For it was not the minister's way to meet strangers with a text like that.

"It is Allison Bain," said she.

"Oh! it is Allison Bain, is it? So you are come already. I have seen your friend Dr Fleming, since you left."

"Dr Fleming was kind to me when I sore needed kindness."

Her eyes searched wistfully the minister's face, and it came into his mind that she was wondering how much of her story had been told to him.

"Dr Fleming said many kind things about you, and I trust it may prove for the good of us all, that we have been brought together," said he.

In his esteem it was no small thing that this poor soul who had suffered and perhaps sinned--though looking in her face he could not think it-- should have been given into their care. But nothing more could be said.

A soft, shrill voice came from a room on the other side of the house.

"Are you coming, father? I am here, waiting for you."

"Ah, yes! Ay waiting, my bonny dooie (little dove)."

When his wife entered the room, he was sitting in silence with the pale cheek of his only daughter resting against his. A fair, fragile little creature she was, whose long, loose garments falling around her, showed that she could not run and play like other children, whatever might be the cause. It was a smile of perfect content which met her mother's look.

"Well, mother," said she softly.

"Well, my dear, you are happy now. But you are not surely going to keep your father in his damp clothes? And tea will soon be ready."

"Ah, no! I winna keep him. And he is only going up the stair this time," said the child, raising herself up and fondly stroking the grave face which was looking down upon her with love unutterable. He laid her upon the little couch by the fireside and went away without a word.

"Come soon, father," said the child.

It was not long before he came. The lamp was lighted by that time, and the fire was burning brightly. The boys had come in, and the mother went to and fro, busy about the tea-table. The father's eyes were bright with thankful love as he looked in upon them.

It was not a large room, and might have seemed crowded and uncomfortable to unaccustomed eyes. For all the six sons were there--the youngest in the cradle, and the little daughter's couch took up the corner between the window and the fire. The tea-table was spread with both the leaves up, and there was not much room certainly between it and the other table, on which many books and papers were piled, or the corner where the minister's arm-chair stood.

The chair was brought forward in a twinkling, and he was seated in it with his little white dove again on his knee. This was the usual arrangement for this hour evidently. To-night the brothers stood before them in a half circle looking on.

"Well, and how has my Marjorie been all this long time?"

"Oh! I have been fine and well, father, and the time has not been so very long. Do you ken what Mrs Esselmont has sent me? A doll. A fine doll with joints in her knees, and she can sit down. And her clothes come off and on, just like anybody's. Jack has made a stool for her, and he said he would make me a table and a chair if you brought a knife to him when you came home. Did you bring Jack a knife, father?"

"Well--I'm not just sure yet. I will need to hear how Jack has been behaving before we say anything about a knife," said her father; but his smile was rea.s.suring, though his words were grave.

"I think Jack has been good, father. And mother was here, ye ken, and she would settle it all, and not leave anything over till you come home, unless it were something serious," added the child gravely.

Jack hung his head.

"So I am to let bygones be bygones?" said his father.

"And, father," said the child again, her sweet, shrill voice breaking through the suppressed noise of her brothers--"Allie has come!" And even the introduction of the wonderful doll had brought no brighter look to the little pale face. "Allie has come, and I like Allie."

"Do you, love? That is well."

"Yes, father. Eh! but she's bonny and strong! When she carried me up the stair to my bed, I shut my een, and I thought it might be father himself, Robin is strong, too, and so is Jack, but I'm not ay just so sure of them," said Marjorie, looking deprecatingly at her brothers, "and I ay feel as if I must help mother when she carries me, because she's whiles weary. But it is almost as good as having you, father, when Allie takes me in her arms."

Marjorie was "whiles weary" also, it seemed. She had talked more than all the rest of them put together, which was not her way in general; so she laid her head down on her father's shoulder, and said no more till tea was brought in. It was the new maid who brought in the bright tea-kettle at last, and set it on the side of the grate. Marjorie raised her head and put out a hand to detain her.

"Father, this is Allison Bain. And, Allie, ye must tell father about the lady. Father, Allie kenned a lady once, who was like me when she was little, and hardly set her foot to the ground for many a year and day. I think she must have been even worse than me, for once they had her grave-clothes made," said the child in an awed voice, "and when she didna die, they were hardly glad, for what was her life worth to her, they said. But she was patient and good, and there came a wise woman to see her and whether it was the wise woman that helped her or just the Lord himself, folk couldna agree, but by and by she grew strong and well and went about on her own feet like other folk and grew up to be a woman, and was the mother of sons before she died."

Jack and his brothers laughed at the climax, but the child took no notice of their mirth.

"It might happen to me too, father, if a wise woman were to come, or if the Lord himself were to take me in hand."

"Ay, my lammie," said her father softly.

"The mother of sons before she died," repeated the child. "But she did die at last, father. It ay comes to that."

"Ay, dear, soon or late, it ay comes to that."

"But, father, I wouldna like it to be soon with me. And if only a wise woman would come here--But never mind, father," added she, laying her soft little hand on his as his kind eyes grew grave; "I can wait. I'm only little yet, and there's plenty of time, and now Allie has come, and she is strong and kind. I like Allie," she added, caressing the hand which she had been holding fast all the time. "Allie says that maybe the best thing that could happen to me would be to die, but I would like to live and go about like other folk a whilie first."

"I am sure Allie will be good to you," said her father.

"Ay, that will I," said Allie, looking gravely down upon the child.

"Come, now, tea is ready," said the mother's cheerful voice. And rather quietly, considering their number, the boys took their places at the table.

There were five of them; the sixth was asleep in the cradle. Robert, the eldest, just fifteen, was a "good scholar," and dux in the parish school. He was ready for the university, and was going there when the way should be made clear for him. As a general thing, he had a book in his hand while he munched the oaten bannocks, which formed the chief part of the boys' evening meal. But to-night he listened and put in his word with the rest. And there were words in plenty, for their father had been away ten whole days, and he had much to hear.

The others were handsome, hardy boys, with dark eyes and sun-browned faces, and the fair hair of so many Scottish laddies, darkening a little already in the elder ones. They were seen at their best to-night, for their father had been expected, and clean hands and faces had been a matter of choice, and not, as was sometimes the case, of compulsion, and "the lint white locks," longer and more abundant than we usually see them on boyish heads nowadays, were in reasonable order.

If a hundredth part of the pride and delight which filled their father's heart, as he looked round on them, had been allowed to appear on his face, it would have astonished them all not a little. His eyes met those of their mother with a look in which was thankfulness as well as pride, but to the boys themselves he said quietly enough:

"I am glad to hear from your mother that you have been reasonably good boys while I have been away. If there is anything that any of you think I ought to hear of, you'll tell me yourselves."

A look was exchanged among the older lads.

"The nicht, father?" said one of them.

"Well, to-morrow may do, unless it be something more than usual. Is it Jack?"

Of course it was Jack. He looked at his mother and hung his head, but said nothing.

"Hoot, man! get it over the nicht," whispered Robin.

And so he did. But poor Jack's mischief need not be told. It was not really very serious, though his father listened seriously, and kept his smiles till he was alone with the boy's mother. _Mischief_ is a generic term in the Scottish tongue, including some things bad enough, but also some things in which fun is one of the chief elements, and Jack's _mischief_ was mostly of this kind. Sometimes his father laughed in private, even when he found it necessary to show displeasure to the culprit.

But he was reasonable in his punishments, which was not invariably the case with even good men and good fathers, in that land, in those days.

There were whispers among some of the frequenters of the little kirk, to the effect that the minister's laddies needed sharper discipline than they were like to have at home, and there were prophecies that they would be likely to get their share of discipline of one kind or another when they should be out of their father's hands.

Jack got easily off, whatever his fault had been, and had his knife besides. They all grew a little noisy over their father's gifts. As it was Sat.u.r.day night, his first thought had been that they should not be distributed till Monday. But their mother said they might, perhaps, think all the more about them if they had not seen them. So each got his gift, and their delight in them, seeing there was so little to rejoice over, was in the eyes of the father and mother both amusing and pathetic.