Janets Love and Service

Love and Service, by Margaret M Robertson

Project Gutenberg's Janet's Love and Service, by Margaret M Robertson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Janet's Love and Service
Author: Margaret M Robertson
Release Date: October 31, 2007 [EBook #23266]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANET'S LOVE AND SERVICE ***

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

Janet's Love and Service, by Margaret M Robertson.
CHAPTER ONE.
The longest day in all the year was slowly closing over the little village of Clayton. There were no loiterers now at the corners of the streets or on the village square--it was too late for that, though daylight still lingered. Now and then the silence was broken by the footsteps of some late home-comer, and over more than one narrow close, the sound of boyish voices went and came, from garret to garret, telling that the spirit of slumber had not yet taken possession of the place. But these soon ceased. The wind moved the tall laburnums in the lane without a sound, and the murmur of running water alone broke the stillness, as the gurgle of the burn, and the rush of the distant mill-dam met and mingled in the air of the summer night.
In the primitive village of Clayton, at this midsummer time, gentle and simple were wont to seek their rest by the light of the long gloaming. But to-night there was light in the manse--in the minister's study, and in other parts of the house as well. Lights were carried hurriedly past uncurtained windows, and flared at last through the open door, as a woman's anxious face looked out.
"What can be keeping him?" she murmured, as she shaded the flickering candle and peered out into the gathering darkness. "It's no' like him to linger at a time like this. God send he was at home."
Another moment of eager listening, and then the anxious face was withdrawn and the door closed. Soon a sound broke the stillness of the village street; a horseman drew up before the minister's house, and the door was again opened.
"Well, Janet?" said the rider, throwing the reins on the horse's neck and pausing as he went in. The woman curtseyed with a very relieved face.
"They'll be glad to see you up the stairs, sir. The minister's no' long home."
She lighted the doctor up the stairs, and then turned briskly in another direction. In a minute she was kneeling before the kitchen hearth, and was stirring up the buried embers.
"Has my father come, Janet?" said a voice out of the darkness.
"Yes, he's come. He's gone up the stairs. I'll put on the kettle. I dare say he'll be none the worse of a cup of tea after his ride."
Sitting on the high kitchen dresser, her cheek close against the darkening window, sat a young girl, of perhaps twelve or fourteen years of age. She had been reading by the light that lingered long at that western window, but the entrance of Janet's candle darkened that, and the book, which at the first moment of surprise had dropped out of her hand, she now hastily put behind her out of Janet's sight. But she need not have feared a rebuke for "blindin' herself" this time, for Janet was intent on other matters, and pursued her work in silence. Soon the blaze sprung up, and the dishes and covers on the wall shone in the firelight. Then she went softly out and closed the door behind her.
The girl sat still on the high dresser, with her head leaning back on the window ledge, watching the shadows made by the firelight, and thinking her own pleasant thoughts the while. As the door closed, a murmur of wonder escaped her, that "Janet had'na sent her to her bed."
"It's quite time I dare say," she added, in a little, "and I'm tired, too, with my long walk to the glen. I'll go whenever papa comes down."
She listened for a minute. Then her thoughts went away to other things--to her father, who had been away all day; to her mother, who was not quite well to-night, and had gone up-stairs, contrary to her usual custom, before her father came home. Then she thought of other things-- of the book she had been reading, a story of one who had dared and done much in a righteous cause--and then she gradually lost sight of the tale and fell into fanciful musings about her own future, and to the building of pleasant castles, in which she and they whom she loved were to dwell. Sitting in the firelight, with