang road and your heavy heart."

"Ay. It was far past gloaming o' the second day ere I wore to the end o' the journey. The langest twa days o' a lang life they were to me.

But it was her wish to be laid there wi' her ain folk, and I bid to gie her that last pleasure. But it was a lang road to me and Girzzie, too, puir beast."

"And had ye no friend to be with ye all that time?"

Saunners shook his head.

"Peter Gilchrist offered to go wi' me. But he was ahind with his farm work, an' I wasna needin' him. Twa folk may shorten a lang day to ane anither, but it's no ay done to edification. But the warst o' a' was coming hame to a forsaken hoose."

The old man shivered at the remembrance and his grey head drooped lower.

"I'm sorry for your trouble," repeated Allison. "It's the forsaken home that at first seems the worst to bear."

"Ay, do ye ken that? Weel, mine's a forsaken hoose. She was but a f.e.c.kless bodie, and no' ay that easy to deal wi', but she's a sair miss in the hoose. And I hae but begun wi't," added Saunners with a sigh.

Then there was a long silence. "It's a bonny place yon, where I laid her down," said he at last, as if he was going on with his own thoughts.

"It's a bonny spot on a hillside, lying weel to the sun, wi' a brown burn at the foot. I got a glimpse over the wall of the manse garden.

The minister's an auld man, they say. I didna trouble him. He could hae dane nae gude either to her or to me. It's a fine, quiet spot to rest in. I dinna wonder that my Eppie minded on it at last, and had a longing to lie there with her kin. It is a place weel filled--weel filled indeed."

Allison's work had fallen on her lap, and she sat with parted lips and eager eyes gazing at him as he went on.

"I saw the name o' Bain on a fine new headstane there. An only son had put it up over his father and his mother, within a few months, they said. I took notice of it because o' a man that came in and stood glowering at it as we were finishing our job. It was wi' nae gude intent that he cam', I doubt. He was ane that middled with maist things in the parish, they said. But I could hae proved that my Eppie belonged to the parish, and had a gude right to lie there wi' her kin. We were near dane ere he took heed o' us, and it was ower late to speak then.

He only speired a question or twa, and then gaed awa'."

Then there was a long pause. Saunners sat looking into the fire, sighing now and then, and clearing his throat as if he were ready to begin again. When he turned toward her, Allison took to her stocking-darning. She longed to ask him a question--but she dared not do it, even if she could have uttered the words. Saunners went on:

"I thocht it queer-like of the man, but I would hardly have heeded it but for that which followed. When his back was fairly turned there came a wee wifie out o' the corner, where she had been watchin', and shook her neive (fist) at him and ca'ed him ill names. It was like a curse upon him. And she bade him go hame to his fine house, where he would have to live his leefu' lane a' his days as a punishment for his wickedness. I had a few words with her after that. She was unco curious to hear about my Eppie, and how I came to lay her there. We gaed through among the stanes thegither, and she had plenty to say about ane and anither; and whiles she was sensible enough, and whiles I had my doubts about it. Many a strange thing she told me gin I could only mind."

Then Saunners sat silent again, thinking. Allison turned her face away from the light.

Was the terrible old man saying all this with a purpose? Did he know more than he told, and did he mean it for a warning? For it must have been in the parish of Kilgower where he had laid down the body of his wife. And it must have been Brownrig whom the "wee bowed wifie" had cursed. She grew sick at the thought of what might be coming upon her; but she put force upon herself, and spoke quietly about other matters.

Then the old man rose to go.

"I thocht maybe I might see John Beaton the nicht. Is he at hame, think ye?" Allison shook her head.

"I havena heard of his being here, but he may have come for all that."

"Ye would be likely to ken," said Saunners, and then he went away.