think you're awful nice!" she
exclaimed. "And is your name just Scotty?"

"Yes!" cried Scotty, very emphatically, "Scotty MacDonald."

"But that isn't all, is it? There's sumpfin' more?"

"No!" exploded Scotty, "there ain't! Some bad folks would be saying
that would be my name; but it will be jist Scotty, whatever. And," he
looked threatening, "I don't ever be playing with anybody that would be
calling me that nasty English name."

His listener seemed properly impressed. "I won't never call you
anything but just Scotty!" she promised solemnly.

A call from the house summoned them; Kirsty had hurried in and was
searching the milk-house for bannocks and maple syrup. The children
ran through the little barnyard, causing a terrible commotion among the
fowl, and up the flower-bordered path to the shanty door. Scotty had
not been at Kirsty's since the summer before, when Granny took him to
see the poor sick woman who lay in bed weary month after weary month,
and now he drew shyly behind his little hostess.

"Come away, Scotty man!" called Kirsty heartily. "Come away, mother's
wantin' to see ye!"

The door of the little log shanty stood open, revealing a bare,
spotless room with whitewashed walls. There were a couple of old
chairs and a rough bench scrubbed a beautiful white like the floor; a
curtain of coarse muslin, white and glistening, draped the little
window, and a picture of Bobby Burns in a frame made from the shells of
Lake Oro, and another of the youthful Queen Victoria and the Prince
Consort in a frame ingeniously wrought from pine cones hung on the
wall. A tall cupboard and an old clock with its long hanging weights
looked quite familiar and home-like to Scotty. But over in the corner
by the window was a sight that struck him painfully and made him draw
back. An old four-post bed stood against the log wall and in it lay
the shrivelled little figure of Kirsty's mother propped up with
pillows. She was bent and twisted with rheumatism, like a little old
tree that had been battered by storms. But her face was brave and
bright, and from it shone a pair of brown eyes with a pathetic inquiry
in them as of a dumb, uncomprehending creature in pain. She wore a
stiff white cap on her thin grey hair, a snowy mutch covered her poor
crooked shoulders, and everything about her was beautifully neat and
clean, showing her daughter's loving care.

"Heh, mother!" cried Kirsty cheerfully, "here's Marget Malcolm