send me to that horrid school. I can learn to read without that old woman to teach me."
"Really, Mrs. Mitchell," said my father, taking me by the hand and leading me towards her, where she stood visibly flaming with rage and annoyance, "really, Mrs. Mitchell, you are taking too much upon you! I never said the child was to go to that woman's school. In fact I don't approve of what I hear of her, and I have thought of consulting some of my brethren in the presbytery on the matter before taking steps myself. I won't have the young people in my parish oppressed in such a fashion. Terrified with dogs too! It is shameful."
"She's a very decent woman, Mistress Shand," said the housekeeper.
"I don't dispute her decency, Mrs. Mitchell; but I doubt very much whether she is fit to have the charge of children; and as she is a friend of yours, you will be doing her a kindness to give her a hint to that effect. It may save the necessity for my taking further and more unpleasant steps."
"Indeed, sir, by your leave, it would be hard lines to take the bread out of the mouth of a lone widow woman, and bring her upon the parish with a bad name to boot. She's supported herself for years with her school, and been a trouble to nobody."
"Except the lambs of the flock, Mrs. Mitchell.—I like you for standing up for your friend; but is a woman, because she is lone and a widow, to make a Moloch of herself, and have the children sacrificed to her in that way? It's enough to make idiots of some of them. She had better see to it. You tell her that—from me, if you like. And don't you meddle with school affairs. I'll take my young men," he added with a smile, "to school when I see fit."
"I'm sure, sir," said Mrs. Mitchell, putting her blue striped apron to her eyes, "I asked your opinion before I took him."
"I believe I did say something about its being time he were able to read, but I recollect nothing more.—You must have misunderstood me," he added, willing to ease her descent to the valley of her humiliation.
She walked away without another word, sniffing the air as she went, and carrying her hands folded under her apron. From that hour I believe she hated me.
My father looked after her with a smile, and then looked down on me, saying—
"She's short in the temper, poor woman! and we mustn't provoke her."
I was too well satisfied to urge my victory by further complaint. I could afford to let well alone, for I had been delivered as from the fiery furnace, and the earth and the sky were laughing around me. Oh! what a sunshine filled the world! How glad the larks, which are the praisers amongst the birds, were that blessed morning! The demon of oppression had hidden her head ashamed, and fled to her den!
CHAPTER VIII
A New Schoolmistress
"But, Ranald," my father continued, "what are we to do about the reading? I fear I have let you go too long. I didn't want to make learning a burden to you, and I don't approve of children learning to read too soon; but really, at your age, you know, it is time you were beginning. I have time to teach you some things, but I can't teach you everything. I have got to read a great deal and think a great deal, and go about my parish a good deal. And your brother Tom has heavy lessons to learn at school, and I have to help him. So what's to be done, Ranald, my boy? You can't go to the parish school before you've learned your letters."
"There's Kirsty, papa," I suggested.
"Yes; there's Kirsty," he returned with a sly smile. "Kirsty can do everything, can't she?"
"She can speak Gaelic," I said with a tone of triumph, bringing her rarest accomplishment to the forefront.
"I wish you could speak Gaelic," said my father, thinking of his wife, I believe, whose mother tongue it was. "But that is not what you want most to learn. Do you think Kirsty could teach you to read English?"
"Yes, I do."
My father again meditated.
"Let us go and ask her," he said at length, taking my hand.
I capered with delight, nor ceased my capering till we stood on Kirsty's earthen floor. I think I see her now, dusting one of her deal chairs, as white as soap and sand could make it, for the minister to sit on. She never called him the master, but always the minister. She was a great favourite with my father, and he always behaved as a visitor in her house.
"Well, Kirsty," he said, after the first salutations were over, "have you any objection to turn schoolmistress?"
"I should make a poor hand at that," she answered, with a smile to me which showed she guessed what my father wanted. "But if it were to teach Master Ranald there, I should like dearly to try what I could do."
She never omitted the Master to our names; Mrs. Mitchell by no chance prefixed it. The natural manners of the Celt and Saxon are almost diametrically opposed in Scotland. And had Kirsty's speech been in the coarse dialect of Mrs. Mitchell, I am confident my father would not have allowed her to teach me. But Kirsty did not speak a word of Scotch, and although her English was a little broken and odd, being formed somewhat after Gaelic idioms, her tone was pure and her phrases were refined. The matter was very speedily settled between them.
"And if you want to beat him, Kirsty, you can beat him in Gaelic, and then he won't feel it," said my father, trying after a joke, which was no common occurrence with him, whereupon Kirsty and I laughed in great contentment.
The fact was, Kirsty had come to the manse with my mother, and my father was attached to her for the sake of his wife as well as for her own, and Kirsty would have died for the minister or any one of his boys. All the devotion a Highland woman has for the chief of her clan, Kirsty had for my father, not to mention the reverence due to the minister.
After a little chat about the cows and the calves, my father rose, saying—
"Then I'll just make him over to you, Kirsty. Do you think you can manage without letting it interfere with your work, though?"
"Oh yes, sir—well that! I shall soon have him reading to me while I'm busy about. If he doesn't know the word, he can spell it, and then I shall know it—at least if it's not longer than Hawkie's tail."
Hawkie was a fine milker, with a bad temper, and a comically short tail. It had got chopped off by some accident when she was a calf.
"There's something else short about Hawkie—isn't there, Kirsty?" said my father.
"And Mrs. Mitchell," I suggested, thinking to help Kirsty to my father's meaning.
"Come, come, young gentleman! We don't want your remarks," said my father pleasantly.
"Why, papa, you told me so yourself, just before we came up."
"Yes, I did; but I did not mean you to repeat it. What if Kirsty were to go and tell Mrs. Mitchell?"
Kirsty made no attempt at protestation. She knew well enough that my father knew there was no danger. She only laughed, and I, seeing Kirsty satisfied, was satisfied also, and joined in the laugh.
