"And you have done this before."

Allison answered nothing.

"Was it your mother, my dear?" said Mrs Beaton, laying her small, wrinkled hand on hers.

Allison turned toward her with startled eyes.

"Yes, it was my mother," said she.

"Ah! what a thing it must be to have a daughter!" went on Mrs Beaton; and it was on her lips to ask if her mother were living still, but the look on Allison's face arrested the words. There was silence between them till Mrs Beaton was laid in her bed again. Allison washed the dishes she had used, and put the room in order. Then she swept the hearth and covered the fire, and then she said good-night. After she had shut the door, she opened it again and said:

"I might look in on you in the morning, but it would need to be early, and I might disturb you."

"You wouldna disturb me. But I doubt you would have ill leaving."

"Oh! I can come, but I canna bide long."

She went next day and for several days, and their friendship grew in a silent way. And then Mrs Beaton was better, and the little la.s.s who came in the mornings to make the fire and do what else was to be done returned, and Allison's visits ceased for a while.

Indeed she had little time for anything but the work of the house, and the care of the bairns as the winter wore on. The little boys and Marjorie had their turn of the cough, but happily much less severely than had been feared for them. Still there was enough to do for them, and as their mother was not very strong, Allison took Marjorie in charge by night as well as by day, and the child got bravely through it all.

Allison made a couch of her high kitchen-dresser, when it could be done without interfering with the work of the moment, and Marjorie lay there for hours among her pillows, as content as if she had been with her mother in the parlour.

It was good for the child to have such constant and loving care, and it was good for Allison to give it. For many a word of childish wisdom did she get to think about, and sometimes foolish words to smile at, and in listening to Marjorie, and caring for her comfort at all times, she forgot for a while to think of her own cares.

In the long evenings, when the rain or the darkness prevented the usual run, after the next day's lessons had been prepared, the elder boys used to betake themselves to the kitchen fireside, and on most such nights some of their companions found their way there also. Then there was story-telling, or the singing of songs and ballads, or endless discussions about all things under the sun. Now and then there was a turn of rather rough play, but it never went very far, for the sound of their father's step, or a glimpse of their mother's face at the door, made all quiet again, at least for a time.

They were rather rough lads some of those who came, but they were mostly "laddies weel brocht up," and rarely was there a word uttered among them which it would have harmed the youngest child to hear. There was Scotch of the broadest in their songs and in their talk, and the manse boys, who were expected to speak English in the presence of their father and mother, among their companions made the most of their opportunities for the use of their own more expressive tongue. But there was no vulgarity or coa.r.s.eness in their talk.

As silent here as elsewhere, the presence of "the new la.s.s," as the visitors, long accustomed to old Kirstin, called her, did not interfere in the least with the order of things. She might have been blind or deaf for all the difference it made to them, and, except on the rare occasions when little Marjorie was permitted to be there, for all the difference their coming made to her. When Marjorie was there, Allison's wheel, or the stocking she was knitting, was put aside, and the child rested at ease and content in her arms. No one of them all took more pleasure at such times than Marjorie. She liked the stories and the songs and the quaint old ballads, of which Robin and some of the others had a store, and she was a sympathetic little creature, and could not be happy unless Allie enjoyed them also, so her attention was never allowed to wander when the child's hand could touch her cheek.

But better than either song or story, Marjorie liked to hear about all that was going on in the town. Nothing came amiss to her that any one had to tell. She liked to hear about their neighbours, and the bairns, their goings and comings, their sickness and recovery. Even their new gowns and their visits to one another interested the friendly little child, who could not visit herself, nor wear new gowns, and the lad who had the most to say about them all was the one who pleased her best.

All they used to tell her made her a little sad sometimes, for she could not come and go, or run and play, as those happy children could, and her chief desire was to be strong and well and "to go about on her own feet like other folk."

January was nearly over before there came any frost to speak of, and the first bright, sharp weather, it was said, did much good to the sick folk in the town. Then they had snow--not just a shower to excite first expectation and then disappointment among the lads and la.s.sies who rejoiced in its coming, as they mostly delighted in any change that came--but a heavy fall, and then a high wind which drifted it here and there between the hills and made some of the roads impa.s.sable for the time. Many of the lanes were filled full, and some of the folk had to be dug out, because the snow had covered their doors.

There was no end to the great b.a.l.l.s which were rolled along the streets.

A strong fort was built on the square beside the pump, which was fiercely attacked and bravely defended, and battles were fought through all the streets before the snow was trodden into black slush beneath the feet of the combatants. Even the dreaded "kink-hoast" (whooping-cough) failed to keep some of the bolder spirits out of the fray, and those of them who took the fun in moderation were none the worse, but rather the better for the rally.

But Marjorie saw none of this, and she longed to see it all; and though she had been less ill with the cough than some of the others had been, she lost ground now, refused her food, and grew fretful and listless as Allison had never seen her before.

It was hard for the eager little creature to listen quietly to all her brothers had to tell of what was going on among the young folk of the town. They boasted of Robin's strength and skill, and of Jack's unequalled prowess when "snawba'ing" was the order of the day, and she wanted to see it all. And she longed to see the rush of the full burn and the whiteness of all the hills. Allison looked at her with a great longing to comfort her, but what could she say? Even the mother thought it wisest to listen in silence to the child's murmurs.

"But it's no' just the snawba'ing and the white hills I am thinking about, mother. This is the way it will ay be, all my life long. I must just sit still and hear the sound of things, and never be in the midst of them like other folk. All my life, mother! Think of it!"

"My dear," said her mother gravely, "all your life may not be a very long time."

"But, mother, I would like it to be long. There is Robin going to be a great scholar and astonish the whole world; and Jack is going in search of adventures; and Davie's going to America to have a farm of a thousand acres, all his own. And why should I have to stay here, and not even see the snawba'ing, nor the full burn, nor the castle that the boys made?"

As a general thing Mrs Hume left her little daughter's "why"

unanswered, only trying to beguile her from such thoughts to the enjoyment of what was left to her in her quiet life. To-day her heart was sore for the child, knowing well that her lot would not seem more easy to bear as the years went on.

"My darling," said she, "it is G.o.d's will."

"Yes, mother; but why should it be G.o.d's will just with me? Surely when He can do _anything_, He might give me a chance with the rest. Or else He should just make me content as I am."

"And so He will, dear, in time. You must ask Him, and leave all in His hand."

"Oh! yes. I must just leave it. There is nothing else to do. As to asking--I ay ask to be made strong, and to walk about on my ain feet.

And then--wouldna I just serve Him!"

The last words were spoken to Allison, whose kind, sad eyes had been resting on her all the time. And Allison answered:

"But surely it may be His will that you should see the full burn and the snawy braes, if it be your mother's will! A' the bairns are better since the frost came, and I might carry wee Marjorie as far as the fit o' the Wind Hill for a change."

"Oh! mother! mother! Let me go. Allie carries me so strong and easy.

And I might have Mrs Esselmont's warm shawl round me, and the soft little hat, and I would never feel the cold. Oh! mother! mother!"

"I might at least take her to the end o' the lane; and if she should be cauld, or weary, or if the cough came on, I could be hame with her in a minute."

Though only half convinced of the wisdom of such a plan, her mother consented; and by and by the happy child, wrapped warmly, her pale face looking very bright and sweet in the soft little hat, laid herself back in Allison's arms with a sigh of content.

"Yes, I'm going to heed what Robin says, and fall into raptures and weary myself. I'm just going to be quiet and see it all, and then I will have it all to think about afterward."

The snow was all trodden down in the street through which they pa.s.sed first, to see the snow castle which the boys had made, and the castle itself was a disappointment. It was "past its best," Allison said. It was battered and bulging, and the walls had lost their whiteness; and the snow about it was trampled and soiled, and little pools of dirty water had collected at its base. But even "at its best," it must have fallen far short of the beauty of the castle which the child's imagination had built, as she lay in the dark, wishing so eagerly to be like the rest.

But the rush of the full burn did not disappoint her, nor the long level fields, nor the hills beyond. The only blink of sunshine which came that day rested on them as they crossed the foot-bridge and came into the broken path which led to the farm of Wind Hill. A hedge bordered the near fields, and a few trees rose up bare and black on the hillside; and all the rest of the land, as far as they could see, lay in unsullied whiteness.

"A clean, clean world!" said Marjorie. "It looks like a strange country. It's bonny; but I think I like the green gra.s.s best, and the gowans."

"Weel, ye may take a good look o' it this day, for it winna lie long clean and white like this," said Allison, as a soft warm wind met them as they turned. They went up and down where the snow lay lightest, and then crossed the burn at the end of the green.

"Are you sure ye're nae cauld?" said Allison.

"That I am not. And, Allie, I havena given a cough since I came out."

"But we'll need to gae hame now. If we dinna make your mother anxious this time, she will be the readier to let us take another turn some fine day."

Marjorie's face fell for an instant.

"No, Allie, I'm no' going to be fractious. But we might just look in and ask for Mrs Beaton, as we are so near. And Robin says John is coming home, and we might ask about it."

But Allison shook her head.

"We got no leave to go and see anybody. And if we take the street we'll hae twa or three idle folk glowerin' an' speerin' this and that at us.

I like the bonny quiet lane best."

Marjorie's shrill laugh rang out at that.