The Scotch Twins | Page 5

true that Jean's Saturday face had such a housekeepery pucker
between the eyes and such a severe arrangement of the front hair that
any one who did not peep behind the black ribbon might have thought
her a very stern young person indeed, but behind the black ribbon
Jean's true character stood revealed! However prim and smooth she
might make it look in front, where the cracked glass enabled her to
keep an eye on it, behind her back, where she couldn't possibly see it,
her hair broke into the jolliest little waves and curls, which bobbed
merrily about even on the worst Saturday that ever was; and spoiled the
effect whenever she tried to be severe.
When she had given a final wipe with the brush, she took another look
at Jock. There was still nothing to be seen of him but the shock of
sandy hair and a series of bumps under the blanket. Jock could feel
Jean looking at him right through the bed-clothes.
"Jock," said Jean,--and her voice had a Saturday sound to it,-- "You
can't sleep in this day! Get up!"
There was no answer. Jock might well have known that Jean was in no
mood for trifling, but, having decided on his course of action, he stuck
to it like a true Scotchman and neither moved nor opened his eyes. Jean
was driven to desperate measures. She took a few drops of water in the
dipper, marched firmly to the bedside, and stood with it poised directly
above Jock's nose.
"Jock," she said solemnly, "I'm telling you! Don't ever say I didn't. If
you don't stir yourself before I count five, you'll be sorry. One, two,
three!" Still no move from Jock. "Four, five," and, without further
parley, she emptied the dipper on his freckled nose.
There was a wrathful snort and a violent convulsion of the blankets,
and an instant later Jock was tearing about the kitchen like a cat in a fit,
but by this time Jean was out of doors and well beyond reach.
"Come here, you limmer!" he howled. But Jean knew better than to
accept his invitation. Instead she skipped laughing down the path from
the door to the brook which ran bubbling and gurgling by the house.
Even in her hasty exit from the cottage, Jean had had the presence of
mind to take the pail with her, and now she stopped to fill it from the
clear, sparkling water of the burn. It was such a wonderful bright spring

morning that, having filled it, she stopped for a moment to look about
her at the dear familiar surroundings of her home.
There was the little gray house itself, with the peat smoke curling from
the chimney straight up into the blue sky. Back of it was the
garden-patch with its low stone wall, and back of that were the
fowl-yard and the straw-covered byre for the cow. Beyond, and to the
north lay the moors, covered with heather and dotted with grazing
sheep. Jean could hear the tinkle of their bells, the bleating of the lambs,
and the comforting maternal answers of the ewes. Above the dark
forest which spread itself over the slopes of the foot-hills toward the
south and east a lave rock was singing, and she could hear the cry of
whaups wheeling and circling over the moors. They were pleasant
morning sounds, dear and familiar to Jean's ear, and oh, the sparkle of
the dew on the bracken, and the smell of the hawthorn by the garden
wall! Jean lifted her pail of water and went singing with it up the
hill-slope to the house for sheer joy that she was alive.
"The Campbells are coming, O ho, O ho!" she sang, and the hills,
taking up the refrain, echoed "O ho, O ho!"
True Tammas, who had slept all night under the straw-stack by the byre,
came bounding down the little path to meet her, wagging his tail and
barking his morning greeting. They reached the door together, but Jock,
mindful of his injuries, had shut and barred it, and was grinning at them
through the window. Jean sat placidly down upon the step with True
Tammas beside her and continued her song. Her calmness irritated
Jock.
"Aye," he shouted through the crack, "the Campbells may be coming,
but they'll not get in this house! You can just sit there blethering all day,
and I'll never unbar the door."
Jean stopped singing long enough to answer: "You'll get no breakfast,
then, you mind, unless you'll be getting it yourself, for the porridge is
not cooked and the kettle's nearly boiled away. I've the water-pail with
me, and there's not a drop else in the house."
She left him to consider this and resumed