They were very happy together, these two fast and true friends, as they never might have become had they had at this time more frequent intercourse with other young people; and true friendship between brother and sister is the perfect ideal of friendship. It does not always exist even between brothers and sisters who love each other dearly. It is something more than the natural affection which strengthens (as children grow older) into brotherly and sisterly love. It implies something that is not always found where the ties of blood and kindred are most warmly cherished, not a blindness to each other's faults or defects of character, but a full and loving appreciation of all admirable qualities both of mind and heart, a harmony of feeling, sentiments, and tastes which does not exist between brothers and sisters generally.

Day by day Mrs Fleming grew more and more at ease about Davie, seeing the love between the brother and sister.

"A year or two and the laddie's restless time will be over, and all that makes us anxious about him now, his plans and fancies, his craze for books, and his longing to put his hand to the guiding of his ain life will be modified by the knowledge that comes with experience. But, eh me! What is the use of speaking o' experience? If only the good Father above would take him in hand! And who shall say that He is not doing it even now, and making our bonny Katie the instrument of His will for her brother's good? And, Dawvid, we mustna be hard on the laddie, but just let him have his fancies about things, and let him carry them out when they are harmless, and when they dinna cost ower muckle money," added grannie, with prudent afterthought, for some of Davie's fancies would have cost money if he had been allowed "to go the full length of his tether."

"And after all is said, there is sense in his fancies. It would be a grand thing to have a hundredweight or two of honey, as he says we might, and never kill the bees. Think of that now! And nothing spent on them, but all the blossom on the trees, and all the flowers of the field theirs for the taking. And as for the new milk-house, with ice in it, and running water, it would be a grand thing. And, as Katie says, it's almost as easy to take care of the milk of ten cows as six, and there is pasture enough. As to the churning, if it could be done by the running water, wouldna that be a fine help? And we must just have patience with him, as the Lord has had with us this many a year and day."

Mrs Fleming got no answer to all this. She did not expect one. This was the way she took to familiarise the grandfather's mind with plans that might come to something. The old man's habitual caution was changing with the pa.s.sing years into timidity and dread of change; and his long dwelling on his state of indebtedness, and the subjection to his "enemy" that it implied, made him afraid of anything that would render it necessary to dispense the smallest sum for any other purpose than the payment of this debt. His son James had let his money go from him with a free hand, and though he might have got it back again had he lived, his father could not but remember that it was through his plans, through his desire to improve the fortunes of his family, which had carried him beyond his means, that this debt, or a part of it, had been left upon them.

As for Davie, what could a lad like him know about such things? Fancies that would lead to nothing but waste and want! And yet his wife's words told upon him as all her words did sooner or later.

"Would you like it then, Katie, my woman?" said he, as one night, when all the work was over, he came on Katie sitting with Nannie and Sandy on the bank of the burn. Davie was on the other side pacing up and down, measuring out, as they had done together many times before, the site of the new milk-house. Many thoughts and words had Davie expended upon it, and so had Katie for that matter. So she rose and walked with her grandfather along the burnside, out of Davie's hearing, and then she answered brightly:

"Ay, that I would, grandfather; not just now, ye ken, but after a while, when it can be done without going into debt. It would be grand. And I could sell twice as much b.u.t.ter as we make now, if we had it. I like b.u.t.ter-making." And so on, touching on more of Davie's fancies than her grandfather had heard of yet, till they came back to the lad, still intent on his measurements, with his eyes fixed on a paper on which he was industriously figuring.

"The foundation must be of stone, Katie, because of the swelling of the burn in spring and fall, but the stones are at hand, and cost no money.

And we might gather them on rainy days, grandfather, not to take time from other work; I can make the frame myself, but the foundation must be of stone."

Katie stood still, surprised and a little frightened. She was not sure how all this might be taken, for though they had made much enjoyment for themselves out of the new dairy that was to be, and had spoken to "grannie" and their mother about it, this was the first direct intimation they had given to their grandfather. He smiled grimly, however; indeed he laughed, which did not often happen with him.

"A foundation! and stone, too! I didna think you needed foundations to your fancies, Davie, lad."

"Well, maybe no' just as long as they are fancies, grandfather," said Davie, looking outwardly a little sheepish, but with inward triumph, as Katie knew quite well. For to get his grandfather to listen to him was a great step. "And now, Katie, I'll just ask grandfather which is right, you or me. Come over here, grandfather, and tell us which you think the best place for it. Katie thinks this is ower far from the house, but I think not."

The grandfather actually crossed the burn, and went with him, Katie following with a smiling face and joyful heart. They did not decide much that night, but ever after the new milk-house was considered a settled thing, and much good they got out of it before either stone or stick was laid down beside the burn. For Davie got on better with his grandfather after that, and fifteen-year lad as he was, did a grown man's work from day to day, growing thin upon it for a while, but growing tall also, and losing his pretty boyish looks, of which Katie and his mother had been so proud.

So the summer work was done, and the summer pleasure, which was greater than they knew, as the pleasure which comes with busy uneventful days generally is. But it was a happy summer, and must have been so even if the drawbacks had been more numerous and harder to bear.

Katie had one pleasure which her brother could not share, but which pleased her grandmother well: this was the friendship of Miss Elizabeth.

Ever since the night of her first visit with her brother and the minister, Elizabeth had taken pains to renew her intimacy with Mrs Fleming and Katie, to their mutual satisfaction. On stormy nights during the winter, Elizabeth had sometimes sent for Katie to the school, that she might be saved the long cold walk home, and Katie liked to go.

During the summer she could not be spared often, but she went now and then, and their friendship grew apace.

On Katie's part it was more than friendship. It was like "falling in love." She did not say much about it, it was not her way. But she thought of her friend's words and ways, and opinions, and seeing her superiority to people in general, Miss Elizabeth became to her the ideal of all womanly sweetness and excellence. Miss Elizabeth could not but be touched and charmed by the affection which was thus rather betrayed than expressed, and though she was sometimes amused by her devotion, it greatly pleased her as well.

"Yours must be such a happy life, Miss Elizabeth," said Katie one night when she was visiting her friend, and they were sitting together after Mrs Holt had gone to bed.

Elizabeth smiled and shook her head. "Tell me what my life is like?"

There was a pause, during which Katie considered.

"You have a quiet life, and you are a comfort to your father, and everybody loves you."

"I am afraid there are some people who do not love me much. As to my father, yes. I shall never be quite a useless person while he needs me.

But as to my life being a happy life--"

"You have leisure," said Katie after a little, "and you take pleasure in so many things--things going on far away, and that happened long ago.

And you care for books, and you understand people. And you believe in great principles of action, and you are not afraid. I cannot say just what I mean."

"But, Katie, all that is as true of you as it is of me, except perhaps the leisure."

"I am only a child almost," said Katie, with a little rising colour.

"But when I am a woman I should like my life to be just like yours."

There was silence for a minute or two, then Katie went on:

"I once heard Mr Burnet tell my grandfather that you did more by the real interest you take in everything that is good and right, and by your bright, unselfish ways, to keep up a healthy, happy state of things among the young people of the place, than even the minister's preaching.

That was in old Mr Hollister's time, however," added the truth-loving Katie reflectively.

Miss Elizabeth smiled. "Mr Burnet is partial in his judgment."

"But you are happy, Miss Elizabeth," said Katie wistfully.

"Am I? I ought to be, I suppose; yes, I think so. I am content, and that is better than happiness, they say."

This was something that required consideration.

"'G.o.dliness with contentment is great gain;' that is what Paul said.

Perhaps he thought it better than happiness too."

"And Solomon says, 'A contented mind is a continual feast,'" said Miss Elizabeth, smiling at her face of grave consideration.

"I wonder what is the difference?" said Katie. "Folk are contented without knowing it, I suppose. I have been contented all my life, and if I had my wish about some things I would be happy."

"What things?"

"If we had no debt," said Katie, decidedly. "And if we had a little more money, so that we would not need to consider about things so much, and so that Davie could go to school all the year, and perhaps to the college, and the rest too, Nannie and Sandy and all. And we should have the dairy built over the burn, with a store of ice in it, and marble shelves, like one grandmother saw at Braemar. Well, not marble perhaps.

That might be foolish, but we should have everything to make the work light, and there would be time for other things. My grandfather should plant trees, and graft them and prime them and work away at his leisure, not troubling himself as to how it was all to come out at the end of the year. And my mother should have a low carriage, just like yours, Miss Elizabeth, and old Kelso should have nothing to do but draw it for her pleasure. And grannie--oh, grannie should wear a soft grey gown every day of the year, and neck-kerchiefs of the finest lawn, as she used to do--and such sheets and table-cloths as she should have, and she should never need to wet her fingers--only I am not sure that she would be any happier for that," said Katie, pulling herself up suddenly.

"And what would you have for yourself?" said Miss Elizabeth, wishing to hear more.

"I should have leisure," said Katie decidedly, as though she had thought it over and made up her mind. "I should have time for fine sewing, and to learn things--not just making lessons of them, and hurrying over them as they do at the school. I should have time to think about them, and I should have books and music, and a room like yours. Oh, dear me! What is the use of thinking about it," said Katie, with a sigh.

"And after all, contentment with things as they are, would answer every purpose," said Miss Elizabeth.

"Yes, but there are some things with which it is impossible to be contented--without wishing to change them, I mean--debt, and sickness, and having too much to do. And there are some things in people's lives that cannot be changed."

"And with such things we must just try and content ourselves," said Elizabeth.

"Yes. And contentment depends more on ourselves, and less on other folk, than happiness does. And so we are safer with just contentment,"

said Katie, and in a little she added, "Submission to G.o.d's will, that would be contentment."

"That would be happiness," said Elizabeth, and there was nothing more said for a long time.

They were sitting in Miss Elizabeth's sitting-room, a perfect room to Katie Fleming's mind, and the only light came from the red embers of the wood-fire, now falling low. Miss Elizabeth was leaning back among the cushions of her father's great arm-chair, and Katie sat on a low chair opposite, with a book on her lap. Miss Elizabeth was "seeing things in the fire," Katie knew, by the look on her face, wondering what she saw.

She looked "like a picture," sitting there in her pretty dress, with her cheek upon her hand. What a soft white hand it was, with its one bright ring sparkling in the firelight! Katie looked at it, and then at her own. Hers was not very large, but it was red and roughened, bearing traces of her daily work. She held it up and looked at it in the firelight, not at all knowing why she did it, but with the strangest feeling of discomfort. It was not the difference of the hands that troubled her. Somehow she seemed to be looking, not at the two hands, but at the two lives, hers and Miss Elizabeth's.

For Miss Elizabeth's was a pleasant life, though she had looked grave when she said so. She had so many things to enjoy--her music, her reading, her flowers, with only pleasant household duties, and above all she had leisure. Katie thought of her as she had seen her often, sitting in the church, or in the garden among her flowers, or under the trees in the village street, looking so fair and sweet, so different from any one else, so very different from Katie herself, and a momentary overpowering discontent seized her--discontent with herself, her home, her manner of life, with the constant daily work which seemed to come to nothing but just a bare living. It was the same thing over and over again, housework and dairy-work, and waking and sleeping, with nothing to show for it all at the year's end. What was the good of it all?