“Did she ever tell you a story about a black
dog?”
“No. Did she know one?”
“Yes, she knew it,”
“Perhaps she had forgotten it?”
“No, she remembered it.”
“Tell it to me.”
“Not till you are eighteen.”
“But will you not be dead when I am eighteen?
When you go to Heaven, will you see grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“Will she be glad to see you?”
My little maid’s eighteenth birthday has come,
and I am still in Thrums, which I love, though it
is beautiful to none, perhaps, save to the very done,
who lean on their staves and look long at it, having
nothing else to do till they die. I have lived
to rejoice in the happiness of Gavin and Babbie:
and if at times I have suddenly had to turn away my
head after looking upon them in their home surrounded
by their children, it was but a moment’s envy
that I could not help. Margaret never knew of
the dominie in the glen. They wanted to tell
her of me, but I would not have it. She has been
long gone from this world; but sweet memories of her
still grow, like honeysuckle, up the white walls of
the manse, smiling in at the parlor window and beckoning
from the door, and for some filling all the air with
fragrance. It was not she who raised the barrier
between her and me, but God Himself; and to those
who maintain otherwise, I say they do not understand
the purity of a woman’s soul. During the
years she was lost to me her face ever came between
me and ungenerous thoughts; and now I can say, all
that is carnal in me is my own, and all that is good
I got from her. Only one bitterness remains.
When I found Gavin in the rain, when I was fighting
my way through the flood, when I saw how the hearts
of the people were turned against him—above
all, when I found Whamond in the manse—I
cried to God, making promises to Him, if He would
spare the lad for Margaret’s sake, and He spared
him; but these promises I have not kept.
