“We will finish the tapping to-morrow, and I could come the day after with the jumper,” said Ranald, pointing to the stout, home-made sleigh used for gathering the sap and the wood for the fire.
“Oh, I see you have begun tapping,” said Mrs. Murray; “and do you do it yourself?”
“Why, yes, mother; don't you see all those trees?” cried Hughie, pointing to a number of maples that stood behind the shanty. “Ranald and Don did all those, and made the spiles, too. See!” He caught up a spile from a heap lying near the door. “Ranald made all these.”
“Why, that's fine, Ranald. How do you make them? I have never seen one made.”
“Oh, mother!” Hughie's voice was full of pity for her ignorance. He had seen his first that afternoon.
“And I have never seen the tapping of a tree. I believe I shall learn just now, if Ranald will only show me, from the very beginning.”
Her eager interest in his work won Ranald from his reserve. “There is not much to see,” he said, apologetically. “You just cut a natch in the tree, and drive in the spile, and—”
“Oh, but wait,” she cried. “That's just what I wanted to see. How do you make the spile?”
“Oh, that is easy,” said Ranald. He took up a slightly concave chisel or gouge, and slit a slim slab from off a block of cedar about a foot long.
“This is a spile,” he exclaimed. “We drive it into the tree, and the sap runs down into the trough, you see.”
“No, I don't see,” said the minister's wife. She was too thoroughgoing to do things by halves. “How do you drive this into the tree, and how do you get the sap to run down it?”
“I will show you,” he said, and taking with him a gouge and ax, he approached a maple still untapped. “You first make a gash like this.” So saying, with two or three blows of his ax, he made a slanting notch in the tree. “And then you make a place for the spile this way.” With the back of his ax he drove his gouge into the corner of the notch, and then fitted his spile into the incision so made.
“Ah, now I see. And you put the trough under the drip from the spile. But how do you make the troughs?”
“I did not make them,” said Ranald. “Some of them father made, and some of them belong to the Camerons. But it is easy enough. You just take a thick slab of basswood and hollow it out with the adze.”
Mrs. Murray was greatly pleased. “I'm very much obliged to you, Ranald,” she said, “and I am glad I came down to see your camp. Now, if you will ask me, I should like to see you make the sugar.” Had her request been made before the night of their famous ride, Ranald would have found some polite reason for refusal, but now he was rather surprised to find himself urging her to come to a sugaring-off at the close of the season.
“I shall be delighted to come,” cried Mrs. Murray, “and it is very good of you to ask me, and I shall bring my niece, who is coming with Mr. Murray from town to spend some weeks with me.”
Ranald's face fell, but his Highland courtesy forbade retreat. “If she would care,” he said, doubtfully.
“Oh, I am sure she would be very glad! She has never been outside of the city, and I want her to learn all she can of the country and the woods. It is positively painful to see the ignorance of these city children in regard to all living things—beasts and birds and plants. Why, many of them couldn't tell a beech from a basswood.”
“Oh, mother!” protested Hughie, aghast at such ignorance.
“Yes, indeed, it is dreadful, I assure you,” said his mother, smiling. “Why, I know a grown-up woman who didn't know till after she was married the difference between a spruce and a pine.”
“But you know them all now,” said Hughie, a little anxious for his mother's reputation.
“Yes, indeed,” said his mother, proudly; “every one, I think, at least when the leaves are out. So I want Maimie to learn all she can.”
Ranald did not like the idea any too well, but after they had gone his thoughts kept turning to the proposed visit of Mrs. Murray and her niece.
“Maimie,” said Ranald to himself. “So that is her name.” It had a musical sound, and was different from the names of the girls he knew—Betsy and Kirsty and Jessie and Marget and Jinny. It was finer somehow than these, and seemed to suit better a city girl. He wondered if she would be nice, but he decided that doubtless she would be “proud.” To be “proud” was the unpardonable sin with the Glengarry boy. The boy or girl convicted of this crime earned the contempt of all self-respecting people. On the whole, Ranald was sorry she was coming. Even in school he was shy with the girls, and kept away from them. They were always giggling and blushing and making one feel queer, and they never meant what they said. He had no doubt Maimie would be like the rest, and perhaps a little worse. Of course, being Mrs. Murray's niece, she might be something like her. Still, that could hardly be. No girl could ever be like the minister's wife. He resolved he would turn Maimie over to Don. He remembered, with great relief, that Don did not mind girls; indeed, he suspected Don rather enjoyed playing the “forfeit” games at school with them, in which the penalties were paid in kisses. How often had he shuddered and admired from a distance, while Don and the others played those daring games! Yes, Don would do the honors for Maimie. Perhaps Don would even venture to play “forfeits” with her. Ranald felt his face grow hot at this thought. Then, with sudden self-detection, he cried, angrily, aloud: “I don't care; let him; he may for all I care.”
“Who may what?” cried a voice behind him. It was Don himself.
“Nothing,” said Ranald, blushing shamefacedly.
“Why, what are you mad about?” asked Don, noticing his flushed face.
“Who is mad?” said Ranald. “I am not mad whatever.”
“Well, you look mighty like it,” said Don. “You look mad enough to fight.”
But Ranald, ignoring him, simply said, “We will need to be gathering the sap this evening, for the troughs will be full.”
“Huh-huh,” said Don. “I guess we can carry all there is to-day, but we will have to get the colt to-morrow. Got the spiles ready?”
“Enough for to-day,” said Ranald, wondering how he could tell Don of the proposed visit of Mrs. Murray and her niece. Taking each a bundle of spiles and an ax, the boys set out for the part of the sugar bush as yet untapped, and began their work.
“The minister's wife and Hughie were here just now,” began Ranald.
“Huh-huh, I met them down the road. Hughie said he was coming day after to-morrow.”
“Did Mrs. Murray tell you—”
“Tell me what?”
“Did she tell you she would like to see a sugaring-off?”
“No; they didn't stop long enough to tell me anything. Hughie shouted at me as they passed.”
“Well,” said Ranald, speaking slowly and with difficulty, “she wanted bad to see the sugar-making, and I asked her to come.”
“You did, eh? I wonder at you.”
“And she wanted to bring her niece, and—and—I let her,” said Ranald.
“Her niece! Jee-roo-sa-LEM!” cried Don. “Do you know who her niece is?”
“Not I,” said Ranald, looking rather alarmed.
“Well, she is the daughter of the big lumberman, St. Clair, and she is a great swell.”
Ranald