CHAPTER II.
THE OLD NURSE.
"Not yours, but His by right; His peculiar treasure now— Fair and precious in his sight, Purchased jewel for this brow. He will keep what thus he sought, Safely guard the dearly bought; Cherish that which he did choose; Always love, and never lose."
ON leaving the well, the children stood for a minute or two looking around them, Ronald especially taking in every feature of the lovely scene before him. And although the other two hardly then realized it would be so, yet in after-years, in far different scenes, the memory of that day, and even many minute details of the landscape around the Wishing-Well, rose distinctly before their minds.
Amid the purple heather the well lay; clear and cool, soft green moss grew close round it; and ferns hung over its sides in graceful beauty—some tiny ones were still green there, whilst all around had caught the autumn colours. From the well northwards, the eye ranged over grand mountains—some clad with trees far up their sides, others purple and brown with heather; whilst in the immediate background the copsewood was glowing in crimson and golden glory, the leaves gently falling with every light gust of wind, and strewing the ground as with gold and rubies.
Eric soon wearied, and ran off to amuse himself with his pet rabbits; but Nora and Ronald chatted on a while, till the nurse and two little cousins came in search of Miss Nora, who was wanted indoors to see a lady who was calling. Then Ronald set off alone to pay a farewell visit far down the glen to an invalid widow who had been his mother's nurse.
After a short walk, he reached one of the most beautiful of Highland passes, on the opposite side of which the cottage for which he was bent was situated. Lovely indeed did the pass look that autumn day. Through it dashed a noisy little river, white here and there with foam gathered as it rolled over the high boulder stones that were deeply embedded in its channel, and which at times almost obstructed its way; while its banks on both sides were richly wooded—and as the boy's eyes rested on them, they literally blazed in scarlet and golden splendour. No wonder that his heart beat with enthusiasm as he gazed at the scene; and he began, with boyish fervour, to repeat the lines,—
"Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land?"
And we marvel not that his heart shrank from the thought of leaving it all for other scenes.
He received a warm greeting, chiefly in the Gaelic language, as he entered the hut where old Peggy sat in her arm-chair.
"Come in, my young master, an' bide a wee, an' gledden the auld woman's een wi' a sicht o' her bairn—" for such she always termed the handsome lad.
He seated himself beside her as in olden days; but her keen eyes noticed the tear that now and then moistened for a second the eyes of her favourite, and told of a full heart. Quickly she guessed the cause.
"An' so ye're leavin' us, Maister Ronald, an' gaun yer first voyage intil the wide world? Aweel, aweel! It's little auld Peggy kens aboot that world, she that's been quietly fostered a' her days, as maiden, wife, an' widow, in the Highland glen. But, O laddie!"
And she laid her hand kindly on his shoulder, "The Lord God, the Maker o' a' the world, kens ilka turn in it; he's no ane to leave the lad he's brocht to trust in him to lose his road in a strange land. Ye're no gaun withoot a guid Guide, bairn; and Ane wha never leaves his wark unfinished. 'This God is our God for ever and ever; he will be our guide even unto death.' Ay," she added, "an' thro' the valley also; an' he'll no gie up the wark even on the ither side; he's guidin' your dear mother yonder, Maister Ronald, by the crystal sea an' the livin' fountains o' water. Ye're no feard he'll fail you, my lad?"
"No, nursie," was the quick reply; "I've no fear of God failing to keep his word; but oh, I fear for myself. You'll pray I may never be 'ashamed to own my Lord,' nor ever hide his banner. I've enlisted into his army, nursie, and by his grace, and with his help, have promised to be a faithful soldier and a true knight, to help the weak, and, if possible, set free the oppressed."
The boy's eyes shone as he spoke; the old woman looked at him with emotion.
"The Lord be praised for his work begun in your heart, my bairn; an' may he keep you faithful thro' all temptations, an' at last gie you the golden crown to cast at your Saviour's feet. Your mother left her orphan children to the Lord's care, an' he's no ane to prove faithless to such a charge, even tho' for a while they stray in their blind ignorance afar from him."
She was silent for a minute, then said, "You'll mind Johnnie, my Johnnie, Maister Ronald; my dead daughter's only bairn? Aweel, his mother gi'ed him too into the Lord's hands, and yet—" and here a tear fell on the old cheek—"he wearied o' his quiet hame amid our grand old hills, and left his grannie in her auld age, and wandered off wi' an idle companion into the wide world. And it's three years sin' I heard frae him; an' yet tho' my heart wearies sair to see him, I can trust him to the Lord and believe. He can and will draw him to himself yet, even tho' my een should be closed to earth afore then. Ay, the Lord is a promise-keeping God. The world is wide, Maister Ronald, I ken that; but should you ever fall in wi' Johnnie Robertson, ye'll mind him o' his auld Grannie Cameron, and the Highland glen where he spent his young days? He had a kind heart, the bit laddie that I loved like my ain son; and had he ta'en heed to the command o' the wise king, 'My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not,' he'd been here still earnin' his livin', as his faither did afore him, as an honest tiller o' the ground."
Ronald felt for the old widow. Well did he remember the handsome lad, some four years his senior, who had been induced about three years before by an idle cousin to leave his home and try his fortune in London. Only once had he written to the grandmother he had seemed really to love, and since then no word had come from him, and none knew whether he was living or dead; but from the lowly hut in the lovely Highland pass the widow's prayers of faith and trust ever rose for the orphan boy she had reared so fondly.
Ere parting Ronald knelt down and asked the old woman's blessing. She gave it to him in the name of the Father of the fatherless, and once more charged him not to forget his old friend Johnnie.
The lad promised, though he smiled to himself as he thought of the small chance he had of meeting the youth, although his school was in the suburbs of the great metropolis.
Back again through the pass he walked, with his firm, elastic step, drawing in with delight every breath of the free mountain air. Before re-entering the house, he turned aside by a path which led down to the old churchyard, and stood for a moment by his mother's grave. The sunbeams were shining there, glistening on the autumn flowers, which the loving hands of her children had planted. The boy plucked one to be taken to his new home, and as he did so a prayer rose to his lips that the remembrance of his mother, and her loving words and firm trust in God, might never pass from his mind, but nerve him for the battle of life which lay before him.
At the door of the house he was met by his brother and sister and his two little cousins, Minnie and Charlie, and the rest of the afternoon was spent in boyish frolics with them.
On the morrow came the parting. Nora's tears fell fast as the dog-cart bore her brother, accompanied by Mr. Macleod, out of sight. But in her ears rang Ronald's parting words:
"Good-bye, Nora; don't forget brother Ronald; and remember our mother's wish concerning you and the rubies."
She had answered through her tears, "Yes, brother, I will; I have begun already. I am going to be the kind of woman that is above rubies."
Poor Nora! She meant what she said, but as yet she had not even guessed the true meaning of the words, and all her efforts were made in her own strength, the utter weakness of which she had yet to learn in the school of experience.