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13. After they were all cleared away, she lay quietly back on the sofa,
and there was a far-away look in her eyes that made her father
unwilling to ask where her thoughts were. Presently she turned to
him, and said in a low, nervous tone, "Papa, I want to ask you
something. May I do exactly as I like with all my own things?"
"Certainly, darling. What treasure do you wish to send to the little
Morag? But I thought Ellis was doubtful if she could stow all the
things you have already sent,—eh, Blanchie?"
"Oh, I did not mean in the box, papa! But you know it cannot be
very long now before I have to leave you—and everything," and
Blanche's fluttering fingers, so wan and wasted now, played
nervously with her father's hand as she spoke.
"Of course you will keep everything you want—and Miss Prosser and
Ellis will, too. But I should like Morag to have some of my things
when I am gone. She has so few pretty things in the hut; and
besides, I really do think she would like to have them, just because
they are mine, and they will remind her of me when I'm far away;"
and Blanche glanced round the room at the pretty statuettes and
pictures, and the rows of nicely-bound books, of which she used to
tell Morag, as they rambled among the woods and braes of Glen
Eagle.
"Yes, my darling; Morag shall have whatever you like," replied Mr.
Clifford with an effort, as soon as he was able to speak; and
presently he continued: "My child, perhaps I should tell you that you
have a great deal more to give away than your books and pictures.
You are what people call an heiress, Blanchie. Your mother left you a
large fortune, and, besides, you will have all that belongs to me. Ah,
my child! will you not live?—I cannot let you go! There is such a
bright future in store for you—so many hopes bound up in this dear
life!"
"Yes, papa, dear; the future is bright," replied Blanche, smiling. "I
was reading about it only this morning—'an inheritance,
incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away.' I learnt the
14. words. It was strange I never remember hearing them till to-day.
But I suppose God just speaks His own words to us when we need
them and will listen to them. It's all right, papa, dear," she continued
as she put her arm round her father's neck, as he sat with his head
resting on his hand, absorbed in his own sad thoughts. "I know the
Lord Jesus Christ will comfort you when I am gone. And then, you
know, papa dear, you will not be so very long in coming, and I shall
be waiting for you, oh! so eagerly, and we shall be so happy
together in the home of God!"
"Is it not rather difficult for rich people to be good, papa?" asked
Blanche, after she had laid pondering a short time. "If I had lived,
perhaps I might have grown into a grand lady—like some of Ellis's
mistresses that she tells me about—and got selfish and bad when I
grew old. But now, papa, dear, I shall always be your own foolish
little Blanchie," and she nestled in her father's arm, as he stroked
the long fair curls—the last symbol of health that remained.
After she had again laid musing for some time, Blanche sat up, and
with some of her old eagerness she said—
"Papa, I've just been thinking that Morag is so gentle, and so clever,
and so fond of books, that I'm sure she would grow up very learned
if she were educated. I know she would like lessons a great deal
more than I used to do, and be much more diligent. Have I enough
money to educate Morag, papa?"
"Yes, darling, quite enough; and if you wish it, it shall be done,"
replied Mr. Clifford huskily, for this conversation was almost too
painful for him to continue.
"But after all, papa, very clever people, who know everything, are
not always very happy or good—are they? And, besides, I really do
not see how her father and Kirsty could get on without Morag. And
then she is so faithful and loving—perhaps she could never be
persuaded to leave them, to be made a lady of in the world beyond
her mountains," said Blanche, smiling, as the image of her shy little
mountain friend rose before her.
15. "No, papa, dear," she said presently, after thinking quietly for a little;
"I really think we must give up that idea after all. I do believe the
Lord Jesus Christ would like best that Morag should stay in the Glen
and make her father and Kirsty comfortable and happy as they get
older. But I'll tell you what we might do, papa, dear. Would there be
enough money to build a nice new house for Morag and her father?
That hut among the crags must tumble to pieces one day before
long, I should think, though certainly Morag does make it look as
nice as possible," added Blanche, pathetically, for she remembered
well the morning on which she saw it last.
Her father listened with a sad interest as Blanche told the story of
that day's troubles, and how sorry she had been to leave Glen Eagle
without taking farewell of her mountain friend. And as she told how
she had hurried up the hill to the little shieling among the crags,
only to find it empty, and glowingly described the pleasant interior
into which her friend had transformed the once wretched hut, the
scene seemed to come vividly to her memory, and to bring with it an
intense desire for life, as she lay on the borders of the far-off land!
Some hot tears stole down her cheeks, and with quivering lip and
clasped hands she gazed wistfully into her father's face as she said—
"O papa! if I could only walk one afternoon with Morag in the fir-
wood, I almost think I should feel well again!"
16. XVII.
MORAG'S JOURNEY INTO THE WORLD BEYOND THE MOUNTAINS.
T was a wild night at Stratheagle. An eddying wind had been
blowing the deep snow into wreaths, and fresh falling flakes
were whirling about in all directions through the darkness.
All trace of the road through the mountain pass had
disappeared; and it would have fared ill with the Honorable Mr.
Clifford's slim English footman, with his elegant calves, as he
made his way towards the keeper's shieling among the crags, if he
had not taken the precaution of securing a guide from the village
below.
The steep ascent to the hut was almost impassable, and more than
once the man seemed disposed to give it up and beat a retreat to
his quarters at the village without fulfilling his mission. But his more
stalwart companion cheered him on, assuring him at intervals that it
was only a "mile and a bittock," and pointed to the light in the
window of the hut long before it shed any encouraging ray on the
exhausted flunkey, who went stumbling and grumbling up the hill
through the blinding drift, feeling himself the most ill-used of
persons to have been sent to such regions in such weather.
The light from the window of the hut was at last really visible,
shimmering through the darkness, and soon the benighted travellers
stood under the snowy crags which towered above the little shieling.
Our old friend Morag was, meanwhile, comfortably seated in the
ingle-neuk, reading laboriously from one of her ancient yellow-
leaved volumes, little dreaming what was in store for her to-night.
Her father sat near her smoking his evening pipe, but he was not
staring into the fire in idleness and grim silence as of old. He
seemed at the present moment quite absorbed in a newspaper, the
17. date of which was uncertain, seeing it had been torn off when it was
used for lining a packing-case of game during autumn. But though it
was not a "day's paper," it seemed to satisfy the keeper's literary
cravings, and he had carefully perused it from beginning to end by
the light of the fire of peat and pine, which blazed brightly on the
hearth.
The snow made a warm covering round the wall, and a secure white
thatch on the porous roof, so it happened that to-night the hut was
really a more comfortable abode than it had often proved during
autumn-days.
Morag jumped to her feet when she heard the sound of voices and
the loud knocking; and now she stood gazing at her father with a
look of startled surprise.
Laying down his pipe, the keeper prepared to open the door, but
before he had time to do so, the injured footman stood in the middle
of the floor, stamping the snow from his feet, and inspecting his
precious person generally, as he muttered expressions of indignation
concerning this unpleasant piece of service which had fallen to his
lot.
Morag recognized the visitor at once, and forgetting her shyness,
she sprang forward, saying, in low, eager tones, "Will ye no be frae
the wee leddy o' the castle? I'm thinkin' there maun be something
wrang. Is she no weel?"
"Miss Clifford, I presume you mean, little girl. Well, you are right, so
far. I come from her father—my master, the Honorable Mr. Clifford. I
think I've got a letter for you; but 'pon my word it's been at the risk
of my life bringin' it here. S'pose I'd better read it myself?" said he,
looking round patronizingly at the keeper.
And without waiting for a reply, he tore open the closed envelope,
amid the smouldering indignation of the keeper, to whom it was
evidently addressed, and began to read as follows:—
"Will Morag come to London immediately to see her little friend
Blanche, who is very ill and wants to see her? The Keeper may safely
18. trust his daughter to the servant, who has got all directions how to
proceed.
Arthur Clifford."
"Quite safe with me, depend upon it; the master is quite right
there!" said the servant, smiling blandly at the confidence reposed in
him.
"Well, little girl, what do you say to it? You will come, I suppose?
The master has set his 'art on it, sure enough—or he would not have
been sendin' me to the hends of the earth on such a night as this. I
have a trap hired at the village, all ready to start in the morning.
What do you say to it, keeper?—rather sudden, for such quiet folks
as you, ain't it?" continued the man, smilingly glancing at the silent,
offended keeper.
Morag sat thinking in dumb silence for a little, but presently she
sprang up, and taking hold of her father's arm, she said in her low,
eager tone, "O father! ye mustna hinner me; the bonnie wee leddy
is ill, and wantin' me—and I maun gang!"
Then turning to the messenger, Morag asked imploringly, "She's no
jist sae verra ill, is she?"
"Bad enough, I guess. 'Tis a pity—such a pretty little miss she was
getting to be. Master so bound up in her, too!"
"Well, keeper, how is it to be?—for I've got to go down that shockin'
precipice again—and it's getting late. I'll take good care of the young
'un, you may be sure. And, depend upon it, you won't be the loser,
noways, by fallin' in with master's views," added the servant, with a
nod of meaning which made the proud keeper resolve instantly that
his daughter should not obey the summons.
But never before had Morag been so wildly wilful on any matter. Her
father felt quite taken by storm as he listened to her pleadings,
though he could not yet be persuaded to give his consent.
The servant stood waiting with evident impatience, and at last a
compromise was arranged, to the effect that if Morag was to
19. accompany him, she would be brought to the village inn by her
father next morning, before the hour of starting.
It was almost midnight when Dingwall might be seen toiling across
the moorland, through the snow, in the direction of Kirsty's cottage.
The old woman and he were fast friends now, and he wanted to ask
her advice on the startling proposal concerning the little girl who was
so precious to them both.
He found Kirsty sitting quietly reading her Bible beside the dying
peat embers. Taking off her spectacles, she listened placidly to the
story, and presently she replied in low, emphatic tones, "Dinna
hinner the bairn, keeper. Lat her gang, by a' means. 'Deed, I'm near
awears o' gaen mysel'. The bonnie lambie—an' sae He's til tak' her
hame til Himsel? Weel, weel, I thocht as muckle, whiles, when she
was comin' aboot us wi' a' her winsome ways. May she hae been
early seekin' the face she will maybe see gin lang!"
So Morag gained her point. Her travelling preparations were not long
in being made; and, though she had not many hours of sleep that
night, she was all ready to go down the hill with her father in the
morning.
Just before she started, Kenneth came running up to the shieling in
breathless haste. He carried with him the old tartan plaid which had
done such sad duty in the fir-wood. Wrapping it carefully round
Morag, he stood watching her wistfully, as she started in the grey
dawn of a December morning on this first journey into the world
beyond the mountains!
It was Christmas Eve. A fresh fall of snow lay spotless and shining
on the ground. The moon was giving a clear, plentiful light, and as it
shimmered on the snow-covered streets and squares, it seemed
suddenly to transform them into groups of stately marble palaces.
A pleasant crimson glow came from the close-curtained windows of
Mr. Clifford's London mansion, shedding a warm, rosy light on the
20. white crisp pavement in front, where stood a group of German lads
singing a fine rolling Christmas carol.
Little did they guess how dreary and tenantless those rooms were
to-night, which seemed to them to enclose such a paradise of
delights as they kept gazing up to the windows, in the hope of an
appreciative audience from within the crimson glow.
They did not know that the sorrowful interest of the household was
centred in one darkened room, where the only child of the house lay,
with life ebbing slowly away; nor that the largess which seemed so
munificent came from a little hand that was soon to take farewell of
all earthly treasures.
They were still singing, by way of gracious acknowledgment of so
handsome a gift, when a cab drove up to the door of the house, and
out of it stepped our little friend, Morag. The tall footman, her
escort, ran up the broad steps, while the little mountaineer stood on
the pavement gazing round, bewildered in the midst of a scene so
new and strange.
And this was her bonnie wee leddy's home. Did people always stand
there and sing beautifully, she wondered, as she glanced at the
German band—and then at the many bright-curtained windows of
Blanche Clifford's London home.
At length the great hall door was opened, and a blaze of light fell on
the snowy steps. Within were vistas of gilded pillars and corridors,
and glimpses of bright soft hangings. To Morag's dazzled eyes, it
seemed like the entrance to an enchanted palace. She tremblingly
followed her guide, and the door was closed behind her, as the
singing boys were watching with interest the little girl who looked so
eagerly at everything; and somehow seemed to remind them of their
sisters and their homes in the Black Forest.
Another tall footman, the fac-simile of Morag's guide, had opened
the door, and now he stood gazing, more curiously than kindly, at
the stranger.
21. "Law, Thomas! what 'ave we got here? Well, I never. Where did you
catch that 'un," he said, with a rude laugh as he stood staring at the
little girl.
Poor Morag certainly presented a grotesque enough appearance as
she stood there in the brightly-lighted hall, wrapped in the great
tartan plaid, which was fastened behind, while the ends fell on the
ground. And on her head she wore a little scarlet hood, a relic of her
infancy, which she had taken from the depths of the old kist—feeling
certain that Ellis would look on her more favorably if she wore a
bonnet. But, unfortunately, the hood was of such small dimensions
that it had a constant tendency towards the back of her neck,
leaving her black elf-like locks streaming around.
"Come now, Sparks, none of your cheek. She's the nicest little
shaver possible—an uncommon decent little thing; wasn't no trouble
on the way, neither; always turned up all right when a fellow wanted
to go and smoke a pipe, or get a drop of somethink. My word, I'd go
back with her to-morrow, I would."
"Where's Ellis?—ring for her, will you? I must get this little girl off my
hands now. How is missie, by the way?"
"Better again, to-day, they say. Master is looking brisker, too.
Dreadful dull Christmas-time for a fellow, though. There's Ellis
wouldn't laugh for a sovereign."
Meanwhile, Morag stood looking eagerly round. She felt sure that
she would see her bonnie wee leddy emerge from some of those
vistas of brightness; but when she did not come, the little girl began
to feel very forlorn as she stood there in the hall. She could not
understand what the servants were saying, and she began to
wonder what was going to happen next, and longed for a sight of
her gracious little friend, who never had failed her before.
Morag had no idea how seriously ill Blanche was, and she had been
hoping during her journey that perhaps her bonnie wee leddy might
be quite well again by the time she arrived. She had got so quickly
well after the loch adventure; and Morag could not conceive of her
22. looking more fragile that she did on that evening when she saw her
last, in the old castle of Glen Eagle, lying on the sofa, wrapped in her
blue flannel dressing-gown.
At length Ellis came bustling along; and even she was a welcome
sight to poor Morag in her forlornness.
"Well, little girl; how d'ye do. Very glad to see you—never thought I
should feel so glad to see you. I thought you would come to see
missie. Miss Prosser told me the master had sent for you. Miss
Clifford does know not yet. She's so weak, you see; any hagitation is
bad, but I daresay you will see her in the morning. It's a good step
from the 'ighlands—ain't it? I expect you are tired—poor thing," said
Ellis, glancing rather pityingly at Morag's wistful face.
"I'm no that tired. But she's no jist verra ill, is she? I thocht maybe
she would hae been weel gin noo," said Morag, ruefully returning to
the subject that lay nearest her heart, as Ellis led her along what
seemed to her a maze of brightly-lighted passages.
"It wasna fallin' intil the loch that hurtit her, think ye?" she asked
presently.
"Well, now, I shouldn't wonder though that chill had something to do
with it," replied Ellis, as if she had received a new idea. "Poor dear
missie, she is so sweet—almost too good to live, as the sayin' is.
She's much better to-day. I daresay she'll be able to have a look at
you to-morrow."
Morag's heart sank. The thought of seeing her bonnie wee leddy at
the end of her journey had kept her brave through its fears and
discomforts; but now she heard that another night must elapse
before they could meet, and she would be left alone among all those
strangers. It seemed so cruel and hard; and Morag felt sure that if
her wee leddy knew she was here, she would not ask her to wait till
to-morrow.
Meanwhile, Ellis led the way to the housekeeper's room, leaving
Morag to be warmed and fed and generally comforted by Mrs.
Worthy. The old housekeeper welcomed the forlorn little maiden
23. kindly, and after divesting her of the tartan plaid, and providing a
comfortable supper, she made her sit down in a big arm-chair by the
fire,—and, taking a similar one for herself, she began to recall
reminiscences of Glen Eagle, and to make inquiries about the
dwellers in the Glen whose aquaintance she had made during these
autumn months.
Presently, Blanche's illness became the topic of conversation, and
Morag listened eagerly to all Mrs. Worthy had to say about it. Her
heart sank when she heard how very ill her bonnie wee leddy had
been. After looking meditatively into the fire for some time, she
looked up and said eagerly, "I'm thinkin', Mistress Worthy, gin they
wad jist bring her til the auld castle o' Glen Eagle to bide, and lat her
rin aboot wi' Shag and Chance and me, when the snaw gaes awa,
and the bit flooers begin to creep up, she wad get braw and strong
again."
"Well, there's no sayin', little girl. I likes to see young folks take a
cheerin' view of things. 'While there's life, there's 'ope,' I always say.
There's my Sarah Jane was once a-spittin' up—and there ain't a
stronger woman to be found nowhere, now; and there's"—
Here Mrs. Worthy's family chronicle of illnesses was interrupted by a
bell ringing violently within the room. It sounded so startling, that
Morag jumped to her feet, and even Mrs. Worthy looked somewhat
alarmed as she rose to answer it.
"Bless me, it ain't often that bell is a ringin'—so shockin' loud, too!
What's the hurry, I wonder?" and the old woman bustled away,
leaving her companion alone.
Morag thought she could guess why the bell had just rung; and
hoped that it might prove a summons for her to go to the bonnie
wee leddy. She sat listening eagerly for the sound of returning
footsteps, but no messenger appeared; so Morag's hope died away
at last, and she began to feel very forlorn indeed.
As she sat, looking dreamily into the flickering fire, she remembered
another evening when she found herself seated in Mrs. Worthy's
24. arm-chair, in the midst of unwonted comforts, and how very
frightened and uncomfortable she was till the wee leddy had
suddenly appeared and made her feel so safe and happy.
And as she gazed among the glowing coals, she realized, as she
never had before, what an eventful evening that had been, and how
much had happened during these never-to-be-forgotten autumn
days. All at once, her lonely child-life seemed to be filled with love
and brightness, and the very hills and glens of her mountain home
to be glorified, as she strayed among them with her bonnie wee
leddy. And then the friendship with Kirsty Macpherson had grown
out of these days too, and what happy changes it had brought to the
little shieling among the crags! Her father's brow was cleared of its
perpetual gloom; he never said bitter things about his neighbors in
the Glen now, and when Morag and he went together to the kirk, so
many people seemed glad to see him there.
And as Morag Dingwall's thoughts went slipping back to these
golden autumn days, that had been so full of blessing for her, she
lifted up her heart in thankfulness to God for the best thing among
all the many good things which they had brought to her—the
knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ, her Saviour. Had the wee leddy
learnt to love Him too, she wondered, as she remembered the last
talk in Glen Eagle; and then she thought, joyfully, how much there
would be to hear and tell to-morrow, when Ellis had promised she
should see her friend.
As she sat gazing into the fire, Morag fell asleep in the big arm-
chair; and in her dreams she thought she was again with Blanche,
struggling through the rippling water, like the Pilgrims in the picture.
But neither of them appeared to feel frightened, as they had when
they were almost drowned in the loch. At first the water seemed
smooth and shining, and Morag could hear the bonnie wee leddy's
silvery voice calling to her to come away, for she saw the Golden City
quite clearly now—and that the gates were really wide open still,
though it was so late at night. Then Morag, all at once, began to feel
afraid, for she could see no city lying in the sun; but only a great
25. leaden-looking wave, which came creeping towards her, throwing its
gray shadow on the shining water; then she lost sight of her bonnie
wee leddy, and could only hear her voice calling her to come. But
Morag thought she could not cross the dark wave, and the silvery
voice began to sound very far away; and at last she awoke,
trembling,—feeling so glad to think that after all it was only a dream.
The fire, which had been so bright and warm when she fell asleep,
was now cold and black. The candles, too, were almost burnt to
their sockets; and Morag saw that she must have slept for a long
time. She began to wonder where Mrs. Worthy was, and whether
they meant to leave her there, till they came to take her to see the
bonnie wee leddy in the morning.
She would not have treated her so, thought Morag, with quivering
lip, as she looked blankly round the solitary room, where everything
seemed so gray and cheerless, and she shivered as she remembered
the leaden wave of her dream, and began to feel very frightened
and homesick, besides being cold and wearied.
Presently she heard the sound of footsteps re-echoing along the
silent corridor, and Mrs. Worthy walked slowly into the room with her
nightcap on. In her hand she carried a candle, which she almost
dropped in her astonishment at seeing Morag seated there.
"Bless my soul, child! are you here still? I was just on my way to
bed. I declare I had quite forgotten all about you. Dear, dear, my
'ead's quite confused—and no wonder! Poor dear, you must be sadly
tired. Too bad of Ellis not to have taken you to bed. She promised to
see after you when she was sent along to you. I've just only now
come from missie's room—dear angel: she does look so sweet. You'll
see her to-morrow, my poor dear!"
And then, noticing Morag's wistful look as she murmured, "No the
nicht," the old woman pondered for a while, and taking the candle
again, she said, "Well, well, there can't be no 'arm: they are all
cleared away now! Come, I'll take you, poor dear. You haven't been
well treated noways among us all, and I heard the master tell Ellis
26. that she was to look to you, and he would see you himself to-
morrow."
Morag's heart leapt for joy. If she could only see her bonnie wee
leddy even for a minute, and feel her protecting touch again, she
would forget all her past troubles and be quite safe and happy in this
strange land.
She followed Mrs. Worthy with joyful steps as she led her along the
passages, which were cold and dark now. She smiled as she thought
how astonished the wee leddy would be to see her mountain friend,
for she remembered Ellis had said that she was not to be told of her
arrival till next morning; but it was so good and kind of Mrs. Worthy
to take her now. And then she tried to picture to herself how
Blanche would be looking. Would she find her lying on a sofa,
dressed in her pretty blue dressing-gown, which she wore on the
evening she saw her last at the old castle of Glen Eagle? And would
she seem much paler than she did then? Morag feared she might,
when she remembered what a long time she had laid in bed; but
summer days would soon come again, and the sunshine, which the
bonnie leddy loved so well, would be sure to make her strong again.
Indeed, in her secret heart, Morag cherished the hope that her own
presence might act as a talisman, and she smiled to think of the
pleasant voice that would soon bid her welcome; for, since the dark
hour in the fir-wood, when she thought Blanche had left the Glen
without remembering to say farewell, Morag had never doubted the
love and friendship of her gracious little friend.
At last Mrs. Worthy stopped at a closed door, and as she lowered the
candle which she held in her hand, Morag caught sight of a familiar
friend lying on the mat.
Chance was waiting there in a listening posture, with his nose
against the door. Morag stooped down and patted him, but, instead
of jumping up at her in outrageous welcome, as he used to do, he
merely gave a faint wag of his tail, and looking wistfully into her
27. face, raised a low, whining cry, and put his nose close to the door
again.
"I'm thinkin' Chance will be wantin' in—to get a sicht o' her too,"
said Morag, smiling.
"Yes, poor brute; hanimals has a deal of feelin'. He's been in a
dreadful way; indeed I thought they locked him up for the night, but
he seems to have got loose again," replied Mrs. Worthy, as she
opened the door and stepped softly in, followed by Morag and
Chance.
The little girl looked eagerly round among the mirrors and pictures
and pretty statuettes for the face which had never failed before to
smile a sunny welcome upon her, but her bonnie wee leddy was
nowhere to be seen, and a terrible stillness seemed to pervade the
room.
Drawing aside the rose-colored curtains of a little bed, which Morag
had not noticed in her eager glance round the room, Mrs. Worthy
beckoned for the little girl to come near, and Morag looked at last on
the face of her bonnie wee leddy. She seemed sleeping peacefully;
the golden curls lay in rich masses on the pillow, and the fluttering
fingers were at rest on the white coverlet. The room was dimly
lighted, and a shadow fell from the curtain on her face; so Morag
drew closer that she might see her more clearly—feeling a pang of
disappointment that she was asleep. But had not Ellis said that to-
morrow morning she would speak to her? and she could wait.
"She's sleepin' richt soun' the noo, I'm thinkin'," she whispered softly
to Mrs. Worthy, who was holding back the curtain.
"Sleeping! yes, my little dear, you are right. Children does put things
nice at times. Dear angel—not dead, but sleeping: a long, long
sleep, till the resurrection morn!"
With a long, low cry of anguish, Morag knelt beside the dead body of
her bonnie wee leddy, and kissed her cold, dead hand!
28. She understood it all now. Blanche Clifford had passed away on this
Christmas Eve from our lower world—with all its lights and shadows,
all its wealth and all its woe—to that other, where the pure in heart
are perfectly blessed, for they see God!
Perhaps here we should take farewell of our mountain maiden; for,
with the passing away from earth of her bonnie wee leddy, ended
the childhood of Morag Dingwall, never again to visit her, save in
dreams of the night and memories of the past!
We shall but cast a glance across the vista of years, when these
autumn days lay far away in the calm, clear distance, and seem like
a tale that is told;—when Kirsty has laid down her frail body to sleep
in the little graveyard on the hillside, to await the coming of the Lord
she loved so well;—when the keen eyes of the keeper Dingwall no
longer scan the hills and moors of Glen Eagle, nor his steady hand
takes unerring aim; for his stalwart form lies mouldering in the
shadow of the hills he has so often trod!
The keeper's earthly life had closed in the midst of less vivid hopes,
perhaps, and shadowed by more bitter memories, than Kirsty's
blameless years had wrought. But he, too, had learnt to live in the
faith and hope of the words which welcomed him to the table of the
Lord below, and to know it to be a "faithful saying, that 'Jesus Christ
came into the world to save sinners.'"
The shieling among the crags, which had been his home so long,
was a roofless ruin now. And long dank grass and nettles grew on
the earthen floor, which had proved, of old, such a sea of trouble to
the little Morag.
Kenneth Macpherson, Kirsty's grandson, reigned over the realms of
deer and moor-fowl in the Glen now; and the keeper's daughter had
become the keeper's wife.
Their home was the loveliest spot in all the strath—a pleasant, light,
airy, well-built cottage, placed at a sunny angle of the pine forest,
29. which protected it from the cold north winds when they swept along
the Glen.
Firwood Neuk, for so it had been called by its owners, possessed
every pretty and useful accessory, within and without, which peasant
life could require. It was quite a model homestead, with its wealthy
barn-yard and farmstead, and its pretty productive garden—the last
earthly gift of a little vanished hand, which had dropped its earthly
treasures as she used to do her wild flowers in these woods long
ago, when anything more precious came in sight.
Mr. Clifford never came to shoot in Glen Eagle again; but,
nevertheless, he was more than faithful to the wishes of his child,
and Blanche's friends lacked for nothing which money could supply—
humbly and gratefully accepted by these proud Highland spirits as
the benefaction of the gracious child who had loved them all so well.
Often, indeed, Mr. Clifford had been tempted, during the earlier
years, to go beyond his daughter's wishes when he noticed Morag's
insatiable thirst for knowledge: to take her from her quiet haunts,
and bring art and culture to aid in her training. But he called to mind
Blanche's wise decision, and left the child of the mountains to her
"lowlier, more unlettered fate."
Still, Morag's intellectual cravings were not unprovided for. In one of
the rooms of her pleasant home there stood a pretty book-case filled
with rows of shining books—another memorial of Blanche's love.
And, among the handsome bindings, there were interspersed certain
old, worn books, which were very dear to Morag's heart, for had
they not been taken from the depths of the old kist?—and stood
there, among the newer volumes, like ancient historical monuments
surrounded by pretty modern villas.
It was the twelfth of August, and the keeper's wife stood waiting in
the gloaming for her husband, who had not yet returned from the
moors.
30. The work of the day was done, and the children safely folded for the
night,—for there were young voices again re-echoing through the
forest, and little feet toddling among the brown fir-needles.
Her husband was not yet in sight, so presently Morag wandered into
the fir-wood, where the great aisles of pine reared themselves calm
and stately as of old.
Leaning against one of the old red firs, which seemed written over
with many memories to her, she called to mind one August day long
ago. And as she stood gazing dreamily there, she seemed to see
again the lovely, singing child, coming like a happy fate towards the
desolate little maiden who leant there on that bright morning, to
hear again the "glad tidings of great joy" borne unconsciously by the
silvery voice to a listening ear and waiting soul, and to feel the soft,
sisterly touch of the little fluttering hand that sent glow and warmth
to a heart which, but for that touch of human sympathy, might have
turned to stone.
Morag had seen many gentle ladies, old and young, since these
autumn days long ago. The solitary Glen had got into guide-books
now, and every year brought many strangers to roam among its
woods and hills; but never could any other dwell in her memory as
Blanche Clifford did—never, she thought, could she see "her like
again!"
Many a year had come and gone since that memorable twelfth of
August, when the southern guests came to seek their pleasure
among the moors of Glen Eagle. Silver lines were visible on Morag's
once raven black locks, and her step was slower than it used to be,
as she sauntered through the old red fir-trees, which were all aglow
in the sunset.
With a sigh of weariness she at last seated herself on a gray, lichen-
spotted dyke which skirted the forest.
"Ay! and she'll aye be young, though I'm growin' auld," she
murmured, for she still retained her ancient habit of speaking her
thoughts aloud, acquired in her solitary childhood.
31. Leaning her head upon her hand, she sat watching the sun as it
sank behind the old castle of Glen Eagle.
The amber clouds were hovering round the dying sun, like
ponderous gates ready to close on the inner vistas of gold and
crimson. Morag sat gazing with glistening eyes at the cloud-land
scene; she well knew that "richest tenderest glow" which lingers
round the autumnal sun, and always loved to watch it.
32. "But there sight fails; no heart may know
The bliss when life is done."
"It's growin' cauld and mirk, and I maun be goin' home," murmured
Morag, as she rose to go down the hill, when all had faded into grey
twilight. Then she added, softly: "She liket weel to see the sun gae
doun amang oor hills; an' it aye min's me upo' her. Bonnie wee
leddy! 'Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon
withdraw its shining, for the Lord is thine everlasting light, and thy
God thy glory.'"
Stereotyped by McCrea & Co.,
Newburgh, N. Y.
Transcriber's note
Variable or unusal spelling and hyphenation have been retained apart from minor
punctuation inconsistencies, which have been silently corrected. The changes made are
shown below. The first line indicates the original, the second the correction.
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