Janet's Love and Service. Margaret M. Robertson
her snowy cap and neckerchief; and the little brown sparrows came to share with the chickens the crumbs she scattered at the door. And so, hens and chickens, and little brown sparrows did much to win her from a regretful remembrance of the past, and to reconcile her to what was strange—“unco like” in her new home.
Her cows were, perhaps, her prime favourites. Not that she would acknowledge them at all equal to “Fleckie” or “Blackie,” now, probably, the favourites of another mistress on the other side of the sea. But “Brindle and Spottie were wise-like beasts, with mair sense and discretion than some folk that she could name,” and many a child in Merleville got less care than she bestowed on them. Morning and night, and, to the surprise of all the farmers’ wives in Merleville, at noon too, when the days were long she milked them with her own hands, and made more and better butter from the two, than even old Mrs. Snow, who prided herself on her abilities in these matters, made from any three on her pasture. And when in the fall Mr. Snow went to Boston with the produce of his mother’s dairy, and his own farm, a large tub of Janet’s butter went too, for which was to be brought back “tea worth the drinking, and at a reasonable price,” and other things besides, which at Merleville and at Merleville prices, could not be easily obtained.
The Indian-summer had come again. Its mysterious haze and hush were on all things under the open sky, and within the house all was quiet, too. The minister was in the study, and the bairns were in the pine grove, or by the water side, or even farther away; for no sound of song or laughter came from these familiar places. Janet sat at the open door, feeling a little dreary, as she was rather apt to do, when left for hours together alone by the bairns. Besides, there was something in the mild air and in the quiet of the afternoon, that “ ’minded” her of the time a year ago, when the bairns, having all gone to the kirk on that first Sabbath-day, she had “near grat herself blind” from utter despairing home-sickness. She could now, in her restored peace and firmness, afford to to feel a little contemptuous of her former self, yet a sense of sadness crept over her, at the memory of the time, a slight pang of the old malady stirred at her heart. Even now, she was not quite sure that it would be prudent to indulge herself in thoughts of the old times, lest the wintry days, so fast hastening, might bring back the old gloom. So she was not sorry when the sound of footsteps broke the stillness, and she was pleased, for quite other reasons, when Mr. Snow appeared at the open door. He did not accept her invitation to enter, but seated himself on the doorstep.
“Your folks are all gone, are they?” asked he.
“The minister is in his study, and Miss Graeme and the bairns are out by, some way or other. Your Emily’s with them.”
“Yes, I reckoned so. I’ve just got home from Rixford. It wouldn’t amount to much, all I could do to-night, so I thought I’d come along up a spell.”
Janet repeated her kindly welcome.
“The minister’s busy, I presume,” said he.
“Yes—as it’s Saturday—but he winna be busy very long now. If you’ll bide a moment, he’ll be out, I daresay.”
“There’s no hurry. It’s nothing particular.”
But Mr. Snow was not in his usual spirits evidently, and watching him stealthily, Janet saw a care-worn anxious expression fastening on his usually, cheerful face.
“Are you no’ weel the night?” she asked.
“Sartain. I never was sick in my life.”
“And how are they all down-by?” meaning at Mr. Snow’s house, by “down-by.”
“Well, pretty much so. Only just middling. Nothing to brag of, in the way of smartness.”
There was a long silence after that. Mr. Snow sat with folded arms, looking out on the scene before them.
“It’s kind o’ pleasant here, ain’t it?” said he, at last.
“Ay,” said Janet, softly, not caring to disturb his musings. He sat still, looking over his own broad fields, not thinking of them as his, however, not calculating the expense of the new saw-mill, with which he had been threatening to disfigure Carson’s brook, just at the point where its waters fell into the pond. He was looking far-away to the distant hills, where the dim haze was deepening into purple, hiding the mountain tops beyond. But it could not be hills, nor haze, nor hidden mountain tops, that had brought that wistful longing look into his eyes, Janet thought, and between doubt as to what she ought to say, and doubt as to whether she should say anything at all, she was for a long time silent. At last, a thought struck her.
“What for wasna you at the Lord’s table, on the Sabbath-day?” asked she.
Sampson gave her a queer look, and a short amused laugh.
“Well, I guess our folks would ha’ opened their eyes, if I had undertook to go there.”
Janet looked at him in some surprise.
“And what for no? I ken there are others of the folk, that let strifes and divisions hinder them from doing their duty, and sitting down together. Though wherefore the like of these things should hinder them from remembering their Lord, is more than I can understand. What hae you been doing, or what has somebody been doing to you?”
There was a pause, and then Sampson looked up and said, gravely.
“Mis’ Nasmyth, I ain’t a professor. I’m one of the world’s people Deacon Fish tells about.”
Janet looked grave.
“Come now, Mis’ Nasmyth, you don’t mean to say you thought I was one of the good ones?”
“You ought to be,” said she, gravely.
“Well—yes, I suppose I ought to. But after all, I guess there ain’t a great sight of difference between folks—leastways, between Merleville folks. I know all about them. I was the first white child born in the town, I was raised here, and in some way or other, I’m related to most folks in town, and I ought to know them all pretty well by this time. Except on Sundays, I expect they’re all pretty much so. It wouldn’t do to tell round, but there are some of the world’s people, that I’d full as lief do business with, as with most of the professors. Now that’s a fact.”
“You’re no’ far wrong there, I daresay,” said Janet, with emphasis. “But that’s neither here nor there, as far as your duty is concerned, as you weel ken.”
“No—I don’t know as it is. But it kind o’ makes me feel as though there wasn’t much in religion, anyway.”
Janet looked mystified. Mr. Snow continued.
“Well now, see here, I’ll tell you just how it is. There ain’t one of them that don’t think I’m a sinner of the worst kind—gospel hardened. They’ve about given me up, I know they have. Well now, let alone the talk, I don’t believe there’s a mite of difference, between me, and the most of them, and the Lord knows I’m bad enough. And so you see, I’ve about come to the conclusion, that if there is such a thing as religion, I haven’t never come across the real article.”
“That’s like enough,” said Janet, with a groan. “I canna say that I have seen muckle o’ it myself in this town, out of our own house. But I canna see that that need be any excuse to you. You have aye the word.”
“Well, yes. I’ve always had the Bible, and I’ve read it considerable, but I never seem to get the hang of it, somehow. And it ain’t because I ain’t tried, either. There was one spell that I was dreadful down, and says I to myself, if there’s comfort to be got out of that old book, I’m bound to have it. So I began at the beginning about the creation, and Adam and Eve, but I didn’t seem to get much comfort there. There was some good reading, but along over a piece, there was a deal that I could see nothing to. Some of the Psalms seemed to kind o’ touch the spot, and the Proverbs are first-rate. I tell you he knew something of human nature, that wrote them.”
“There’s