The morning came all too soon, with a crowing of cocks and the clashing hurrahs of the rooks, circling up from their nesting in the tall trees. But the tired children slept on. The life of the farm began about them, with its cheerful sounds of clinking head-chains as the cattle came in, and of tinkling harness as the teams went afield. But still the children did not wake. It was not till Mary Bell, byre lass, came to get an armful of fodder from the stack that they were found.
"Lord, preserve us! what's that?" she cried when, with her knees upon the step of the stack, she saw the children—Vara's wearied face turned to the babe, and the dew damp on the white cheeks of Boy Hugh.
"I maun fetch the mistress!" said Mary Bell.
And then these two women stood and marvelled at the children.
"Mary," said the mistress of the farm, "d'ye mind the text last Sabbath?"
Mary Bell looked indignantly at her employer.
"How do ye think I can mind texts wi' as mony calves to feed?" she asked, like one of whom an unfair advantage is taken.
"O Mary!" said her mistress, "how often hae I telled you no to set your mind on the vainities o' this wicked world?"
"An' whatna ane do ye pay me for?—to keep mind o' texts or to feed the calves?" asked the byre lass, pertinently.
"Mary," said the other, ignoring the argument, "the [199]text was this: 'I will both lay me down and sleep'—dod, but I declare I forget the rest o't," she concluded, breaking down with some ignominy.
"In the land o' the leal," suggested Mary Bell, either wickedly or with a real desire to help. Her superior promptly accepted the emendation.
"That's it!" she said. "Is it no bonny to look at thae bairns and mind the text, 'I will both lay me down and sleep, in the land o' the leal'?"
"I'll wauken them," said practical Mary Bell, "and bring them into the hoose for some breakfast."
"Na, na," said her mistress, "ye maunna do that. What wad the guidman say? Ye ken he canna be doin' wi' folk that gang the country. A wee drap o' yestreen's milk noo—or the scrapins o' the parritch pot!"
"Aye," said Mary Bell, "'in the land o' the leal.' Ye had better gang ben and look up the text, mistress; I'll attend to the bairns."
"Aye, do that," said the good wife, with perfect unconsciousness of Mary Bell's sarcasm, "but be sparin'. Mind ye, this is hard times for farm folk! And we canna spend gear and graith recklessly on unkenned bairns."
"Ye will be free o' that crime, mistress," murmured Mary, as her mistress took her way into the house; "gin ye could tak' a' that ye hae saved wi' ye, what a bien and comfortable doon-sitting wad ye no hae in heeven! Itherwise, I'm nane sae sure—in spite o' your texts."
Then Mary sat down and took the children one by one, touching their faces to make them waken. Vara sat up suddenly, with wild eyes and a cry of fear. In her terror she clasped the baby so hard that it waked and cried. With the other hand she brushed away the elf locks about her own eyes. But her heart stilled its fluttering as she [200]caught the kindly eyes of Mary Bell, set in a brown sun-coarsened face of broad good humour.
"O," said Vara, "I thought ye were my mother!"
And Mary Bell, who, though a byre lass and daughter of toil, was born with the gentle heart of courtesy within her, refrained from asking why this wandering girl should be so greatly afraid of her own mother.
"Are you hungry?" she said, instead.
And little Boy Hugh awoke, rolled out of the hay, and shook himself like a young puppy. He stretched his arms wide, clasping and unclasping his fingers.
"I'm that hungry!" he said, as if he had heard Mary Bell's words in a dream.
"That's answer enough!" said the byre lass. "Certes, ye are a bonny laddie; come here to me."
And Mary Bell, who was born to love children and to bear them, snatched him up and kissed him warmly and roughly. But Hugh wriggled out of her arms, and as soon as he found himself on the ground he wiped his mouth deliberately and ungratefully with the back of his hand.
"Hae ye ony pieces and milk for wee boys?" he said.
The byre lass laughed.
"Ye like pieces and milk better than kisses," said she. "Hoo does that come?"
"Pieces and milk are better for ye!" said Boy Hugh, stating an undeniable truth.
"It's a peety," said Mary Bell, sententiously, "that we dinna aye ken what's guid for us." And she was thoughtful for some moments. "Come awa', bairns," she said, taking Gavin from Vara, and carrying him herself into a milk house, which was filled with a pleasant smell of curds and cheese.
Hugh Boy went wandering about, wondering at the [201]great tin basins filled with milk to the brim, some fresh and white, and some covered smoothly with a thick yellow coating of cream.
"I never thocht there was as muckle milk in the world!" said Boy Hugh.
So here the children ate and drank, and were refreshed. And as she set before them each new dainty—farles of cake, thick new scones, milk with the cream still generously stirred amongst it, fresh new milk yet warm from the cow for Gavin, Mary Bell said: "This is better than mindin' a text! Sirce me, heard ye ever the like o' it—'To the land o' the leal'?' An' she took it a' in. She reads a' the Bible ever she reads between her sleeps in the kirk, I'se warrant. Wait till I see Jamie Mailsetter; I'll hae a rare bar to tell him!"
It was an hour after, much comforted and refreshed, with a back load of provisions and one of Mary Bell's hardly-earned shillings, that the wanderers set out. They continued to wave her their farewells till they were far down the loaning.
And they might well be sorry, for there were not many people so kind and strong-hearted as Mary Bell to be met with between the Town of Pilgrimage and the City of the Twelve Foundations. And some of these are rough-handed and weather-beaten men and women, who work out their Christianity in feeding calves and bairns instead of parading texts, keeping the word of God in their hearts according to the commandment.
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