Kenneth McAlpine Part 7

Thom.

Scene: The fairy's glen high up among the mountains. Kenneth seated, book in hand, on the top of the fairy knoll, which stands out strangely green against the purples and browns which surround it. Kenneth is alone. Kooran is away down beneath, minding the sheep. The shepherd-boy lays down the book at last, or rather he drops it down the chimney of his cave, and it falls on the carpet of brackens beneath.

Then he takes his crook, and goes slowly down the strath.

This was a Sat.u.r.day forenoon, and Kenneth and his little friend Archie McCrane were going on a long round of pleasure.

Ha! yonder comes Archie. Or rather, yonder suddenly doth he appear. He comes straight up out of the centre of a bush of furze, in quite a startling kind of way.

Archie is eleven years of age, though very tiny, but very strong, and as hard as an Arab. No fat about Archie. His face and bare neck and breast and thorn-scratched knees are as red as if recently rubbed with brick-dust. There isn't a rent or hole in either his jacket or kilt, but woe is me, it is pretty nearly all patches; it is mother's work every night to mend the rents Archie makes in his clothes. Archie is, of course, his mother's darling. She even takes pains to make him pretty. She prides herself even in his beautiful hair. His hair is one of Archie's strong points. Mind, he wears no bonnet (cap), never did and never would. He owns one, but always forgets to put it on. So his soft golden hair is cut across above the brows, and hangs in wavy luxuriance over his shoulders. I said golden, but it is more straw colour, and bleached on the top almost white.

He is a singular lad, Archie, has a half-wild, half-frightened look in his face; in fact, take him all in all, he is quite in keeping with the romantic surroundings.

"I've got him," Archie said.

"What is it?"

"A little black rabbit."

"Strange," said Kenneth; "put him down. He must be half tame, I should think."

Archie put it down, and the two boys knelt beside it among the heather.

It was a half-grown one, so mild, so gentle-looking. b.u.t.ter, you would have said, wouldn't melt in that wee rabbit's mouth. And it crouched down low and held its ears flat against its back, and never moved an eye or winked, but allowed the lads to smooth it with their fore-fingers.

But all at once, pop! it was off like an eel.

"Oh?" said Archie, with such a disappointed look, "and I meant to take it hame wi' me."

Kenneth laughed, and off the two scampered, as wild as any rabbits.

"Shot is here," said Archie.

"Where?"

"Down with Kooran."

"Then you must whistle him up; Kooran will look after the sheep by himself, but Shot will lead him into temptation. Besides, the sheep don't know Shot. Whistle, Archie, whistle, man."

Archie put four fingers in his mouth and emitted a scream as shrill as the scream of the great whaup. [The curlew.] In a moment more Shot was coming tearing along through the heather.

And with him was Kooran.

"What do you want, Kooran?"

Kooran threw himself in a pleading att.i.tude at his master's feet, looked up with brown, melting, pleading eyes, and wagged his tail.

"Oh! I know, dear doggie," said Kenneth; "you want your dinner, because you know we'll be away all day."

Kooran jumped and capered and danced and barked, and Kenneth rolled a piece of cake and a bit of cheese in a morsel of paper and handed it to the dog.

"Keep the koorichan," (sheep) "well together, doggie," he said; "and don't take your dinner for an hour yet."

Kooran gave his tail a few farewell wags and galloped off, but as soon as he was in sight of the flock and out of sight of his master, he lay down and ate his dinner right up at once. He ate the cheese first, because it smelt so nice, and then he ate the cake.

Away went Archie and Kenneth and Shot. It didn't take them long to gallop through the heather and furze. Of course the furze made their bare knees bleed, but they did not mind that.

They reached the road in twenty minutes, and went straight away to the clachan to report themselves at the manse, or minister's house.

It wasn't much of a manse, only an ordinary-looking, blue-slated house of two stories, but it had a nice lawn in front and gardens round it, where ash trees, limes, planes, and elms grew almost in too great abundance. The windows were large, and one was a French one, and opened under a verandah on to the lawn. This was the Rev David Grant's study.

Before they came round the hedgerow, both boys stopped, dipped their handkerchiefs in the running brook, and polished their faces; then they warned Shot to be on his best behaviour, and looking as sedate and solemn as they could, they opened the gate, and made their way to the hall door. And Shot tried to look as old as he could, and followed behind with his nose pretty near the ground, and his tail almost between his heels.

But Mr Grant himself saw them, opened the cas.e.m.e.nt window, and cried,--

"Come this way, boys."

Mr Grant was the clergyman of the village. The living was a poor one, and as he had seven grown-up daughters, he was obliged to turn sheep farmer. It was his sheep that Kenneth herded, and that his father had herded before him, after "the bad years" had ruined the poor man.

"Miss Grant will soon be here," he said. "And how have you left the sheep, Kenneth?"

"They are all nicely, thank you, sir," replied Kenneth.

"All healthy and thriving, I hope?"

"Oh, yes, sir, we won't have any more trouble, and Kooran is minding them. He will take capital care of them, sir. And Duncan McCrane, Archie's father, is going up himself to see them."

"That's right," said Mr Grant.

The Misses Grant were the mothers of the clachan. I haven't s.p.a.ce to tell you half of the good they did, so I shall not attempt it, but they taught in school and Sunday-school, they knew all the deserving poor, and attended them when sick, and advised them, and prayed with them, and read to them, and never went empty-handed to see them. Why, they even begged for them. And they knew the undeserving poor, and did good to them also. Even Gillespie, the most dreaded poacher and wildest man in the clachan, was softened in tone and like a child when talking to the "good Miss Grants," as they were always called.

Well, every one loved these homely sisterly la.s.sies of the parson's.

"By-the-bye, Kennie," said Mr Grant, "I hear the glen is going to be evicted."

"Surely, sir, that isn't true?" replied Kenneth.

Miss Grant the elder was Kenneth's teacher, one of them, old Nancy Dobbell was another, and Nature was a third.

"Did you come for a lesson to-day?" said Miss Grant, entering.

"No, thank you. Miss Grant."

"Well, I'm glad, because I was going out. Little Miss Redmond is here with her governess. They have the pony trap, and I am going to their glen with them to lunch. Come to the drawing-room; they are there."

Miss Redmond was the only daughter of an Englishman of wealth, who had bought land in an adjoining glen. Mr Redmond himself was seldom at home--if, indeed, Scotland could be called his home--and his wife was an invalid.

But there was nothing of the invalid about little Jessie, the daughter.

Quite a child she was, hardly more than eight, but with all the quiet dignity and easy affability that is only to be found among children of the _bon ton_.