Chapter V: Part 5

The road follows the course of the stream at the foot of the glen; but, as it advances, it ascends the mountains on the right, and runs along their sides until the head of the pass is gained. Here it crosses, by means of a rude stone bridge, a deep chasm, at the bottom of which the waters of the burn leap and roar among chaotic rocks--a foretaste of the innumerable rushes, leaps, tumbles, and plunges, which await them all down the glen. Just beyond this bridge is a small level patch of mingled rocky and mossy ground. It is the summit of the mountain ridge; yet the highest peaks rise above it, and so hem it in that it resembles the arena of a rude amphitheatre. In the centre of this spot lies a clear, still lake, or tarn, not more than a hundred yards in diameter. This is the fountain-head of two streams. From the pools and springs, within a stone's cast of the tarn, arise the infant waters of the burn already mentioned, which, descending Glen Ogle, find their way to the Firth of Tay, through Strath Earn. From the opposite side of the tarn issues another brook, which, leaping down the other side of the mountains, mingles its waters with Loch Tay, and finds its way, by a much more circuitous route, to the same firth. The whole region is desolate and lonely in the extreme, and so wild that a Rocky Mountain hunter, transported thither by fairy power, might find himself quite at home, except in the matter of big-horned goats and grisly bears. But, for the matter of that, he would find mountain sheep with very respectable horns in their way; and, as to bears, the hill-sides are bare enough to satisfy any hunter of moderate expectations.

Up to this elevated tarn, among the hoary mountain peaks, the Sudberry Family struggled one hot, sunny, lovely forenoon. Bent on a long and bold flight, they had travelled by the stage-coach to the foot of the glen, near the head of Loch Earn. Here they were deposited at the door of a picturesque white-washed house, which was styled the Inn, and from this point they toiled up the glen on foot, intoxicating themselves on the way with deep draughts of mingled excitement, fresh air, and romance.

The whole family were out upon this occasion, including Mrs Brown, Hobbs, and Peter. The delicate Tilly was also there, and to her Master Jacky devoted himself with an assiduity worthy of even a _good_ boy. He took occasion several times, however, to tell Peter, in a grave way, that, whenever he felt tired, he would be glad to carry his basket for him, and himself too, for the matter of that, if he should get quite knocked up. He indemnified himself for these concessions on the side of virtue by inflicting various little torments on the bodies and minds of Mrs Brown and his mother, such as hiding himself at some distance ahead, and suddenly darting out from behind a rock with a hideous yell; or coming up behind with eyes staring and hair flying, and screaming "mad bull," with all the force of his lungs.

Hector and Flora Macdonald were also of the party. George and Fred were particularly attentive to Flora, and Hector was ditto to Lucy. He carried her botanical box, and gave her a good deal of information in regard to plants and wild flowers, in which Lucy professed a deep interest, insomuch that she stopped frequently to gather specimens and listen to Hector's learned observations, until they were more than once left a considerable way behind the rest of the party. Indeed, Lucy's interest in science was so great that she unwittingly pulled two or three extremely rare specimens to pieces while listening to these eloquent discourses, and was only made conscious of her wickedness by a laughing remark from Hector that she "must surely have the bump of destructiveness largely developed."

Arrived at the tarn, each individual deposited his and her basket or bundle on a selected spot of dry ground, and the ladies began to spread out the viands, while Mr Sudberry took the exact bearings of the spot by compass. While thus philosophically engaged, he observed that fish were rising in the tarn.

"Hallo! Hector; why, I see fish in the pond."

"True," replied the young man, "plenty of trout; but they are small."

"I'll fish," said Mr Sudberry.

"So will I," cried George.

And fish they did for half an hour, at the end of which period they were forcibly torn away from the water-side and made to sit down and eat sandwiches--having caught between them two dozen of trout, the largest of which was about five inches long.

"Why, how did ever the creatures get up into such a lake?" inquired Mr Sudberry, eyeing the trout in surprise: "they could never jump up all the waterfalls that we have passed to-day."

"I suppose they were born in the lake," suggested Hector, with a smile.

"Born in it?" murmured Mr Sudberry, pondering the idea; "but the _first_ ones could not have been born in it. How did the first ones get there?"

"The same way as what the first fishes came into the sea, of course," said Jacky, looking very pompous.

Unfortunately he unintentionally tried to perform that impossible feat, which is called swallowing a crumb down the wrong throat, thereby nearly choking himself; and throwing his mother into a flutter of agitation.

There was something so exhilarating in the atmosphere of that elevated region that none of the party felt inclined to waste much time over luncheon. Mr Sudberry, in particular, was very restless and migratory. His fishing propensities had been aroused, and could not be quieted. He had, in the course of a quarter of an hour, gobbled what he deemed it his duty to eat and drink, and, during the remainder of the meal, had insisted on helping everybody to everything, moving about as he did so, and thereby causing destruction to various articles of crockery. At last he declared that he was off to fish down the burn, and that the rest of the party would pick him up on their way back to the coach, which was to start from the inn at Loch Earn Head at five in the afternoon.

"Now don't be late," said he; "be at the inn by half-past four precisely."

"Ay, ay; yes, yes," from everybody; and away he went alone to enjoy his favourite sport.

The rest of the party scattered. Some went to good points for sketching, some to botanise, and others to ascend the highest of the neighbouring peaks. Mrs Brown and Hobbs were left in charge of the _debris_ of luncheon, to the eating up of which they at once devoted themselves with the utmost avidity as soon as the others were gone.

"Come, this is wot I calls comfortable," said Hobbs; (he spoke huskily, through an immense mouthful of sandwich.) "Ain't it, Mrs Brown?"

"Humph!" said Mrs Brown.

It is to be remarked that Mrs Brown was out of temper--not that that was an unusual thing; but she had found the expedition more trying than she had anticipated, and the torments of mind and body to which Jacky had subjected her were of an uncommonly irritating nature.

"Wot," continued Hobbs, attacking a cold tongue, "d'you think of the natives of this 'ere place?"

"Nothink at all," was Mrs Brown's prompt rejoinder.

Hobbs, who was naturally of a jolly, sociable disposition, felt a little depressed at Mrs Brown's repellent manner; so he changed his mode of address.

"Try some of this 'ere fowl, Mrs Brown, it's remarkably tender, it is; just suited to the tender lips of--dear me, Mrs Brown, how improvin' the mountain hair is to your complexion, if I may wenture to speak of improvin' that w'ich is perfect already."

"Get along, Hobbs!" said Mrs Brown, affecting to be displeased.

"My dear, I'm gettin' along like a game chicken, perhaps I might say like Dan, who's got the most uncommon happetite as I ever did see. He's a fine fellow, Dan is, ain't he, Mrs Brown?"

"Brute," said Mrs Brown; "they're all brutes."

"Ah!" said Hobbs, shaking his head, "strong language, Mrs Brown. But, admitting that, (merely for the sake of argument, of course), you cannot deny that they are raither clever brutes."

"I do deny it," retorted Mrs Brown, taking a savage bite out of the leg of a chicken, as if it represented the whole Celtic race. "Don't they talk the most arrant stuff?--specially that McAllister, who is forever speakin' about things that he don't understand, and that nobody else does!"

"Speak for yourself; ma'am," said Hobbs, drawing himself up with as much dignity as was compatible with a sitting posture.

"I _do_ speak for myself. Moreover, I speak for _some_ whom I might name, and who ain't _verra_ far away."

"If, ma'am, you mean that insinivation to apply--"

"I make no insinivations. Hand me that pot of jam--no, the unopened one."

Hobbs did as he was required with excruciating politeness, and thereafter took refuge in dignified silence; suffering, however, an expression of lofty scorn to rest on his countenance. Mrs Brown observed this, and her irate spirit was still further chafed by it. She meditated giving utterance to some withering remarks, while, with agitated fingers, she untied the string of the little pot of cranberry-jam. Worthy Mrs Brown was particularly fond of cranberry-jam. She had put up this pot in her own basket expressly for her own private use. She now opened it with the determination to enjoy it to the full, to smack her lips very much and frequently, and offer none of it to Hobbs. When the cover was removed she gazed into the pot with a look of intense horror, uttered a piercing shriek, and fell back in a dead faint.

This extraordinary result is easily accounted for. Almost every human being has one grand special loathing. There is everywhere some creature which to some individual is an object of dread--a creature to be shrunk from and shuddered at. Mrs Brown's horror was frogs. Jacky knew this well. He also knew of Mrs Brown's love for cranberry-jam, and her having put up a special pot. To abstract the pot, replace it by a similar pot with a live frog imprisoned therein, and then retire to chuckle in solitude and devour the jam, was simple and natural. That the imp had done this; that he had watched with delight the deceived woman pant up Glen Ogle with the potted frog on her arm and perspiration on her brow; that he had asked for a little cranberry-jam on the way, with an expression of countenance that almost betrayed him; and that he had almost shrieked with glee, when he observed the anxiety with which Mrs Brown--having tripped and fallen--opened her basket and smiled to observe that the pot was _not_ broken; that the imp, we say, had been guilty of all this, was known only to himself; but much of it became apparent to the mind of Hobbs, when, on Mrs Brown's fainting, he heard a yell of triumph, and, on looking up, beheld Master Jacky far up the heights, clearly defined against the bright sky, and celebrating the success of his plot with a maniacal edition of the Highland fling.

At a quarter-past four all the party assembled at the inn except Mr Sudberry.

Five arrived--no Mr Sudberry. The coach could not wait! The gentlemen, in despair, rushed up the bed of the stream, and found him fishing, in a glow of excitement, with his basket and all his pockets full of splendid trout.

The result was that the party had to return home in a large wagon, and it was night when at last they embarked in their boat and rowed down their own lake. It was a profound calm. The air was mild and balmy. There was just enough of light to render the surrounding mountains charmingly mysterious, and the fatigues of the day made the repose of the boat agreeable. Even Mrs Sudberry enjoyed that romantic night-trip on the water. It was so dark that there was a tendency to keep silence on landing to speak in low tones; but a little burst of delight broke forth when they surmounted the dark shoulder of the hill, and came at last in sight of the windows of the White House, glowing a ruddy welcome home.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 18.

THE FAMILY GO TO CHURCH UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

It would seem to be a well-understood and undeniable fact that woman invariably gains the victory over man in the long-run; and even when she does not prove to be the winner, she is certain to come off the conqueror. It is well that it should be so. The reins of the world could not be in better hands!

But, strangely enough, woman triumphs, not only in matters over which she and man have, more or less, united control, but even in matters with which the human race cannot interfere. For instance, in regard to weather--despite the three weeks of unfailing sunshine, Mrs Sudberry maintained her original opinion, that, notwithstanding appearances being against her, the weather in the Highlands of Scotland was, as a rule, execrable. As if to justify this opinion, the weather suddenly changed, and the three weeks of sunshine were followed by _six_ weeks of rain.

Whether there was something unusual in the season or not, we cannot positively say; but certain it is that, for the period we have named, it rained incessantly, with the exception of four days. During a great part of the time it rained from morning till night. Sometimes it was intermittent, and came down in devastating floods. At other times it came in the form of Scotch mist, which is simply small rain, so plentiful that it usually obliterates the whole landscape, and so penetrating that it percolates through everything except water-proof. It was a question which was the more wetting species of rain--the thorough down-pour or the heavy mist. But whether it poured or permeated, there was never any change in the leaden sky during these six weeks, and the mountains were never clearly seen except during the four accidental days already referred to.

At first Mrs Sudberry triumphed; but long before that season was over she had reached such a condition of humility that she would have actually rejoiced in a fine day.

As for the rest of the family, they bore up against it bravely for a time. On the first day of this wet season, they were rather pleased than otherwise to be obliged to stay in the house. Jacky, in particular, was delighted, as it afforded him a glorious opportunity of doing mischief, and making himself so disagreeable, that all, except his mother, felt as if they hated him. On the second day, indoor games of various kinds were proposed and entered into with much spirit. On the third day the games were tried again, with less spirit. On the fourth day they were played without any spirit at all, and on the fifth they were given up in disgust. The sixth day was devoted to reading and sulking, and thus they ended that week.

The seventh day, which chanced to be Sunday, was one of the four fine days before mentioned. The sky was blue, the sun intensely bright, and the inundated earth was steaming. The elastic spirits of the family recovered.

"Come, we'll walk to church!" cried Mr Sudberry, as they rose from breakfast.

"What, my dear!" exclaimed his wife, "and the roads knee-deep in mud and water!"

"I care not if they were waist-deep!" cried the reckless man: "I've been glued to my seat for a week; so I'll walk to church, if I should have to swim for it."

"So will I! so will I!" from George and Fred; "So will we all!" from Lucy; "And me, too!" timidly, from Tilly; with "Hurrah!" furiously from the imp,--this decided the business.

"Very well!" said the resigned mother of the flock; "then I will go too!"

So away they went to church, through mud and mire and water, with the nine collie dogs at their heels, and Mr McAllister bearing them company.

Fred and McAllister walked together in rear of the rest, conversing earnestly, for the latter was learned in theology, and the former dearly loved a philosophical discussion. Mr Sudberry and Lucy walked in advance. As he approached the well-known bush, the force of habit induced him almost unconsciously to pick up a stone and walk on tip-toe. Lucy, who did not know the cause of this strange action, looked at her father in surprise.

Whirr! went a black-cock; bang! went the stone, and a yell instantly followed, accompanied by a hat--it was his best beaver!

"Why, dear papa, it is Sunday!"

"Dear me, so it is!" The good man was evidently much discomfited. "Ah! Lucy dear, that shows the effect and force of bad habit; that is to say, of habit, (for the simple act cannot be called bad), on the wrong day."

"You cannot call throwing your best hat in the mud a good habit on _any_ day," said Mrs Sudberry, with the air of a woman who regarded her husband's chance of mending as being quite hopeless.

"It was only forgetfulness, my dear!" said the worthy man, putting his hat quite meekly on the back of his head, and pushing forward in order to avoid further remarks. Coming to a hollow of the road, they found that it was submerged a foot deep by the river, which had been swollen into a small lake at that spot. There was much trouble here. McAllister, with native gallantry, offered to carry the ladies over in his arms; but the ladies would not listen to the proposal, with the exception of Tilly, who at once accepted it gladly. The rest succeeded in scrambling along by the projecting stones at the base of the wall that ran alongside of the road, and gained the other side, after many slips, much alarm, and sundry screams.

"Oh, you _darling_!" cried Tilly, suddenly. She pointed to a hole in the wall, out of which peeped the most wide-awake weasel that ever lived. Its brown little head and sharp nose moved quickly about with little jerks, and its round lustrous black eyes seemed positively to glitter with surprise, (perhaps it was delight), at the Sudberry Family. Of course Jacky rushed at it with a yell--there was a good deal of the terrier in Jacky--and of course the weasel turned tail, and vanished like a flash of light.

When they came to the narrowest part of the pass which opened out of their own particular valley--Rasselas Vale, as Lucy had named it--Tilly was fortunate enough to set eyes on another "darling," which, in the shape of a roe deer, stood, startled and trembling, in the centre of the pass. They came on it so suddenly that it seemed to have been paralysed for a moment. A shout from the imp, however, quickly dissolved the spell; with one graceful bound it cleared the wall, and was far away among the brackens on the mountain-side before the party had recovered from their delight and surprise at having met a real live wild deer, face to face, and not twenty yards distant, in this unexpected manner.

Nothing further occurred to arrest their progress to church, which was upwards of four miles from their home among the hills.

The sermon that day was peculiar. The minister of the parish was a young man; one of those quiet, modest, humble young men, who are, as their friends think, born to be neglected in this world. He was a shrewd, sensible young fellow, however, who, if put to it, could have astonished his "friends" not a little. He was brimful of "Scotch" theology; but, strange to say, he refrained from bringing that fact prominently before his flock, insomuch that some of the wiser among them held the opinion, that, although he was an excellent, worthy young man, he was, if any thing, a little commonplace--in fact, "he never seemed to have any diffeeculties in his discoorses: an' if he _had_, he aye got ower them by sayin' plump oot that they were mysteries he did na pretend to unravel!"

Any one with half an eye might have seen that the young clergyman was immeasurably above his flock intellectually. A few of them, among whom was our friend McAllister, perceived this, and appreciated their minister. The most of them, good souls, thought him worthy, but _weak_.

Feeling that he had been appointed to _preach the gospel_, this youth resolved to "make himself all things to all men, in order that he might gain some." He therefore aimed at preaching Christ crucified, and kept much of his own light in the background, bringing it out only in occasional flashes, which were calculated to illuminate, but not dazzle, the minds of his people. He remembered the remark of that old woman, who, when asked what she thought of a new minister, said, "Hoot! I think naethin' o' him ava'; _I understand every word he says_," and he resolved rather to be thought nothing of at all than pander to the contemptible craving of those who fancy that they are drinking deep draughts of wisdom when they read or hear words that are incomprehensible, but which _sound_ profoundly philosophical.

But we might have spared our readers all this, for the young minister did not preach that day. He was unwell, and a friend had agreed to preach for him. The friend was an old man, with bent form and silvery hair, who, having spent a long life in preaching the gospel, had been compelled, by increasing age, to retire from active service. Yet, like a true warrior, he could, when occasion required, buckle on his Christian armour, and fight stoutly, as of old, for his beloved Master and for the salvation of human souls.

His eye was dim and his voice was weak, and it brought tears to the eyes of the sympathetic among the people to see the old man lose his place and unconsciously repeat his sentences. But not a shadow of disrespect mingled with their feelings. There was no mistaking the glow of love and the kindly fire which flushed the pale face when salvation was the theme. When he mentioned the name of Jesus, and urged sinners to flee from the wrath to come, the people _felt_ the truth of that word, "God's strength is perfected in man's weakness."

The Sudberrys felt very happy that day on returning home. They overtook old Moggy, stumping along through mud and water, with tears bedewing her cheeks.

"Why, Moggy, you are all wet!" said Fred, hastening towards her.

"Ay, I fell into a dub as I cam out o' the kirk. But, ech! sirs, I've heard blessed words this day."

The Sudberrys spent that evening in their usual way. They went to a particular spot, which Lucy had named the Sunny Knoll, and there learned hymns off by heart, which were repeated at night, and commented on by Mr Sudberry. After supper they all got into what is called "a talk." It were presumptuous to attempt to explain what that means. Everyone knows what it is. Many people know, also, that "a talk" can be got up when people are in the right spirit, on any subject, and that the subject of all others most difficult to get up this "talk" upon, is religion. Mr Sudberry knew this; he felt much inclined at one time that night to talk about fishing, but he laid strong constraint on himself; and gave the conversation a turn in the right direction. The result was "a talk"--a hearty, free, enthusiastic communing on the Saviour, the soul, and eternal things, which kept them up late and sent them happy to bed--happier than they had yet been all that season.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 19.

A STRANGE HOME-COMING.

Master Jacky made two discoveries next day, both of which he announced with staring eyes and in breathless haste, having previously dashed into the parlour like a miniature thunderbolt.

The first was that the bathing-pool was clean swept away by the floods, not a vestige of it being left. The whole family rushed out to see with their own eyes. They saw and were convinced. Not a trace of it remained. Even the banks of the little stream had been so torn and altered by gushing water and tumbling rocks that it was almost impossible to say where that celebrated pool had been. The rains having commenced again on Monday, (just as if Sunday had been allowed to clear up in order to let people get to church), the family returned to the house, some to read and sketch, Mr Sudberry and George to prepare for a fishing excursion, despite the rain.

The second discovery was more startling in its nature. Jacky announced it with round eyes and a blazing face, thus--

"Oh! ma, old Moggy's d-dyin'!"

The attractive power of "sweeties" and a certain fondness for the old woman in the boy's heart had induced Jacky to visit the hut so frequently, that it at last came to be understood, that, when the imp was utterly lost, he was sure to be at old Moggy's! He had sauntered down, indifferent to rain, to call on his friend just after discovering the destruction of the bathing-pool, and found her lying on the bundle of rags which constituted her bed. She was groaning woefully. Jack went forward with much anxiety. The old woman was too ill to raise herself; but she had sufficient strength to grasp the child's hand, and, drawing him towards her, to stroke his head.

"Hallo! Moggy, you're ill!"

A groan and a gasp was the reply, and the poor creature made such wry faces, and looked altogether so cadaverous, that Jacky was quite alarmed. He suggested a drink of water, and brought her one. Then, as the old woman poured out a copious stream of Gaelic with much emphasis, he felt that the presence of some more able and intelligent nurse was necessary; so, like a sensible boy, he ran home and delivered his report, as has been already described.

Lucy and Fred hastened at once to the hut of the old woman, and found her in truth in a high fever, the result, no doubt, of the severe wetting of the day before, and having slept in damp clothes. Her mind was wandering a little when Lucy knelt at her side and took her hand, but she retained sufficient self-control to look up and exclaim earnestly, "I can say'd noo--I can say'd noo! I can say, _Thy will be done_!"

She became aware, as she said so, that the visitor at her side was not the one she had expected.

"Eh! ye're no' Miss Flora."

"No, dear granny, but I am quite as anxious to help you, and Flora will come very soon. We have only just heard of your illness, and have sent a message to Flora. Come, tell me what is the matter; let me put your poor head right."

Old Moggy submitted with a groan, and Lucy, assisted by Fred, endeavoured to make her bed a little more comfortable, while the anxious and staring Jacky was sent back to the house for some tea and a dry flannel gown. Before his return, however, Flora Macdonald, who chanced to be in the neighbourhood, came in to see Moggy, and immediately took the case in hand, in a way that greatly relieved Fred and Lucy, because they felt that she was accustomed to such incidents, and thoroughly understood what to do.

Hobbs, who came in a few minutes later with the Sudberry medicine chest, was instantly despatched by Flora for the doctor, and George, who entered a few minutes after that, was sent about his business, as were also a number of gossips, whose presence would ere long have rendered the small hut unbearably warm, but for Flora's decision.

Meanwhile all this unusual bustle had the effect of diverting the mind of the patient, who ceased to groan, and took to wandering instead.

Leaving them all thus engaged, we must beg the reader to accompany us to a very different scene.

It is a dense thicket within the entrance of the pass, to which reference has been made more than once. Here a band of wandering beggars or gypsies had pitched their camp on a spot which commanded an extensive view of the high-road, yet was itself concealed from view by the dwarf-trees which in that place covered the rugged hill-side.

There was a rude hut constructed of boughs and ferns, underneath which several dark-skinned and sturdy children were at play. A dissipated-looking young woman sat beside them. In front of this hut a small fire was kindled, and over it, from a tripod, hung an iron pot, the contents of which were watched with much interest, and stirred from time to time by a middle-aged woman of forbidding aspect. Beside her stood our amiable friend with the squint and the broken nose, who has already been mentioned as having received a merited thrashing from Mr Sudberry.

"Yes, the little brute has come back," said the gypsy, grinding his teeth in a way that might have led one to suppose he would have been glad to have had the "little brute" between them.

"Serves ye right for stealin' him away!" said the woman.

"Serves me right!" echoed the man, bitterly. "Did I not vow that I would have my revenge on that old witch? Did she not stand up in court and witness again' me, so that I got two year for a job that many a fellow gits off with six months for?"

"Well, you know you deserved it!" was the woman's comforting rejoinder. "You committed the robbery."

"So I did; but if that she-wolf had not made it out so bad, I'd have got off with six months. Ha! but I knew how to touch her up. I knew her weakness! swore, afore I left the dock, that I'd steal away the little cub she was so fond of--and _I did it_!"

There was a gleam of triumph in the gypsy's face as he said this, but it was quickly followed by a scowl when the woman said--

"Well, and much you have made of it. Here is the brat come back at the end o' five years, to spoil our harvest!"

"How could I know he'd do that? I paid the captain a goodish lump o' tin to take him on a long voyage, and I thought he was so young that he'd forget the old place."

"How d'ye know that he hasn't forgot it?" inquired the woman.

"'Cause, I seed him not twenty miles from this, and heerd him say he'd stop at the Blue Boar all night, and come on here in the morning--that's to-morrow--so I come straight out to ask you wot I'm to do."

"Ha! that's like you. Too chicken-hearted to do any thing till I set you on, an' mean enough to saddle it on me when ye'r nabbed."

"Come, that's an old story!" growled the man. "You know wot _I_ am, and I knows wot _you_ are. But if something's not done, we'll have to cut this here part o' the country in the very thick o' the season, when these southern sightseers are ranging about the hills."

"That's true!" rejoined the woman, seriously. "Many a penny the bairns get from them, an there's no part so good as this. Ye couldn't _put him out o' the way_, could ye?"

"No," said the man, doggedly.

The woman had accompanied her question with a sidelong glance of fiendish meaning, but her eyes at once dropped, and she evinced no anger at the sharp decision of her companion's reply.

"Mother!" cried the young woman, issuing from the hut at the moment, "don't you dare to go an' tempt him again like that. Our hands are black enough already; don't you try to make them _red_, else I'll blab!"

The elder woman assumed an injured look as she said, "Who spoke of makin' them red? Evil dreaders are evil doers. Is there no way o' puttin' a chick out o' the way besides murderin' him?"

"Hush!" exclaimed the man, starting and glancing round with a guilty look, as if he fancied the bare mention of the word "murder" would bring the strong arm of the law down on his head.

"I won't hush!" cried the woman. "You're cowards, both of you. Are there no corries in the hills to hide him in--no ropes to tie him with-- that you should find it so difficult to keep a brat quiet for a week or two?"

A gleam of intelligence shot across the ill-favoured face of the gypsy.

"Ha! you're a wise woman. Come, out with your plan, and see if I'm not game to do it."

"There's no plan worth speakin' of," rejoined the woman, somewhat mollified by her companion's complimentary remarks. "All you've to do is to go down the road to-morrow, catch him, and bring him to me. I'll see to it that he don't make his voice heard until we've done with this part of the country. Then we can slip the knot, and let the brat go free."

"I'll do it!" said the man, sitting down on a stone and beginning to fill his pipe.

"I thought he was dead!" said the woman.

"So did I; but he's not dead yet, an' don't look as if he'd die soon."

"Maybe," said the woman, "he won't remember ye. It's full five year now sin' he was took away."

"Won't he?" retorted the man, with an angry look, which did not tend to improve his disagreeable visage. "Hah! I heerd him say he'd know me if he saw me in a crowd o' ten thousand. I would ha' throttled the cub then and there, but the place was too public."

A short silence ensued, during which the gypsies ate their food with the zest of half-starved wolves.

"You'd better go down and see old Moggy," suggested the woman, when the man had finished his repast and resumed his pipe. "If the brat escapes you to-morrow, it may be as well to let the old jade know that you'll murder both him and her, if he dares to blab."

The man shook his head. "No use!" said he. But the woman repeated her advice in a tone that was equivalent to a command, so the man rose up sulkily and went.

He was not a little surprised, on drawing near to the hut, to find it in a state of bustle, and apparently in possession of the Sudberrys. Not daring to show himself; he slunk back to his encampment, and informed his female companion of what he had seen.

"All the more reason to make sure work of him on the road to-morrow!" said she, with a dark frown.

"So I mean to!" replied the man doggedly. With these amiable sentiments and intentions animating their breasts, this pair crept into their booth and went to rest in the bosom of their family.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 20.

MYSTERIOUS MATTERS--A HAPPY RETURN, ETCETERA.

The morning which followed the events narrated in the last chapter broke with unclouded splendour. It was the second of the four bright days which relieved the monotony of those six dreary weeks of rain.

Rejoicing in the glorious aspect of earth and sky, and in the fresh scents which the rain had called forth from every shrub and flower on the mountains, Mr Sudberry dashed about the White House--in and out-- awaiting the assembling of the family to breakfast with great impatience. His coat-tails that morning proved the means of annihilating the sugar-basin--the last of the set which had graced the board on his arrival in the Highlands, and which had been left, for some time past, "blooming alone," all its former companions having been shattered and gone long ago.

According to custom, Mr Sudberry went forward to the barometrical banjo, intending to tap it--not that he expected correct information _now_. No; he had found out its falsehood, and was prepared to smile at anything it should say. He opened his eyes, however, and exclaimed "Hallo!" with unwonted energy, on observing that, as if in sheer defiance of the weather, of truth, and of public opinion, its index aimed point-blank at "stormy!"

He speedily discovered that this tremendous falsehood was the result of a careful intestine examination, to which the instrument had been privately subjected by Master Jacky the evening before; in the course of which examination the curious boy, standing below the barometer, did, after much trouble, manage to cut the bulb which held the mercury. That volatile metal, being set free, at once leaped into its liberator's bosom, and gushed down between his body and his clothes to the floor!

"I'll thrash him to within an inch--"

Mr Sudberry clinched his teeth and his fists, and burst out of the room, (it was at this moment that the last of the set became "faded and gone"), and rushed towards the nursery. "No, I won't," he muttered, suddenly wheeling round on his heel and returning slowly to the parlour. "I'll say nothing whatever about it." And Mr Sudberry kept his word-- Jacky never heard of it from that day to this!

Seizing the opportunity of the fine day, Mr Sudberry and George went out to fish. They fished with worm now, the streams being too much swollen for fly.

Meanwhile, Master Jacky sauntered down alone, in a most free-and-easy independent manner, to visit old Moggy, who was thought to be in a dying state--at least the doctor said so, and it was to be presumed that he was right.

Jacky had regularly constituted himself sick nurse to the old woman. Despite the entreaties of Flora and his sister, who feared that the disease might be infectious, he could not be prevailed on to remain away. His nursing did not, indeed, consist in doing much that was useful. He confined himself chiefly to playing on the river-banks near the hut, and to making occasional inquiries as to how the patient was getting on. Sometimes he also assisted Flora in holding sundry cups, and glasses, and medicine bottles, and when Flora was away he amused himself by playing practical jokes on the young woman who had volunteered to act as regular nurse to the old invalid.

Towards the afternoon, Jacky put his hands behind his back--he would have put them under his coat-tails if he had had any, for he was very old-mannish in his tendencies--and sauntered down the road towards the pass. At this same time it chanced that another little boy, more than twice Jacky's age, was walking smartly along the same road towards the same pass from the other side of it. There were as yet several miles between the two boys, but the pace at which the elder walked bid fair to bring them face to face within an hour. The boy whom we now introduce was evidently a sailor. He wore blue trousers, a blue vest with little brass buttons, a blue jacket with bigger brass buttons, and a blue cap with a brass button on either side--each brass button, on coat, cap, and vest, having an anchor of, (apparently), burnished gold in the centre of it. He had clear blue eyes, brown curly hair, and an easy, offhand swagger, which last was the result of a sea-faring life and example; but he had a kindly and happy, rather than a boastful or self-satisfied, expression of face, as he bowled along with his hands in his pockets, kicking all the stones out of his way, and whistling furiously. Sometimes he burst into a song, and once or twice he laughed, smote his thigh, and cheered, but never for a moment did he slacken his pace, although he had walked many a mile that day.

Curiously enough, at this same time, a man was crouching behind some bushes in the centre of the pass towards which these two boys were approaching. This man had a pair of grey eyes which might have been beautiful had they not been small and ferocious-looking, and a nose which might have been aquiline had the bridge not been broken, and a head of shaggy hair which might have been elegant had it been combed, oiled, curled, and dyed, and a general appearance which might have been prepossessing had it not been that of a thorough blackguard. This lovely specimen of humanity sat down on a rock, and waited, and fidgeted; and the expression of his sweet face betrayed, from time to time, that he was impatient, and anything but easy in his mind.

As Jack walked very leisurely and stopped frequently to play, his progress towards the pass was slow, and as our waiting friend, whom the reader no doubt recognises as the gypsy, could not see far along the road in that direction, he was not aware of his approach. On the other hand, the sailor-boy came on fast, and the road was so open and straight in that direction that the gypsy saw him when he was far enough away to seem like a mere blue spot in the distance.

Presently he gained the entrance to the pass and began the ascent, which was gradual, with a riotous windlass song, in which the sentiments, yo! heave! and ho! were most frequently expressed. As he drew near, the gypsy might have been observed to grin a smile that would have been quite captivating but for some obstinate peculiarity about the muscles of the mouth which rendered it very repulsive.

Next moment the sailor-boy was abreast of him. The moment after that the bushes parted, and the gypsy confronted his victim, cutting a tremendous "heave!" short in the middle, and converting the "ho!" that should have followed, into a prolonged whistle of astonishment.

"Hah! my lad, you remember me, it seems?"

"Remember you? Yes, I just do!" answered the boy, in whose countenance every trace of boyishness was instantly swallowed up in an intense gaze of manly determination.

This mute but meaning glance had such a strange effect upon the gypsy that he actually cowered for a moment, and looked as if he were afraid he was going to "catch it." However, he forced a laugh and said--

"Come, Billy, you needn't look so cross. You know I was hard put to it w'en I sent you aboord the `Fair Nancy,' and you shouldn't ought to owe me a grudge for puttin' ye in the way o' makin' yer fortin'."

The man kept edging towards the boy as he spoke, but the boy observed this and kept edging away, regarding the man with compressed lips and dilated eyes, but not vouchsafing a word in reply.

"I say, Billy, it's unkind, you know, to forget old times like this. I want to shake hands; and there's my old woman up on the hill as wants to see you again."

Suddenly the fierce look left the boy's face, and was replaced by a wild, waggish expression.

"Oh! your old woman wants to see me, does she? And you want to shake hands, do you? Now look here, Growler; I see through you! You thought to catch a flat, and you'll find you've caught a tartar; or, rather, that the tartar has caught _you_. But I've grown merciful since I went to sea," (the lad tucked-up his wristbands at this point, as if he really meditated a hand-to-hand encounter with his huge antagonist). "I _do_ remember old times, and I know how richly you deserve to be hanged; but I don't want to mix up my home-coming, if I can help it, with dirty work. Now, I'll tell you what--I'll give you your choice o' two courses. Either take yourself off and be out o' hail of this part of the country within twelve hours, or walk with me to the nearest police station and give yourself up. There--I'll give you exactly two minutes to think over it."

The youthful salt here pulled out an enormous double-case silver watch with an air of perfect nonchalance, and awaited the result. For a few seconds the gypsy was overwhelmed by the lad's coolness; then he burst into a gruff laugh and rushed at him. He might as well have run at a squirrel. The boy sprang to one side, crossed the road at a bound, and, still holding the watch, said--

"Half a minute gone!"

Again the man rushed at his small opponent with similar result, and a cool remark, that another half minute was gone. This so exasperated the gypsy, that he ran wildly after the boy for half a minute, but the latter was as active as a kitten, and could not be caught.

"Time's up; two minutes and a quarter; so don't say that I'm not merciful. Now, follow me to the constable."

So saying, Billy, as the man had called him, turned his back towards the pass, and ran off at full speed towards the village. The gypsy followed him at once, feeling that his only chance lay in capturing the boy; but so artfully did Billy hang back and allow his pursuer to come close up, that he had almost succeeded in enticing him into the village, when the man became suddenly aware of his folly, and stopped. Billy stopped too.

"What! you're not game to come on?"

The man shook his fist, and, turning his face towards the pass, ran back towards his booth in the hills, intending to take the boy's first piece of advice, and quit that part of the country. But Billy had no idea of letting him off thus. He now became the pursuer. However fast the gypsy ran, the sailor-lad kept up with him. If the man halted, as he frequently did in a breathless condition, and tried to gain over his adversary, Billy also stopped, said he was in no hurry, thrust his hands into his jacket pockets, and began to whistle. Thus he kept him in view until they once more stood in the pass. Here the man sat down on a large stone, thoroughly exhausted. The boy sat down on another stone opposite to him, looking quite fresh and jolly. Five years of hearty devotion to a noble calling had prepared the muscles of the little sailor for that day's exercise. The same number of years spent in debauchery and crime had _not_ prepared the vagabond giant for that day's work.

"What has brought you back?" said Growler, savagely.

"To see the old granny whom you stole me from," replied the boy. "Also, to have the satisfaction of puttin' you in limbo; although I did not expect to have this pleasure."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Growler, sarcastically, "you'll fail in both. It's not so easy to put me in limbo as you think--and your grandmother is dyin'."

"That's false!" cried Billy, springing half way across the road and shaking his little fist at his enemy--"you know it is. The landlord of the `Blue Boar' told me he saw her at church strong and well last Sunday."

"She's dyin', however, may be _dead_," said the man, with a sneer so full of triumph, that it struck a chill to the heart of the poor boy.

Just at that moment, Jacky Sudberry turned slowly round a sharp angle of the road, and stood there transfixed, with his eyes like two saucers, and his mouth as round as an o.

The sight of this intruder distracted Billy's attention for a moment. Growler at once bounded over the low wall and dived into the underwood. Billy hesitated to follow him, for the last piece of information weighed heavily on his mind. That moment's hesitation was sufficient for the gypsy to make good his retreat. Although Billy leaped the wall the next moment, and darted hither and thither through the copse, he failed to catch sight of him again, and finally returned to the road, where he found Jacky seated on a stone, pondering in a state of bewilderment on what he had seen.

"Well, my boy, how goes it?" cried the sailor heartily, as he came forward, wiping his heated brow with a blue spotted cotton handkerchief.

"All right!" was Jacky's prompt reply. "I say, was you fightin' with that man?"

"Ay, that was I, and I've not done with him yet."

Jacky breathed hard and looked upon the young sailor-lad with a deep reverential awe, feeling that he was in the presence of a real Jack the Giant-killer.

"He runn'd away!" said Jacky in amazement. "Did you hit him hard?"

"Not with my fists; they ain't big enough for that yet. We've only had a sparring-match with words and legs."

Jacky glanced at Billy's legs as if he regarded them in the light of dire engines of destruction. Indeed, his active mind jumped at once to the conclusion that the sailor's must be a kicking mode of warfare; but he was too much amazed to make any rejoinder.

"Now, my boy, I'm going this way, so I'll bid you good-day," said Billy. Jacky informed him that he was going the same way,--having only been taking a stroll,--and would willingly go back: whereupon Billy put his arm round his shoulder, as boys are wont to do, and Jacky grasped Billy round the waist, and thus they wandered home together.

"I say, you're a funny chap," observed the young sailor, in a comic vein, as they went along.

"So are you," replied Jacky, with intense gravity, being deeply serious.

Billy laughed; but as the two friends at that moment emerged from the pass and came in sight of the White House, the laugh was suddenly checked, and was followed by a sound that was not unlike choking. Jacky looked up in alarm, and was surprised to see tears hopping over his companion's brown cheeks. To find a lad who could put a giant to flight was wonderful enough, but to find one who could cry without any reason at all was beyond belief. Jacky looked perplexed and said, "I say, what's the matter?"

"Oh! nothing; only this is my old home, and my scrimmage with that villain has made me come plump on it without thinkin'. I was born here. I know every stone and bush. I--I--there's the old--"

He choked again at this point, and Jacky, whose mind was only opening, stood looking on in silent wonder.

"My old granny lives here; old Moggy--"

The expression of Jacky's face caused Billy to stop.

"Why, what's wrong, boy?"

"Is--is--o-old Moggy _your_ granny?" cried Jacky, eagerly, stumbling over his words as if he had come upon stepping-stones in the dark.

"Ay; what then?"

"Eh! _I_ know her."

"Do you, my boy?"

"Ye-yes; sh-she's dyin'!"

The result of this remark was that the sailor-boy turned deadly pale, and stared at his little friend without being able to utter a word. Mere human nature taught Jacky that he had made a mistake in being so precipitate: but home education had not taught him to consider the feelings of others. He felt inclined to comfort his new friend, but knew not how to do it. At last a happy thought occurred to him, and he exclaimed eagerly--

"B-but _sh-she's not dead yet_!"

"Does she live in the same cottage?" asked the boy, in a low, husky voice, not considering that his companion could not know what cottage she had occupied in former days. Jacky, also ignoring this fact, nodded his head violently, being past speech with excitement, and pointed in the direction of the hut.

Without another word, Billy, (more correctly speaking, Willie), at once took to his heels, and was followed by Jacky as fast as his short legs could carry him.

Flora Macdonald was administering a glass of hot wine and water to her patient, when the door was quickly, yet gently, opened, and a sailor-lad sprang into the room, fell on his knees beside the lowly couch, seized the old woman's hand, gazed for a few seconds into her withered face, and then murmuring, "Granny, it's me," laid his head on her shoulder and burst into tears.

Flora gently drew the boy away.

"Willie, is it possible; can it be you?"

"Is she dyin'?" said Willie, looking up in Flora's face with an expression of agony.

"I trust not, dear boy; but the doctor says she is very ill, and must be kept quiet."

"Hoot, awa' wi' the doctor! He's wrang," cried old Moggy, suddenly raising herself with great energy on one elbow; "don't I see my ain Willie there, as I've seen him in my dreams mony and mony a night?" (Flora grasped Willie's arm to prevent his running towards her, and pointed to Jacky, who had at that moment entered the room, and was at once recognised by Moggy.) "Ay, little did I think when I said yestreen, `Thy wull be done,' that He wad send my ain laddie back again!"

She folded Jacky, who had gone to the bedside, in her arms, and was with difficulty prevailed on to let him go. It was quite evident that her mind was wandering.