BUT the Dyces never really knew how great and serious was the charge bequeathed to them in their brother William's daughter till they saw it all one night in March in the light of a dozen penny candles.

Lennox had come from a world that's lit by electricity, and for weeks she was sustained in wonder and amusement by the paraffine lamps of Daniel Dyce's dwelling. They were, she was sure, the oldest kind of light in all the world—Aladdin-lights that gleamed of old on caverns of gems—till Kate on this particular evening came into the kitchen with the week-end groceries. It was a stormy season—the year of the big winds; moanings were at the windows, sobbings in the chimney-heads, and the street was swept by spindrift rain. Bell and Ailie and their brother sat in the parlor, silent, playing cards with a dummy hand, and Bud, with Footles in her lap, behind the winter dikes on which clothes dried before the kitchen fire, crouched on the fender with a Shakespeare, where almost breathlessly she read the great, the glorious Macbeth.

“My stars, what a night!” said Kate. “The way them slates and chimney-cans are flying! It must be the antinuptial gales. I thought every minute would by my next. Oh, towns! towns! Stop you till I get back to Colonsay, and I'll not leave it in a hurry, I'll assure you.”

She threw a parcel on the kitchen dresser, and turned to the light a round and rosy face that streamed with clean, cooling rain, her hair in tangles on her temples and her eyes sparkling with the light of youth and adventure—for to tell the truth she had been flirting at the door a while, in spite of all the rain, with some admirer.

Bud was the sort of child whose fingers itch in the presence of unopened parcels—in a moment the string was untied from the week-end groceries.

“Candles!” she cried. “Well, that beats the band! I've seen 'em in windows. What in the world are you going to do with candles? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve—oh, Laura, ain't we grand!”

“What would we do with them but burn them?” said the maid; “we'll use them in the washing-house,” and then she sank into a chair. “Mercy on me, I declare I'm dying!” she exclaimed, in a different key, and Bud looked round and saw Kate's face had grown of a sudden very pale.

“Oh, dear! what is the matter?” she asked, her eyes large, innocent, and anxious.

“Pains,” moaned the maid. “Pains inside me and all over me, and shiverings down the spine of the back. Oh, it's a sore thing pain, especially when it's bad! But don't—don't say a word to the mustress; I'm not that old, and maybe I'll get better.”

“Try pain-killer,” recommended Bud. “And if I was you I'd start just here and say a prayer. Butt right in and I'll not listen.”

“Pain-killer!—what in all the world's pain-killer? I never heard of it. And the only prayer I know is 'My Father which art' in Gaelic, and there's nothing in it about pains in the spine of the back. No, no! I'll just have to take a table-spoonful of something or other three times a day, the way I did when the doctor put me right in Colonsay. Perhaps it's just a chill, but oh! I'm sorrowful, sorrowful!” and Kate, the color coming slowly back to her, wept softly to herself, rocking in the kitchen chair. It was sometimes by those odd hysterics that she paid for her elations with the lads.

“I know what's wrong with you,” said Bud, briskly, in the manner of Mrs. Molyneux. “It's just the croodles. Bless you, you poor, perishing soul! I take the croodles myself when it's a night like this and I'm alone. The croodles ain't the least wee bit deadly; you can put them away by hustling at your work, or banging an old piano, or reading a story, or playing that you're somebody else—Well, I declare, I think I could cure you right now with these twelve candles, far better than you'd do by shooting drugs into yourself.”

“I never took a single candle in all my life,” said Kate, “far less twelve, and I'll die first.”

“Silly!” exclaimed Bud. “You'd think to hear you speak you were a starving Esquimau. I don't want you to eat the candles. Wait a minute.” She ran lightly up-stairs and was gone for ten minutes.

Kate's color all revived; she forgot her croodles in the spirit of anticipation that the child had roused. “Oh, but she's the clever one that!” she said to herself, drying the rain and tears from her face and starting to nibble a biscuit. “She knows as much as two ministers, and still she's not a bit proud. Some day she'll do something desperate.”

When Bud came back she startled the maid by her appearance, for she had clad herself, for the first time in Scotland, with a long, thin, copious dancing-gown, in which a lady of the vaudeville, a friend of Mrs. Molyneux's, had taught her dancing.

“Ain't this dandy?” she said, closing the kitchen door, and there was a glow upon her countenance and a movement of her body that, to the maid's eyes, made her look a little woman. “Ain't this bully? Don't you stand there looking like a dying Welsh rabbit, but help me light them candles for the foot-lights. Why, I knew there was some use for these old candles first time I set eyes on them; they made me think of something I couldn't 'zactly think of—made me kind of gay, you know, just as if I was going to the theatre. They're only candles, but there's twelve lights to them all at once, and now you'll see some fun.”

“What in the world are you going to do, lassie?” asked the maid.

“I'm going to be a Gorgeous Entertainment; I'm going to be the Greatest Agg-Aggregation of Historic Talent now touring the Middle West. I'm Mademoiselle Winifred Wallace, of Madison Square Theatre, New York, positively appearing here for one night only. I'm the whole company, and the stage manager, and the band, and the boys that throw the bouquets. Biff! I'm checked high; all you've got to do is to sit there with your poor croodles and feel them melt away. Let's light the foot-lights.”

There was a row of old brass bedroom candlesticks on the kitchen shelf that were seldom used now in the house of Dyce, though their polish was the glory of Miss Bell's heart. The child kilted up her gown, jumped on a chair, and took them down with the help of Kate. She stuck in each a candle, and ranged them in a semicircle on the floor, then lit the candles and took her place behind them.

“Put out the lamp!” she said to Kate, in the common voice of actors' tragedy.

“Indeed and I'll do nothing of the kind,” said the maid. “If your auntie Bell comes in she'll—she'll skin me alive for letting you play such cantrips with her candles. Forbye, you're going to do something desperate, something that's not canny, and I must have the lamp behind me or I'll lose my wits.”

“Woman, put out the light!” repeated Bud, with an imperious, pointing finger, and, trembling, Kate turned down the lamp upon the wall and blew down the chimney in the very way Miss Dyce was always warning her against. She gasped at the sudden change the loss of the light made—at the sense of something idolatrous and bewitched in the arc of flames on her kitchen floor, each blown inward from the draught of a rattling window.

“If it is buidseachas—if it is witchcraft of any kind you are on for, I'll not have it,” said Kate, firmly. “I never saw the like of this since the old woman in Pennyland put the curse on the Colonsay factor, and she had only seven candles. Dear, dear Lennox, do not do anything desperate; do not be carrying on, for you are frightening me out of my judgment. I'm—I'm maybe better now; I took a bite at a biscuit; indeed, I'm quite better; it was nothing but the cold—and a lad out there that tried to kiss me.”

Bud paid no heed, but plucked up the edges of her skirt in out-stretched hands and glided into the last dance she had learned from the vaudeville lady, humming softly to herself an appropriate tune. The candles warmly lit her neck, her ears, her tilted nostrils; her brow was high in shadow. First she rose on tiptoe and made her feet to twitter on the flags, then swayed and swung a little body that seemed to hang in air. The white silk swept around and over her—wings with no noise of flapping feather, or swirled in sea-shell coils, that rose in a ripple from her ankles and swelled in wide, circling waves above her head, revealing her in glimpses like some creature born of foam on fairy beaches and holding the command of tempest winds. Ah, dear me! many and many a time I saw her dance just so in her daft days before the chill of wisdom and reflection came her way; she was a passion disembodied, an aspiration realized, a happy morning thought, a vapor, a perfume of flowers, for her attire had lain in lavender. She was the spirit of spring, as I have felt it long ago in little woods, or seen it in pictures, or heard it in songs; she was an ecstasy, she was a dream.

The dog gave a growl of astonishment, then lay his length on the hearth-rug, his nose between his paws, his eyes fixed on her. “I'll not have it,” said the maid, piteously. “At least I'll not stand much of it, for it's not canny to be carrying on like that in a Christian dwelling. I never did the like of that in all my life.”

“Every move a picture,” said the child, and still danced on, with the moan of the wind outside for a bass to her low-hummed melody. Her stretching folds flew high, till she seemed miraculous tall, and to the servant's fancy might have touched the low ceiling; then she sank—and sank—and sank till her forehead touched the floor, and she was a flower fallen, the wind no more to stir its petals, the rain no more to glisten on its leaves. 'Twas as if she shrivelled and died there, and Kate gave one little cry that reached the players of cards in the parlor.

“Hush! what noise was that?” said Ailie, lifting her head.

“It would be Kate clumping across the kitchen floor in the Gaelic language,” said Mr. Dyce, pushing his specs up on his brow.

“Nothing but the wind,” said Bell. “What did you say was trump?”—for that was the kind of player she was.

“It was not the wind, it was a cry; I'm sure I heard a cry. I hope there's nothing wrong with the little one,” said Ailie, with a throbbing heart, and she threw her cards on the table and went out. She came back in a moment, her face betraying her excitement, her voice demanding silence.

“Of all the wonders!” said she. “Just step this way, people, to the pantry.”

They rose and followed her. The pantry was all darkness. Through its partly open door that led into the kitchen they saw their child in the crescent of the candles, though she could not see them, as no more could Kate, whose chair was turned the other way. They stood in silence watching the strange performance, each with different feelings, but all with eeriness, silent people of the placid, old, half-rustic world that lives forever with realities and seldom sees the passions counterfeited.

Bud had risen, her dark hair looking unnaturally black above her brow, and, her dancing done, she was facing the dog and the servant, the only audience of whose presence she was aware.

“Toots!” said the maid, relieved that all seemed over, “that's nothing in the way of dancing; you should see them dancing Gillie-Callum over-bye in Colonsay! There's a dancer so strong there that he breaks the very boards.”

Bud looked at her, and yet not wholly at her—through her—with burning eyes.

“Hush!” she said, trembling. “Do you not hear something?” and at that moment, high over the town went the “honk, honk” of the wild geese.

“Devil the thing but geeses!” said the maid, whose blood had curdled for a second. The rain swept like a broom along the street, the gutters bubbled, the shutters rapped, far above the dwelling went the sound of the flying geese.

“Oh, hush, woman, hush!” implored the child, her hands over her ears, her figure cowering.

“It's only the geeses. What a start you gave me!” said the maid again.

“No, no,” said Bud.

“What do you mean?” cried Kate.

“Still it cried, 'Sleep no more!' to all the house: Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more.”

The child filled each phrase with a travesty of passion; she had seen the part enacted. It was not, to be sure, a great performance. Some words were strangely mutilated; but it was a child, and she had more than a child's command of passion—she had feeling, she had heart.

“I cannot look at you!” exclaimed Kate. “You are not canny, but oh! you are—you are majestic! There was never the like of it in all the isles.”

Bell, in the darkness of the pantry, wept silently at some sense of sin in this play-acting on a Saturday night; her brother held her arm tightly. Ailie felt a vague unrest and discontent with herself, a touch of envy and of shame.

“Please collect the bouquets,” said the child, seating herself on the floor with her knees tucked high in her gown. “Are the croodles all gone?”

“It did me a lot of good, yon dancing,” said Kate. “Did you put yon words about Macbeth sleep no more together yourself?”

“Yes,” said Bud, and then repented. “No,” she added, hurriedly, “that's a fib; please, God, give me a true tongue. It was made by Shakespeare—dear old Will!”

“I'm sure I never heard of the man in all my life before; but he must have been a bad one.”

“Why, Kate, you are as fresh as the mountain breeze,” said Bud. “He was Great! He was born at Stratford-on-Avon, a poor boy, and went to London and held horses outside the theatre door, and then wrote plays so grand that only the best can act them. He was—he was not for an age, but all the time.”

She had borrowed the lesson as well as the manner of Auntie Ailie, who smiled in the dark of the pantry at this glib rendering of herself.

“Oh, I should love to play Rosalind,” continued the child. “I should love to play everything. When I am big, and really Winifred Wallace, I will go all over the world and put away people's croodles same as I did yours, Kate, and they will love me; and I will make them feel real good, and sometimes cry—for that is beautiful, too. I will never rest, but go on, and on, and on; and everywhere everybody will know about me—even in the tiny minstrel towns where they have no or'nary luck but just coon shows, for it's in these places croodles must be most catching. I'll go there and play for nothing, just to show them what a dear soul Rosalind was. I want to grow fast, fast! I want to be tall like my auntie Ailie, and lovely like my dear auntie Ailie, and clever like my sweet, sweet aunt Ailie.”

“She's big enough and bonny enough, and clever enough in some things,” said the maid; “but can she sew like her sister?—tell me that!”

“Sew!” exclaimed the child, with a frown. “I hate sewing. I guess Auntie Ailie's like me, and feels sick when she starts a hem and sees how long it is, and all to be gone over with small stitches.”

“Indeed, indeed I do,” whispered Ailie in the pantry, and she was trembling. She told me later how she felt—of her conviction then that for her the years of opportunity were gone, the golden years that had slipped past in the little burgh town without a chance for her to grasp their offerings. She told me of her resolution there and then that this child, at least, should have its freedom to expand.

Bud crept to the end of the crescent of her footlights and blew out the candles slowly one by one. The last she left a-light a little longer, and, crouched upon the floor, she gazed with large, dreaming eyes into its flame as if she read there.

“It is over now,” said Mr. Dyce, in a whisper, to his sisters, and with his hands on their shoulders led them back into the parlor.