The Collected Novels. Anna Buchan
keeping an anxious eye on a plate of cakes, saw Thomas take the very cake he had set his heart on, and he broke into a howl of rage. "He's taken my cake!" he shouted.
"Buff, I'm ashamed of you," said his sister. "Remember, Thomas is your guest."
"He's not a guest," said Buff, watching Thomas stuff the cake into his mouth as if he feared that it might even now be wrested from him, "he's a pig."
"One may be both," said Elizabeth. "Never mind him, Thomas. Have another cake."
"Thanks," said Thomas, carefully choosing the largest remaining one.
"If Thomas eats so much," said Billy pleasantly, "he'll have to be put in a show. Mamma says so."
"Billy," said Miss Christie, "how is it that you have such a fine accent?"
"I don't know," said Billy modestly.
"It's because," Thomas hastened to explain—"it's because we had an English nurse when Billy was little. I've a Glasgow accent myself," he added.
"My accent's Peebleshire," said Buff, forgetting his wrongs in the interest of the conversation.
"Mamma says that's worse," said Thomas gloomily.
Mr. Seton chuckled. "You're a funny laddie, Thomas," he said.
"Kirsty," said Elizabeth, "this is no place for serious conversation; I haven't had a word with you. Oh! Father, how is Mrs. Morrison?"
"Very far through."
"Ah! Poor body. Is there nothing we can do for her?"
"No, my dear, I think not. She never liked taking help and now she is past the need of it. I'm thankful for her sake her race is nearly run."
Thomas stopped eating. "Will she get a prize, Mr. Seton?" he asked.
James Seton looked down into the solemn china-blue eyes raised to his own and said, seriously and as if to an equal:
"I think she will, Thomas—the prize of her high calling in Jesus Christ."
Thomas went on with his bread-and-butter, and a silence fell on the company. It was broken by a startled cry from Elizabeth.
"Have you hurt yourself, girl?" asked her father.
"No, no. It's Mrs. Veitch's scones. To think I've forgotten them! She sent them to you, Father, for your tea. Buff, run—no, I'll go myself;" and Elizabeth left the room, to return in a moment with the paper-bagful of scones.
"I had finished," said Mr. Seton meekly.
"We'll all have to begin again," said his daughter. "Thomas, you could eat a bit of treacle scone, I know."
"The scones will keep till to-morrow," Miss Christie reminded her.
"Yes," said Elizabeth, "but Mrs. Veitch will perhaps be thinking we are having them to-night, and I would feel mean to neglect her present. You needn't smile in that superior way, Kirsty Christie."
"They are excellent scones," said Mr. Seton, "and I'm greatly obliged to Mrs. Veitch. She is a fine woman—comes of good Border stock."
"She's a dear," said Elizabeth; "though she scares me sometimes, she is so utterly sincere. That's grievous, isn't it, Father?—to think I live with such double-dealers that sincerity scares me."
Mr. Seton shook his head at her.
"You talk a great deal of nonsense, Elizabeth," he said, a fact which Elizabeth felt to be so palpably true that she made no attempt to deny it.
Later, when the tea-things had been cleared away and the three boys lay stretched on the carpet looking for a picture of the roc's egg in a copy of The Arabian Nights, James Seton sat down rather weariedly in one of the big chintz-covered chairs by the fire.
"You're tired, Father," said Elizabeth.
James Seton smiled at his daughter. "Lazy, Lizbeth, that's all—lazy and growing old!"
"Old?" said Elizabeth. "Why, Father, you're the youngest person I have ever known. You're only about half the age of this weary worldling your daughter. You can never say you're old, wicked one, when you enjoy fairy tales just as much as Buff. I do believe that you would rather read a fairy tale than a theological book. He can't deny it, Kirsty. Oh, Father, Father, it's a sad thing to have to say about a U.F. minister, and it's sad for poor Kirsty, who has been so well brought up, to have all her clerical illusions shattered."
"Oh, girl," said her father, "do you never tire talking?"
"Never," said Elizabeth cheerfully, "but I'm going to read to you now for a change. Don't look so scared, Kirsty; it's only a very little poem."
"I'm sure I've no objection to hearing it," said Miss Christie, sitting up in her chair.
Elizabeth lifted a blue-covered book from a table, sat down on the rug at her father's feet, and began to read. It was only a very little poem, as she had said—a few exquisite strange lines. When she finished she looked eagerly up at her father and—"Isn't it magical?" she asked.
"Let me see the book," said Mr. Seton, and at once became engrossed.
"It's very nice," said Miss Christie; "but your voice, Elizabeth, makes anything sound beautiful."
"Kirsty, my dear, how pretty of you!"
Elizabeth's hands were clasped round her knees, and she sat staring into the red heart of the fire as she repeated:
"Who said 'All Time's delight
Hath she for narrow bed:
Life's troubled bubble broken'?
That's what I said."
Kirsty, I love that—'Life's troubled bubble broken'."
"Say it to me Lizbeth," said Buff, who had left his book when his sister began to read aloud.
"You wouldn't understand it, sonny."
"But I like the sound of the words," Buff protested. So Elizabeth said it again.
"Who said Peacock Pie?
The old King to the Sparrow...."
"I like it," said Buff, when she had finished. "Say me another."
"Not now, son. I want to talk to Kirsty now. When you go to bed I shall read you a lovely one about a Zebra called Abracadeebra. Have you done your lessons for to-morrow? No? Well, do them now. Thomas and Billy will do them with you—and in half an hour I'll play 'Yellow Dog Dingo.'"
Having mapped out the evening for her young brother, Elizabeth rose from her lowly position on the hearth-rug, drew forward a chair, and said, "Now, Kirsty, we'll have a talk."
That Elizabeth Seton and Christina Christie should be friends seemed a most improbable thing. They were both ministers' daughters, but there any likeness ended. It seemed as if there could be nothing in common between this tall golden Elizabeth with her impulsive ways, her rapid heedless speech, her passion for poetry, her faculty for making new friends at every turn, and Christina, short, dark, and neat, with a mind as well-ordered as her raiment, suspicious of strangers and chilling with her nearest—and yet a very true friendship did exist.
"How is your mother?" asked Elizabeth.
"Mother's wonderful. Father has been in the house three days with lumbago. Jeanie has a cold too. I think it's the damp weather. This is my month of housekeeping. I wish, Elizabeth, you would tell me some new puddings. Archie says ours are so dull."
Elizabeth immediately threw herself into the subject of puddings.
"I know one new pudding, but it takes two days to make and it's very expensive. We only have it for special people. You know 'Aunt Mag,' of course? and 'Uncle Tom'? That's only 'Aunt Mag' with treacle. Semolina, sago, big rice—we call those milk things, we don't dignify them by the name of pudding. What else is there? Tarts, oh! and bread puddings, and there's that greasy kind you eat with syrup, suet dumplings. A man in the church was very ill, and the doctor