“O, nothing much,” laughed Don, “if I had done it, but for you, Ranald! Why, what will you do with that swell young lady from the city?”
“I will just do nothing,” said Ranald. “There will be you and Mrs. Murray, and—”
“Oh, I say,” burst in Don, “that's bully! Let's ask some of the boys, and—your aunt, and—my mother, and—some of the girls.”
“Oh, shucks!” said Ranald, angrily. “You just want Marget Aird.”
“You get out!” cried Don, indignantly; “Marget Aird!” Then, after a pause, he added, “All right, I don't want anybody else. I'll look after Mrs. Murray, and you and Maimie can do what you like.”
This combination sounded so terrible to Ranald that he surrendered at once; and it was arranged that there should be a grand sugaring-off, and that others besides the minister's wife and her niece should be invited.
But Mrs. Murray had noticed the falling of Ranald's face at the mention of Maimie's visit to the camp, and feeling that she had taken him at a disadvantage, she determined that she would the very next day put herself right with him. She was eager to follow up the advantage she had gained the day before in establishing terms of friendship with Ranald, for her heart went out to the boy, in whose deep, passionate nature she saw vast possibilities for good or ill. On her return from her daily visit to Macdonald Dubh, she took the camp road, and had the good fortune to find Ranald alone, “rigging up” his kettles preparatory to the boiling. But she had no time for kettles to-day, and she went straight to her business.
“I came to see you, Ranald,” she said, after she had shaken hands with him, “about our sugaring-off. I've been thinking that it would perhaps be better to have no strangers, but just old friends, you and Don and Hughie and me.”
Ranald at once caught her meaning, but found himself strangely unwilling to be extricated from his predicament.
“I mean,” said Mrs. Murray, frankly, “we might enjoy it better without my niece; and so, perhaps, we could have the sugaring when I come to bring Hughie home on Friday. Maimie does not come till Saturday.”
Her frankness disarmed Ranald of his reserve. “I know well what you mean,” he said, without his usual awkwardness, “but I do not mind now at all having your niece come; and Don is going to have a party.” The quiet, grave tone was that of a man, and Mrs. Murray looked at the boy with new eyes. She did not know that it was her own frank confidence that had won like confidence from him.
“How old are you, Ranald?” she said, in her wonder.
“I will be going on eighteen.”
“You will soon be a man, Ranald.” Ranald remained silent, and she went on earnestly: “A strong, good, brave man, Ranald.”
The blood rushed to the boy's face with a sudden flood, but still he stood silent.
“I'm going to give you Hughie for two days,” she continued, in the same earnest voice; and leaning down over her pony's neck toward him: “I want him to know strong and manly boys. He is very fond of you, Ranald. He thinks you are better than any man in the world.” She paused, her lips parting in a smile that made Ranald's heart beat quick. Then she went on with a shy hesitancy: “Ranald, I know the boys sometimes drop words they should not and tell stories unfit to hear”; the blood was beginning to show in her cheek; “and I would not like my little boy—” Her voice broke suddenly, but recovering quickly she went on in grave, sweet tones: “I trust him to you, Ranald, for this time and afterward. He looks up to you. I want him to be a good, brave man, and to keep his heart pure.” Ranald could not speak, but he looked steadily into Mrs. Murray's eyes as he took the hand she offered, and she knew he was pledging himself to her.
“You'll come for him to-morrow,” she said, as she turned away. By this time Ranald had found his voice.
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied. “And I will take good care of him.”
Once more Mrs. Murray found herself looking at Ranald as if seeing him for the first time. He had the solemn voice and manner of a man making oath of allegiance, and she rode away with her heart at rest concerning her little boy. With Ranald, at least, he would be safe.
Those two days had been for Hughie long and weary, but at last the great day came for him, as all great days will come for those who can wait. Ranald appeared at the manse before the breakfast was well begun, and Hughie, with the unconscious egoism of childhood, was for rushing off without thought of preparation for himself or of farewell for those left behind. Indeed, he was for leaving his porridge untasted, declaring he “wasn't a bit hungry,” but his mother brought him to his senses.
“No breakfast, no sugar bush to-day, Hughie,” she said; “we cannot send men out to the woods that cannot eat breakfast, can we, Ranald?”
Hughie at once fell upon his porridge with vigor, while Ranald, who was much too shy to eat at the minister's table, sat and waited.
After breakfast was over, Jessie was called in for the morning worship, without which no day was ever begun in the manse. At worship in the minister's house every one present took part. It was Hughie's special joy to lead the singing of the psalm. His voice rose high and clear, even above his mother's, for he loved to sing, and Ranald's presence inspired him to do his best. Ranald had often heard the psalm sung in the church—
I to the hills will lift mine eyes,
From whence doth come mine aid;
and the tune was the old, familiar “French,” but somehow it was all new to him that day. The fresh voices and the crisp, prompt movement of the tune made Ranald feel as if he had never heard the psalm sung before. In the reading he took his verse with the others, stumbling a little, not because the words were too big for him, but because they seemed to run into one another. The chapter for the day contained Paul's injunction to Timothy, urging him to fidelity and courage as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.
When the reading was done, Mrs. Murray told them a story of a young man who had shed his blood upon a Scottish moor because he was too brave to be untrue to his lord, and then, in a few words, made them all see that still some conflict was being waged, and that there was still opportunity for each to display loyal courage and fidelity.
In the prayer that followed, the first thing that surprised Ranald was the absence of the set forms and tones of prayer, with which he was familiar. It was all so simple and real. The mother was telling the great Father in heaven her cares and anxieties, and the day's needs for them all, sure that he would understand and answer. Every one was remembered—the absent head of the family and those present; the young man worshiping with them, that he might be a true man and a good soldier of Jesus Christ; and at the close, the little lad going away this morning, that he might be kept from all harm and from all evil thoughts and deeds. The simple beauty of the words, the music in the voice, and the tender, trustful feeling that breathed through the prayer awakened in Ranald's heart emotions and longings he had never known before, and he rose from his knees feeling how wicked and how cruel a thing it would be to cause one of these little ones to stumble.
After the worship was over, Hughie seized his Scotch bonnet and rushed for the jumper, and in a few minutes his mother had all the space not taken up by him and Ranald packed with blankets and baskets.
“Jessie thinks that even great shanty-men like you and Don and Hughie will not object to something better than bread and pork.”
“Indeed, we will not,” said Ranald, heartily.
Then Hughie suddenly remembered that he was actually leaving home, and climbing out of the jumper, he rushed at his mother.
“Oh, mother, good by!” he cried.
His mother stooped and put her arms about him. “Good by, my darling,” she said, in a low voice; “I trust you to be a good boy, and, Hughie, don't