went next to the dairy, and came back with a jug of the richest milk, which she set beside the porridge, whereupon they drew their seats to the table—all but Steenie.
'Come, Steenie,' said his mother, 'here's yer supper.'
'I dinna care aboot ony supper the nicht, mother,' answered Steenie.
'Guidsake, laddie, I kenna hoo ye live!' she returned in an accent almost of despair,
'I'm thinkin I dinna need sae muckle as ither fowk,' rejoined Steenie, whose white face bore testimony that he took far from nourishment enough. 'Ye see I'm no a' there,' he added with a smile, 'sae I canna need sae muckle!'
'There's eneuch o' ye there to fill my hert unco fou,' answered his mother with a deep sigh. 'Come awa, Steenie, my bairn!' she went on coaxingly. 'Yer father winna ate a moufu' gien ye dinna: ye'll see that!—Eh, Steenie,' she broke out, 'gien ye wad but tak yer supper and gang to yer bed like the lave o' 's! It gars my hert swall as gien 't wud burst like a blob to think o' ye oot i' tho mirk nicht! Wha's to tell what michtna be happenin ye! Oor herts are whiles that sair, yer father's and mine, i' oor beds, 'at we daurna say a word for fear the tane set the tither greetin.'
'I'll bide in, gien that be yer wull,' replied Steenie; 'but eh, gien ye kent the differ to me, ye wudna wuss 't. I seldom sleep at nicht as ye ken, and i' the hoose it's jist as gien the darkness wan inside o' me and was chokin me.'
'But it's as dark theroot as i' the hoose—whiles, onygait!'
'Na, mother; it's never sae dark theroot but there's licht eneuch to ken I'm theroot and no i' the hoose. I can aye draw a guid full breath oot i' the open.'
'Lat the laddie gang his ain gait, 'uman,' interposed David. 'The thing born in 'im 's better for him nor the thing born in anither. A man maun gang as God made him.'
'Ay, whether he be man or dog!' assented Steenie solemnly.
He drew his stool close to his father where he sat at the table, and again laid his head on his knee. The mother sighed but said nothing. She looked nowise hurt, only very sad. In a minute, Steenie spoke again:
'I'm thinkin nane o' ye kens,' he said, 'what it's like whan a' the hillside 's gien up to the ither anes!'
'What ither anes?' asked his mother. 'There can be nane there but yer ain lane sel!'
'Ay, there 's a' the lave o' 's,' he rejoined, with a wan smile.
The mother looked at him with something almost of fear in her eyes of love.
'Steenie has company we ken little aboot,' said Kirsty. 'I whiles think I wud gie him my wits for his company.'
'Ay, the bonny man!' murmured Steenie. '—I maun be gauin!'
But he did not rise, did not even lift his head from his father's knee: it would be rude to go before the supper was over—the ruder that he was not partaking of it!
David had eaten his porridge, and now came the almost nightly difference about the eggs. Marion had been 'the perfect spy o' the time' in taking them from the pot; but when she would as usual have her husband eat them, he as usual declared he neither needed nor wanted them. This night, however, he did not insist, but at once proceeded to prepare one, with which, as soon as it was nicely mixed with salt, he began to feed Steenie. The boy had been longer used to being thus fed than most children, and having taken the first mouthful instinctively, now moved his head, but without raising it from his knee, so that his father might feed him more comfortably. In this position he took every spoonful given him, and so ate both the eggs, greatly to the delight of the rest of the company.
A moment more and Steenie got up. His father rose also.
'I'll convoy ye a bit, my man,' he said.
'Eh, na! ye needna that, father! It's near-ban' yer bedtime! I hae naegait to be convoyt. I'll jist be aboot i' the nicht—maybe a stane's-cast frae the door, maybe the tither side o' the Horn. Here or there I'm never frae ye. I think whiles I'm jist like are o' them 'at ye ca' deid: I'm no awa; I'm only deid! I'm aboot somegait!'
So saying, he went. He never on any occasion wished them good-night: that would be to leave them, and he was not leaving them! he was with them all the time!
CHAPTER VIII
DAVID AND HIS DAUGHTER
The instant he was gone, Kirsty went a step or two nearer to her father, and, looking up in his face, said:
'I saw Francie Gordon the day, father.'
'Weel, lassie, I reckon that wasna ony ferly (strange occurrence)! Whaur saw ye him?'
'He cam to me o' the Hornside, whaur I sat weyvin my stockin, ower the bog on 's powny—a richt bonny thing, and clever—a new are he's gotten frae 's mither. And it's no the first time he's been owre there to see me sin' he cam hame!'
'Whatfor gaed he there? That wasna the best o' places to gang ridin in!'
'He kenned whaur he was likest to see me: it was me he wantit.'
'He wantit you, did he? And he's been mair nor ance efter ye?—Whatfor didna ye tell me afore, Kirsty?'
'We war bairns thegither, ye ken, father, and I never ance thoucht the thing worth fashin ye aboot till the day. We've aye been used to Francie comin and gaein! I never tellt my mither onything, he said, and I tell her a'thing worth tellin, and mony a thing forby. I aye leuch at him as I wud at a bairn till the day. He spak straucht oot the day, and I did the same, and angert him; and syne he angert me.'
'And whatfor are ye tellin me the noo?'
'Cause it cam intil my heid 'at maybe it would be better—no 'at it maks ony differ I can see.'
During this conversation Marion was washing the supper-things, putting them away, and making general preparation for bed. She heard every word, and went about her work softly that she might hear, never opening her mouth to speak.
'There's something ye want to tell me and dinna like, lassie!' said David. 'Gien ye be feart at yer father, gang til yer mither.'
'Feart at my father! I wad be, gien I bed onything to be ashamet o'. Syne I micht gang to my mither, I daursay—I dinna ken.'
'Ye wud that, lassie. Fathers maun sometimes be fearsome to lass-bairns!'
'Whan I'm feart at you, father, I'll be a gey bit on i' the ill gait!' returned Kirsty, with a solemn face, looking straight into her father's eyes.
'Than it'll never be, or I maun hae a heap to blame mysel for. I think whiles, gien bairns kenned the terrible wyte their fathers micht hae to dree for no duin better wi' them, they wud be mair particlar to hand straucht. I hae been ower muckle taen up wi' my beasts and my craps—mair, God forgie me! nor wi' my twa bairns; though, he kens, ye're mair to me, the twa, than oucht else save the mither o' ye!'
'The beasts and the craps cudna weel du wi' less; and there was aye oor mither to see efter hiz!'
'That's true, lassie! I only houp it wasna greed at the hert o' me! At the same time, wha wud I be greedy for but yersels?—Weel, and what's it a' aboot? What garred ye come to me aboot Francie? I'm some feart for him whiles, noo 'at he's sae muckle oot o' oor sicht. The laddie's no by natur an ill laddie—far frae 't! but it's a sore pity he cudna hae been a'
