Up in Ardmuirland | Page 7

at hame. I dinna ken wha she's gane!"

With her mother's arms around her, the child was able to give a more
coherent account of the circumstances which had led to this abrupt
cessation of the dance; for Archie's melody had trailed off into an
unmusical drone and speedily ceased, and the dancers had
spontaneously crowded round the child and her mother.
Peggy had been left in charge at home, for Bell was allowed to take
part in the "ball." Jessie, the youngest but one of the family, was a little
maid of four years. She had accompanied Peggy and her brothers, with
a crowd of other small folk, when the children went to the moss with
provisions for the workers. All had gone and returned in a body, and no
one noticed that Jessie was not with them. It was only when Peggy
began to assemble her own little charges, to conduct them to their own
house, that she missed the wee lassie. Peggy knew that her father and
mother, together with all her elders in the family, had already started
for the barn--some to help in the preparations, others to chat with those
who were assembling outside. It was growing dark, for the children had
delayed their homeward journey (as they often will when a number are
together) to play and sport.
There was no one to advise or help the child. Sending on three-year-old
Elsie and the other little ones in charge of Johnnie, she ran back, half
distracted, toward the hill they had left earlier in the afternoon.
Shouting out for Jessie by name, she wandered hither and
thither--terrified, self-accusing, disconsolate. But it was all to no
purpose. Darkness fell, and fearful and contrite, Peggy had no resource
but to seek her mother.
There was no more merriment that night. A search party was at once
organized by the younger men, who started with lanterns and some of
their collies to the peat-moss. All that night the anxious mother kept
weary vigil, while the men-folk searched the hill. Day broke, and no
trace had been found of the lost child. Weary and sad, the men returned
for some needful rest and others took their places. But though they
traversed the moors all day, and searched crevices and water-courses
with diligence, they met with no better success. Sometimes a sound
would break through the stillness which would stir their hearts with

renewed hope. The cry of a child! Weak and faint, indeed, but telling of
the continuance of life! But again and again, after scaling heights or
creeping down comes, they were doomed to disappointment. It was but
the bleat of a strayed lamb! That night a larger party set out with
lanterns and torches, and once more ranged the hills shouting for the
child; but once again morning dawned upon disappointed hopes.
Then every one who could be of any possible use was pressed into the
service. The people flocked out of their homes from all that district, and
hand in hand they started in a long line stretching across a wide tract of
country, and moving slowly on until every inch of ground in their way
had been thoroughly explored.
It was after three nights and three days had passed that they came upon
the weak little body, lying stark and still under an overhanging rock,
and half buried in the heather. Moss was clutched in her clenched hand,
and shreds of moss were on her cold lips; the poor little bairn had
hungered for food, and had seized that which first came to hand to
satisfy her craving. She was quite dead.
The bereaved mother mourned her darling with a grief that none but a
mother can know. But the child had been her father's special pet of all
his little flock.
"His heart," said Bell, the rising tears witnessing to the sadness of the
memories called back by her story, "was well-nigh broke. He burst into
tears at the sight of her wee white face, and sobbed like a bairn wi' the
rest of us."
And poor little Peggy! How touching the story! She never ceased to
reproach herself for what she considered her carelessness in losing
sight of Jessie on that fatal day. No single creature attached a shadow
of blame to her; on the contrary, it was the dearest wish of all to try to
console her and assure her of her innocence in that respect. But it was
of no avail. Her unceasing grief fretted away her strength, and six
months later she was borne to St. Mungo's ancient burying ground to
share Jessie's grave.

"It's nigh on sixty years sin'," said Bell apologetically, as she wiped her
streaming eyes with her apron; "but the thocht o' that time brings the
tears up