She found him scanning her with a straight, searching look, as if seeking to discover of what sort she was. She felt he had noticed her shrinking from Hughie, and was annoyed to find herself blushing under his keen gaze. But when Mrs. Murray presented Ranald to her niece, it was his turn to blush and feel awkward, as he came forward with a triangular sort of movement and offered his hand, saying, with an access of his Highland accent, “It is a fine day, ma'am.” It required all Maimie's good manners to keep back the laugh that fluttered upon her lips.
Slight as it was, Ranald noticed the smile, and turning from her abruptly to Mrs. Murray, said: “We were thinking that Friday would be a good day for the sugaring-off, if that will do you.”
“Quite well, Ranald,” said the minister's wife; “and it is very good of you to have us.”
She, too, had noted Maimie's smile, and seeing the dark flush on Ranald's cheek, she knew well what it meant.
“Come and sit down a little, Ranald,” she said, kindly; “I have got some books here for you and Don to read.”
But Ranald would not sit, nor would he wait a moment. “Thank you, ma'am,” he said, “but I will need to be going.”
“Wait, Ranald, a moment,” cried Mrs. Murray. She ran into the next room, and in a few moments returned with two or three books and some magazines. “These,” she said, handing him the books, “are some of Walter Scott's. They will be good for week-days; and these,” giving him the magazines, “you can read after church on Sabbath.”
The boy's eyes lighted up as he thanked Mrs. Murray, and he shook hands with her very warmly. Then, with a bow to the company, and without looking at Maimie again, he left the room, with Hughie following at his heels. In a short time Hughie came back full of enthusiastic praise of his hero.
“Oh, mother!” he cried, “he is awful smart. He can just do anything. He can make a splendid bed of balsam brush, and porridge, and pancakes, and—and—and—everything.”
“A bed of balsam brush and porridge! What a wonderful boy he must be, Hughie,” said Maimie, teasing him. “But isn't he just a little queer?”
“He's not a bit queer,” said Hughie, stoutly. “He is the best, best, best boy in all the world.”
“Indeed! how extraordinary!” said Maimie; “you wouldn't think so to look at him.”
“I think he is just splendid,” said Hughie; “don't you, mother?”
“Indeed, he is fery brown whatever,” mocked Maimie, mimicking Ranald's Highland tongue, a trick at which she was very clever, “and—not just fery clean.”
“You're just a mean, mean, red-headed snip!” cried Hughie, in a rage, “and I don't like you one bit.”
But Maimie was proud of her golden hair, so Hughie's shot fell harmless.
“And when will you be going to the sugaring-off, Mistress Murray?” went on Maimie, mimicking Ranald so cleverly that in spite of herself Mrs. Murray smiled.
It was his mother's smile that perfected Hughie's fury. Without a word of threat or warning, he seized a dipper of water and threw it over Maimie, soaking her pretty ribbons and collar, and was promptly sent upstairs to repent.
“Poor Hughie!” said his mother, after he had disappeared; “Ranald is his hero, and he cannot bear any criticism of him.”
“He doesn't look much of a hero, auntie,” said Maimie, drying her face and curls.
“Very few heroes do,” said her aunt, quietly. “Ranald has noble qualities, but he has had very few advantages.”
Then Mrs. Murray told her niece how Ranald had put himself between her and the pursuing wolves. Maimie's blue eyes were wide with horror.
“But, auntie,” she cried, “why in the world do you go to such places?”
“What places, Maimie?” said the minister, who had come into the room.
“Why, those awful places where the wolves are.”
“Indeed, you may ask why,” said the minister, gravely. He had heard the story from his wife the night before. “But it would need a man to be on guard day and night to keep your aunt from 'those places.'”
“Yes, and your uncle, too,” said Mrs. Murray, shaking her head at her husband. “You see, Maimie, we live in 'those places'; and after all, they are as safe as any. We are in good keeping.”
“And was Hughie out all night with those two boys in those woods, auntie?”
“Oh, there was no danger. The wolves will not come near a fire, and the boys have their dogs and guns,” said Mrs. Murray; “besides, Ranald is to be trusted.”
“Trusted?” said the minister; “indeed, I would not trust him too far. He is just wild enough, like his father before him.”
“Oh, papa, you don't know Ranald,” said his wife, warmly; “nor his father either, for that matter. I never did till this last week. They have kept aloof from everything, and really—”
“And whose fault is that?” interrupted the minister. “Why should they keep aloof from the means of grace? They are a godless lot, that's what they are.” The minister's indignation was rising.
“But, my dear,” persisted Mrs. Murray, “I believe if they had a chance—”
“Chance!” exclaimed the minister; “what more chance do they want? Have they not all that other people have? Macdonald Dubh is rarely seen at the services on the Lord's day, and as for Ranald, he comes and goes at his own sweet will.”
“Let us hope,” said his wife, gently, “they will improve. I believe Ranald would come to Bible class were he not so shy.”
“Shy!” laughed the minister, scornfully; “he is not too shy to stand up on the table before a hundred men after a logging and dance the Highland fling, and beautifully he does it, too,” he added.
“But for all that,” said his wife, “he is very shy.”
“I don't like shy people,” said Maimie; “they are so awkward and dreadful to do with.”
“Well,” said her aunt, quietly, “I rather like people who are not too sure of themselves, and I think all the more of Ranald for his shyness and modesty.”
“Oh, Ranald's modesty won't disable him,” said the minister. “For my part, I think he is a daring young rascal; and indeed, if there is any mischief going in the countryside you may be sure Ranald is not far away.”
“Oh, papa, I don't think Ranald is a BAD boy,” said his wife, almost pleadingly.
“Bad? I'm sure I don't know what you call it. Who let off the dam last year so that the saw-mill could not run for a week? Who abused poor Duncie MacBain so that he was carried home groaning?”
“Duncie MacBain!” exclaimed his wife, contemptuously; “great, big, soft lump, that he is. Why, he's a man, as big as ever he'll be.”
“Who broke the Little Church windows till there wasn't a pane left?” pursued the minister, unheeding his wife's interruption.
“It wasn't Ranald that broke the church windows, papa,” piped Hughie from above.
“How do you know, sir? Who did it, then?” demanded his father.
“It wasn't Ranald, anyway,” said Hughie, stoutly.
“Who was it, then? Tell me that,” said his father again.
“Hughie,