“It’s a cold night,” said Mrs. Duff. “The wind seems to blow through me as I sit at my wheel. I wish my husband would come home.”
“He’ll be suppering his horses,” said Turkey. “I’ll just run across and give him a hand, and that’ll bring him in the sooner.”
“Thank you, Turkey,” said Mrs. Duff as he vanished.
“He’s a fine lad,” she remarked, much in the same phrase my father used when speaking of him.
“Indeed, I think you’re right there, Ranald. A better-behaved lad doesn’t step. He’ll do something to distinguish himself some day. I shouldn’t wonder if he went to college, and wagged his head in a pulpit yet.”
The idea of Turkey wagging his head in a pulpit made me laugh.
“Wait till you see,” resumed Mrs. Duff, somewhat offended at my reception of her prophecy. “Folk will hear of him yet.”
“I didn’t mean he couldn’t be a minister, Mrs. Duff. But I don’t think he will take to that.”
Here Elsie came back, and lifting the lid of the pot, examined the state of its contents. I got hold of her hand, but for the first time she withdrew it. I did not feel hurt, for she did it very gently. Then she began to set the white deal table in the middle of the floor, and by the time she had put the plates and spoons upon it, the water in the pot was boiling, and she began to make the porridge, at which she was judged to be first-rate--in my mind, equal to our Kirsty. By the time it was ready, her father and Turkey came in. James Duff said grace, and we sat down to our supper. The wind was blowing hard outside, and every now and then the hail came in deafening rattles against the little windows, and, descending the wide chimney, danced on the floor about the hearth; but not a thought of the long, stormy way between us and home interfered with the enjoyment of the hour.
After supper, which was enlivened by simple chat about the crops and the doings on the farm, James turned to me, and said:
“Haven’t you got a song or a ballad to give us, Ranald? I know you’re always getting hold of such things.”
I had expected this; for, every time I went, I tried to have something to repeat to them. As I could not sing, this was the nearest way in which I might contribute to the evening’s entertainment. Elsie was very fond of ballads, and I could hardly please her better than by bringing a new one with me. But in default of that, an old one or a story would be welcomed. My reader must remember that there were very few books to be had then in that part of the country, and therefore any mode of literature was precious. The schoolmaster was the chief source from which I derived my provision of this sort. On the present occasion, I was prepared with a ballad of his. I remember every word of it now, and will give it to my readers, reminding them once more how easy it is to skip it, if they do not care for that kind of thing.