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 Saturday 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.

But little and great are comparative terms when applied to money’s worth as to other things, and considering the amount which must be made to stand for all that was needed in the home, the presents were not so trifling. Still, the minister was a rich man in the opinion of many about him, and it cannot be said that he was a poor man in his own opinion. At any rate, between them, his wife and he had made their comparative poverty answer a good many of the purposes of wealth, not to their children only, but to many a “puir bodie” besides, since they came to Nethermuir.

“And now, my lads, we’ll to worship and then you’ll to your beds, for I have my morrow’s sermon to look at yet, and I see your mother’s work is not done.”

So “the Books” were brought out and Allison Bain was called in from the kitchen. The minister asked God’s blessing on the reading of the Word and then he chose a Psalm instead of the chapter in Numbers which came in course. It was the thirty-fourth:

“I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth,” and so on to the end.

“The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants, and none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate.”

“He believes it all,” said Allison Bain to herself, lifting once again her sad eyes to his face. And then they sang:

“Oh! God of Bethel, by whose hand
Thy people still are fed—”

which was their family song of thanksgiving, as it was of many another family in those days, on all special occasions for rejoicing. It was the mother who led the singing with a voice which, in after years, when her sons were scattered in many lands, they remembered as “the sweetest ever heard.” The father sang too, but among the many good gifts which God had given to him, music had been denied. He did not know one tune from another, except as it might be associated with some particular Psalm or Hymn, and his voice, both powerful and flexible in speaking, had in singing only two unvarying tones. But he was never silent when the time came “to sing praises,” and truly his voice did not spoil the music to those who loved him. The boys had their mother’s gift and they all sang with good will to-night. Allie’s voice was mute, but her lips trembled a little, and her head drooped low as they sang—

“God of our fathers be the God
Of their succeeding race.”

She was not forgotten in the prayer which followed. It was not as “the stranger within our gates” that she was remembered, but as one of the household, and it was reverently asked that the casting in of her lot with theirs might be for good to her and to them for all time and beyond it. But there was no brightening of her face when she rose and passed out from among them.

The minister’s sermon was not his first thought when he returned to the parlour, after carrying his little daughter up-stairs. By and by his wife sat down with her stocking-basket by her side. They had many things to speak about, after a ten days’ separation, which had not occurred more than twice before in all their married life, and soon they came round to their new servant.

“Well, what do you think of her?” said the minister.

“I cannot say. I cannot quite make her out,” said Mrs Hume gravely.

“You have not had much time yet.”

“No; I mean that I do not think she intends that I should make her out.”

“She says little?”

“She says nothing. She has passed through some sore trouble, I am quite sure. She looks, at times, as if she had lost all that she cared for, and had not the heart to begin again.”

“I think you have made her out fairly well,” said the minister smiling.

“Why was Dr Fleming so anxious to send her here? Had he known her long? And how did he come to know her?”

“He had not known her very long. This is the way he came to know her: She was brought to the infirmary, ill of fever. She had gone into a cottage on the outskirts of the town ‘to rest herself,’ she said. But she was too ill to leave the place, and then she was sent to the infirmary. She had a struggle for life, which none but a strong woman could have won through, and when she began to grow better, she made herself useful among the other patients, and was so helpful, that when one of the nurses went away, they kept her on in her place. But evidently she had not been used with town life, or even indoor life, and she grew dowie first, and then despairing, and he was glad at the thought of getting her away, for fear of what might happen. It was change which she needed, and work such as she had been used with.”

“But it was a great risk to send her here.”

“Yes, in one way. And I hardly think he would have ventured to do so, but that, quite by accident, he had heard about her from an old college friend. It seems that this gentleman came to see Dr Fleming at the infirmary, and getting a glimpse of the young woman’s face, he betrayed by his manner that it was not for the first time. He was bound, he said, for her sake, not to seem to know her, nor would he say anything about her home or her station in life. But he said that he knew well about her, that she was an orphan who had suffered much, that she was a good woman, one to be trusted and honoured, and he begged his friend to ask her no questions, but to get her out of the town into some quiet country place where she might outlive the bitterness of the past. And his last words were, ‘Fortunate will they be who can have her as a helper in the house.’”

“It is a pity for her sake that she should refuse to trust us.”

“Yes. There is one thing which you ought to know, though Dr Fleming rather betrayed it than expressed it openly. I think, from what he said, and also from what he did not say, that there had been some fear that her mind might give way under the strain of her trouble, whatever it is. She seemed to have lost the power of turning her thoughts away from it, and yet she had never uttered a word with regard to it. She was sometimes, he said, like one walking in her sleep, deaf and blind to all that was going on about her. She had a dazed look, painful to see.”

“I ken the look well.”

“She had been used with country life, he thought, for in the town she was like a creature caged and wild to get out. Her best chance was, he said, an entire change of scene and of work, and he thought it