"Minnie, ha' a sweetie--ain o' Davie's sweeties!" and he held it out anxiously in his warm plump palm, thinking it a certain cure for any ill.
"Eat it for mither," she said, smiling tenderly; and then: "Davie, ma heart, I'm leavin' ye."The boy ceased sucking the sweet, and looked at her, the corners of his mouth drooping pitifully.
"Ye're no gaein' awa', mither?" he asked, his face all working.
"Ye'll no leave yen wee laddie?"
"Ay, laddie, awa'--reet awa'. Ha's callin' me." She tried to smile;but her mother's heart was near to bursting.
"Ye'll tak' yen wee Davie wi' ye mither!" the child pleaded, crawling up toward her face.
The great tears rolled, unrestrained, down her wan cheeks, and M'Adam, at the head of the bed, was sobbing openly.
"Eh, ma bairn, ma bairn, I'm sam to leave ye!" she cried brokenly.
"Lift him for me, Adam."
He placed the child in her arms; but she was too weak to hold him.
So he laid him upon his mother's pillows; and the boy wreathed his soft arms about her neck and sobbed tempestuously.
And the two lay thus together.
Just before she died, Flora turned her head and whispered:
"Adam, ma man, ye'll ha' to be mither and father baith to the lad noo"; and she looked at him with tender confidence in her dying eyes.
"I wull! afore God as I stan' here I wull!" he declared passionately.
Then she died, and there was a look of ineffable peace upon her face.
"Mither and father baith!"
The little man rose to his feet and flung the photograph from him.
Red Wull pounced upon it; but M'Adam leapt at him as he mouthed it.
"Git awa', ye devil!" he screamed; and, picking it up, stroked it lovingly with trembling fingers.
"Maither and father baith!"
How had he fulfilled his love's last wish? How!
"Oh God! "--and he fell upon his knees at the table-side, hugging the picture, sobbing and praying.
Red Wull cowered in the far corner of the room, and then crept whining up to where his master knelt. But M'Adam heeded him not, and the great dog slunk away again.
There the little man knelt in the gloom of the winter's afternoon, a miserable penitent. His gray-flecked head was bowed upon his arms; his hands clutched the picture; and he prayed aloud in gasping, halting tones.
"Gie me grace, O God! 'Father and mither baith,' ye said, Flora--and I ha'na done it.
But 'tis no too late--say it's no, lass. Tell me there's time yet, and say ye forgie me. I've tried to bear wi' him mony and mony a time.
But he's vexed me, and set himself agin me, and stiffened my back, and ye ken hoo I was aye quick to tak' offence. But I'll mak' it up to him--mak' it up to him, and mair. I'll humble masel' afore him, and that'll be bitter enough. And I'll be father and mither baith to him.
But there's bin none to help me; and it's bin sair wi'oot ye. And--.
but, eh, lassie, I'm wearyin' for ye!"
It was a dreary little procession that wound in the drizzle from Kenmuir to the little Dale Church. At the head stalked James Moore, and close behind David in his meagre coat. While last of all, as if to guide the stragglers in the weary road, come Owd Bob.
There was a full congregation in the tiny church now. In the squire's pew were Cyril Gilbraith, Muriel Sylvester, and, most conspicuous, Lady Eleanour. Her slender figure was simply draped in gray, with gray fur about the neck and gray fur edging sleeves and jacket; her veil was lifted, and you could see the soft kair about her temples, like waves breaking on white cliffs, and her eyes big with tender sympathy as she glanced toward the pew upon her right.
For there were the mourners from Kenmuir: the Master, tall, grim, and gaunt; and beside him Maggie, striving to be calm, and little Andrew, the miniature of his father.
Alone, in the pew behind, David M'Adam in his father's coat.
The back of the church was packed with farmers from the whole March Mere Estate; friends from Silverdale and Grammoch-town;and nearly every soul in Wastrel-dale, come to show their sympathy for the living and reverence for the dead.
