"He said the rabbits were from you," she went on; "and the owl got broke that was in the box. It was too little for him."

"Sandy brought me," she said finally, "the child that stares so," and she pointed, her eyebrows puckered together, at a rag-doll, with painted cheeks and round, offensive eyes, sitting head down in a corner of the porch.

Beyond money, I had not sent even a message to the child in all these years of absence, and my heart filled with grat.i.tude to that friend who had made me a fairy-grandfather and won a child's love for me, who was so unthoughtful and so far away.

As we sat thus, Dame d.i.c.kenson heard the sound of voices, and came from the house to welcome me with a smile, though the tears were in her eyes as she spoke her words of welcome.

Her life of ease and freedom from money-care had changed her greatly, and with her black silk frock, her lace kerchief and cap, she seemed quite like some old gentlewoman. I tried, knowing the inadequacy of words, even while speaking, to thank her for my wonderful child, when she interrupted me.

"I should have died but for her--after"--she broke off here, not wishing to name the sorrow between us. "But you've not seen the wonder of her yet; she has the whole Cairn Mills bewitched, and if she were a queen on her throne could not have her way more than she does now."

It was of a piece with the Dame's thoughtfulness to have prepared for me a room which I had never known, and where no memories dwelt; a low-raftered apartment on the land-side of the house, with a window looking over the garden and a fire burning cheerily in the corner chimney. Dropping off to sleep, happier than I thought it possible for me to be again, I became aware that there was some one in the room with me. Opening my eyes, I found Nancy, with her long white gown gathered on her breast to keep it from the floor, standing looking at me, her head about level with my own as it lay on the pillow.

"What is it?" I asked.

"_GetinwifJock_," she answered.

"What?" I inquired again, for she had slipped her words all together.

"Get--in--wif--Jock," she repeated, with an unmistakable movement of her small hand to turn back the bed covers.

"You darling!" I cried, and drew her in beside me.

The tenderness I felt for her as she lay on my breast was akin to agony. I trembled at the touch of her, and what she meant to me, and all that I had missed. And long after she fell asleep, I lay, seeing the past with new eyes, understanding new truths, and making myself, please G.o.d, a better man.

I woke the next morning about eight, to find her gone, but as I was dressing by the window I saw her below me in the garden, busy with some hens that were clucking all about her.

"h.e.l.lo, Little Flower," I called to her.[1]

[1] The name came to me with no thought, but for years it was the one she fancied most, and many of her early poems were signed L.F.S., or sometimes by nothing save a queer little drawing, half rose and half daisy.

(The ma.n.u.script of the "Maid with the Wistfu' Eye" in the Edinburgh collection has only this mark as signature.)

She smiled up at me, blinking in the strong sunshine, and I hastened down to join her.

"Are you willing to come back with me to Stair?" I asked.

"We're getting ready, Jock," she answered, putting her hand in mine.

"We?" I inquired. "Whom do you mean?"

"Nancy Stair," she said, touching herself on the breast with her small forefinger, "Dame d.i.c.kenson, Father Michel, Uncle Ben, the two or three dogs, the kittens, the one without a name, the drey hen, and the broken owl----"

"Nancy Stair," I broke in, with some firmness in my voice, "it will be utterly impossible to take all these folk up to Stair Castle."

She looked at me and went white, as grown people do when news which chills the blood is suddenly brought to them, and struck her little hands together as though in pain. Turning suddenly she left me and trotted off through a cleft in the stone wall of the kitchen garden, to which place I followed her, with remorse in my heart for the rough way in which I had spoken.

I found her lying flat in the gra.s.s, her face hidden in her arms, her body trembling, but she made no sound.

"What is it, dear?" I asked.

"I can't go," she said, without looking up, "I can't go, Jock."

"Why?" I inquired.

She arose at this and leaned against me, her head but little above my knee and her eyes looking straight up into mine.

"Oh, don't you see?" she cried. "I can't go!--I can't go and leave my people, Jock!"

I can see now that then was the time I should have been firm with her, and have escaped the tyranny of latter years. Firm with her! Firm!

while Nancy stood leaning against me with her baby curls under my hand.

Firm! with eyes that held tears in them, tears which I had caused.

"Take them," I cried, "take the free-traders, the old wreck, the Cairn Mills, and the new light-house, for all of me; but never let me see that look in your face again, my little one!" and I had her in my arms, as weak a father as I had been as lover and as husband, with the resulting that I, John Stair, Lord of Stair and Alton in the Mearns, in company with Dame d.i.c.kenson, Father Michel, Uncle Ben, the two or three dogs, the kittens, the Nameless One, the "drey hen," and a small child holding a dissipated-looking owl with but one whole feather in its tail, drove up to the gateway of Stair Castle in a gipsy wagon of an abandoned character, on the afternoon of a day in late February, in the year 1773.

CHAPTER V

I MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A STRANGE CHILD

Several days after this strange home-coming some business called me to the far woods, where I was detained until the afternoon sun was well on its way behind the hills. Nearing the house I discovered Nancy huddled in a little bunch, sitting by her lee-lane in a spot of sunshine on the west steps--such a lovable, touchable little bundle as she sat there, with her chin in her hand. I looked for the exuberant welcome which I had always received, but it was wanting; and as I stood waiting some greeting from her, she made a quaint gesture of dismissal to me:

"Jock mustn't disturb Nancy now," she said; "Nancy's making verses."

There was in the atom's voice nothing but a statement of her wishes.

That I was her father and one to be obeyed never entered her curly head, and her tone implied the belief that I would respect her lights as she would mine. I can honestly state that I never was more dismayed in my life. I entered the library, wondering what had happened in my absence, and considering whether to send for d.i.c.kenson and make some inquiries.

It was gone a half hour perhaps before Nancy came in through the low window, and crossing the room to the place I sat, leaned herself against my knee.

"Listen," she said:

Jock Stair's gone away, Where I cannot fancy.

Jock Stair's gone away, Gone and left his Nancy.

O, Jock, I cannot say How much I miss you, If you were here to-day Nancy would kiss you.

Her cheeks were roses, her eyes shone with a misty light, and the verse so rapturous to herself that she struck her little hands together when she had finished.

"Do you like it, Jock? Is it pretty?" she asked.

"You blessed baby," I answered, "who taught you?"

"They _come_," she said, "and afterward Nancy's head-iks," and she put her morsel of a hand to her forehead, as a grown person with headache does.

"_Head-iks!_" she said again with emphasis.