Alec Forbes of Howglen | Page 7

would be turned,
and then scurry across the yard, like a mouse to its hole; for auntie's
first impulse was always to oppose whatever Annie desired. Once in
the barn, she would bury herself like a mole in the straw, and listen to
the unfailing metronome of the flails, till she would fall so fast asleep
as to awake only when her uncomfortable aunt, believing that at last the
awful something or other had happened to the royt lassie, dragged her
out ignominiously by the heels. But the royt lassie was one of the
gentlest of girls, what adventurousness she had being the result of faith,
and not of hardihood.
And then came the delights of the harvest-field--soon to become great
golden splendours to the memory. With the reapers she would remain
from morning till night, sharing in their meals, and lightening their
labour with her gentle frolic. Every day, after the noon-tide meal, she
would go to sleep on the shady side of a stook, upon two or three
sheaves which Dowie would lay down for her in a choice spot. Indeed
the little mistress was very fond of sleep, and would go to sleep
anywhere; this habit being indeed one of her aunt's chief grounds of
complaint. For before hay-time, for instance, when the grass was long
in the fields, if she came upon any place that took her fancy, she would
tumble down at once, and show that she loved it by going to sleep upon
it. Then it was no easy task to find her amidst the long grass that closed
over her, as over a bird in its nest. But the fact was, this habit indicated
a feebleness of constitution, to which sleep itself was the best

restorative. And in the harvest-field, at least, no harm could come of it;
for Dooie, as she always called him, watched her like a mother; so that
sometimes when she awoke, she would find a second stook of ten
sheaves, with a high-uplifted crowning pair above, built at right angles
to the first, to shelter her from the sun which had peered round the
corner, and would soon have stared her awake.
The only discomfort of the harvest-field was, that the sharp stubble
forced her to wear shoes. But when the corn had all been carried home,
and the potatoes had been dug up and heaped in warm pits against the
winter, and the mornings and evenings grew cold, and, though still
friendly to strong men and women, were rather too keen for delicate
little Annie--she had to put on both shoes and stockings, which she did
not like at all.
So with "gentle gliding," through a whole winter of ice and snow,
through a whole spring of promises tardily fulfilled, through a summer
of glory, and another autumn of harvest joy, the day drew on when they
must leave the farm. And still to Annie it seemed as far off as ever.
CHAPTER VI.
One lovely evening in October, when the shadows were falling from
the western sun, and the light that made them was as yellow as a
marigold, and a keen little wind was just getting ready to come out and
blow the moment the sun would be out of sight, Annie, who was
helping to fasten up the cows for the night, drawing iron chains round
their soft necks, saw a long shadow coming in at the narrow entrance of
the yard. It came in and in; and was so long in coming in, that she
began to feel as if it was something not quite cannie, and to fancy
herself frightened. But, at length, she found that the cause of the great
shadow was only a little man; and that this little man was no other than
her father's cousin, Robert Bruce. Alas! how little a man may cast a
great shadow!
He came up to Annie, and addressed her in the smoothest voice he
could find, fumbling at the same time in his coat-pocket.

"Hoo are ye the nicht dawtie? Are ye verra weel? An' hoo's yer auntie?"
He waited for no reply to any of these questions, but went on.
"See what I hae brocht ye frae the chop."
So saying, he put into her hand about half-a-dozen sweeties, screwed up
in a bit of paper. With this gift he left her, and walked on to the open
door of the house, which, as a cousin, he considered himself privileged
to enter unannounced even by a knock. He found the mistress of it in
the kitchen, superintending the cooking of the supper.
"Hoo are ye the nicht, Marget?" he said, still in a tone of conciliatory
smoothness, through which, however, he could not prevent a certain
hardness from cropping out plentifully. "Ye're busy