When Miss Bell rose, as she did in a day or two, bantered into a speedy convalescence by Ailie and Dan, it was to mark Bud’s future holidays on the calendar, and count the months in such a cunning way that she cheated the year of a whole one, by arguing to herself that the child would be gone a fortnight before they really missed her, and as good as home again whenever she started packing to return. And Edinburgh, when one was reasonable and came to think of it, was not so very awful: the Miss Birds were there, in the next street to the school where Bud was bound for, so if anything should happen,—a fire, for instance—fires were desperately common just now in the newspapers, and ordinary commonsense suggested a whole clothes-rope for the tying up of the young adventurer’s boxes; or if Bud should happen to be really hungry between her usual meals—a common thing with growing bairns,—the Birds were the very ones to make her welcome. It was many a year since Bell had been in Edinburgh,—she had not been there since mother died,—she was determined that, if she had the money and was spared till Martinmas, she should make a jaunt of it and see the shops: it was very doubtful if Miss Minto wasn’t often lamentably out of date with many of her fashions.

“Oh, you vain woman!” cried Ailie to her; “will nothing but the very latest satisfy you?”

Bud was to be sure and write once every week, on any day but Saturday, for if her letters came on Sunday they would be tempted to call at the post-office for them, like Captain Consequence, instead of waiting till the Monday morning. And if she had a cold or any threatening of quinsy, she was to fly for her very life to the hoarhound mixture, put a stocking round her neck, and go to bed. Above all, was she to mind and take her porridge every morning, and to say her prayers.

“I’ll take porridge to beat the band,” Bud promised, “even—even if I have to shut my eyes all through.”

“In a cautious moderation,” recommended Uncle Dan. “I think myself oatmeal is far too rich a diet for the blood. I have it from Captain Consequence that there’s nothing for breakfast like curried kidney and a chop to follow. But I hope you’ll understand that, apart from the carnal appetites, the main thing is to scoop in all the prizes. I’ll be dreadfully disappointed if you come back disgraced, with anything less of them than the full of a cart. That, I believe, is the only proof of a liberal Scottish education. In Ailie’s story-books it’s all the good, industrious, and deserving pupils who get everything. Of course, if you take all the prizes somebody’s sure to want,—but, tuts! I would never let that consideration vex me—it’s their own look-out. If you don’t take prizes, either in the school or in the open competition of the world, how are folk to know they should respect you?”

“You must have been a wonderfully successful student in your day,” said Ailie mischievously. “Where are all your medals?”

Dan laughed. “It’s ill to say,” said he, “for the clever lads who won them when I wasn’t looking have been so modest ever since that they’ve clean dropped out of sight. I never won anything myself in all my life that called for competition—except the bottom of the class! When it came to competitions, and I could see the other fellows’ faces, I was always far too tired or well disposed to them to give them a disappointment which they seemingly couldn’t stand so well as myself. But then I’m not like Bud here. I hadn’t a shrewd old uncle egging me on. So you must be keen on the prizes, Bud. Of course there’s wisdom too, but that comes later,—there’s no hurry for it. Prizes, prizes—remember the prizes: the more you win, the more, I suppose, I’ll admire you.”

“And if I don’t win any, Uncle Dan?” said Bud slyly, knowing very well the nature of his fun.

“Then, I suppose, I’ll have to praise the Lord if you keep your health, and just continue loving you,” said the lawyer. “I admit that if you’re anyway addicted to the prizes, you’ll be the first of your name that was so. In that same school in Edinburgh your Auntie Ailie’s quarterly reports had always ‘Conduct—Good,’ and ‘Mathematics—Fairly moderate.’ We half expected she was coming back an awful dilly; but if she did, she made a secret of it. I forgave her the ‘Fairly moderate’ myself, seeing she had learned one thing—how to sing. I hope you’ll learn to sing, Bud, in French, or German, or Italian—anything but Scotch. Our old Scotch songs, I’m told, are not what’s called artistic.”

“The sweetest in the world!” cried Auntie Bell. “I wonder to hear you haivering.”

“I’m afraid you’re not a judge of music,” said the brother. “Scotch songs are very common—everybody knows them. There’s no art in them, there’s only heart—a trifling kind of quality. If you happen to hear me singing ‘Annie Laurie’ or ‘Afton Water’ after you come home, Bud, be sure and check me. I want to be no discredit to you.”

“No, I shan’t, Uncle Dan,” said the child. “I’ll sing ‘Mary Morison,’ and ‘Ae Fond Kiss,’ and ‘Jock o’ Hazeldean’ at you till you’re fairly squealing with delight. I know. Allow me! why, you’re only haivering.”

“Have mercy on the child, Dan,” said his sister. “Never you mind him, Bud; he’s only making fun of you.”

“I know,” said Bud; “but I’m not kicking.”

Kate—ah! poor Kate—how sorry I should be for her, deserted by her friend and tutor, if she had not her own consoling Captain. Kate would be weeping silently every time the pipe was on in the scullery, and she thought how lonely her kitchen was to be when the child was gone. And she had plans to make that painful exile less heartrending: she was going to write to her sister out in Colonsay and tell her to be sure and send fresh country eggs at intervals of every now and then, or maybe oftener in the winter-time, to Lennox; for the genuine country egg was a thing it was hopeless to expect in Edinburgh, where there wasn’t such a thing as sand, or grass, or heather—only causeway stones. She could assure Lennox that, as for marriage, there was not the slightest risk for years and years, since there wasn’t a house in the town to let that would be big enough (and still not dear) to suit a Captain. He was quite content to be a plain intended, and hold on. And as for writing, she would take her pen in hand quite often and send the latest news to Lennox, who must please excuse haste, and these d-d-desperate pens, and having the post to catch—not that she would dream of catching the poor, wee, shauchly creature: it was just a way of speaking. Would Lennox not be dreadful home-sick, missing all the cheery things, and smothered up in books in yon place—Edinburgh?

“I expect I’ll be dre’ffle home-sick,” admitted Bud.

“I’m sure you will, my lassie,” said the maid. “I was so home-sick myself when I came here at first that my feet got almost splay with wanting to turn back to Colonsay. But if I’m not so terribly good-looking, I’m awful brave, and soon got over it. When you are home-sick go down to the quay and look at the steamboats, or take a turn at our old friend Mr Puckwuck.”

Four days—three days—two days—one day—to-morrow; that last day went so fast, it looked as if Wanton Wully had lost the place again and rang the evening bell some hours before it was due. Bud could only sit by, helpless, and marvel at the ingenuity that could be shown in packing what looked enough to stock Miss Minto’s shop into a couple of boxes. She aged a twelvemonth between the hand-glass at the bottom and the bath-sheet on the top.

“And in this corner,” said Miss Bell, on her knees, “you’ll find your Bible, the hoarhound mixture, and five-and-twenty threepenny-bits for the plate on Sundays. Some of them sixpences.”

“Irish ones, apparently,” said Uncle Dan.

“Some of them sixpences, for the Foreign Mission days, and one shilling for the day of the Highlands and Islands.”

“You’re well provided for the kirk at any rate,” said Uncle Dan. “I’ll have to put a little money for this wicked world in the other corner,” and he did.

When the coach next day set out—No, no, I cannot tell you all, for I hate to think of tears, and would hurry over partings. It went in tearful weather, rain drizzling on Bud and Auntie Ailie, who accompanied her. They looked back on the hill-top, and saw the grey slates glint under a grey sky, and following them on the miry road, poor Footles, faithful heart, who did not understand. He paddled through the mud till a blast from the bugle startled him, and he seemed to realise that this was some painful new experience. And then he stood in the track of the disappearing wheels, and lifted up his voice in lamentation.

The night came on, resuming her ancient empire—for she alone, and not the day, did first possess and finally shall possess unquestioned this space dusty with transient stars, and the light is Lord of another universe where is no night, nay, nor terror thereof. From the western clouds were the flame and gold withdrawn, and the winds sighed from the mountains, as vexed for passing days. The winds sighed from the mountains, and the mists came mustering to the glens; the sea crept out on long, bird-haunted, wailing, and piping sands, nought to be seen of it, its presence obvious only in the scent of wrack and the wash on the pebbled beaches. Behind the town the woods lay black and haunted, and through them, and far upward in the valley, dripping in the rain and clamorous with hidden burns and secret wells, went the highway to the world, vacant of aught visible, but never to be wholly vacant, since whoso passes on a highway ever after leaves some wandering spirit there. Did the child, that night, think of the highway that had carried her from home? In the hoarsely crying city did she pause a moment to remember and retrace her way to the little town that now lay faintly glowing in the light of its own internal fires?

Thus Bell wondered, standing at her window, looking into the solitary street. Every mile of separating highway rose before her,—she walked them in the rain and dark; all the weary longing of the world came down on her that mirk night in September, and praying that discretion should preserve and understanding keep her wanderer, she arrived at the soul’s tranquillity, and heard without misgiving the wild geese cry.

Her brother took the Books, and the three of them—master, mistress, and maid—were one in the spirit of worship, longing, and hope. Where, then, I wonder, had gone Daniel Dyce, the lawyer, the gentle ironist, on whose lips so often was kindly mockery, on whose tongue levity or its pretence—

“Never by passion quite possess’d,
And never quite benumbed by the world’s sway”?

It was Bell’s nightly duty to turn the lamp out in the lobby and bolt the outer door. She went this night reluctant to perform that office, but a thought possessed her of a child from home, somewhere in the darkness among strangers, and she had to call her brother.

“What is it?” said he.“The door,” she said, ashamed of herself, “I cannot bolt it,”

He looked at her flushed face and her trembling hand, and understood. “It’s only the door of a house,” said he; “that makes no difference,” and ran the bolt into its staple.