g to tell him about his winter's work, and without meaning to do
so, he gave him "an inkling," as Robin called it to his mother, of the
plans he had been making, and of the new course which was opening before
him.

But John said no more to his mother. It was late when, he came home
that night, and there was no time for many words in the morning, for he
had a long journey before him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"Oh! the happy life of children still restoring joy to ours!
Back recalling all the sweetness."

Summer came slowly but happily to Marjorie this year, bringing with it,
oh! so many pleasures to which she had hitherto been a stranger. She
had had the early spring flowers brought into the parlour many a time,
and ferns and buds and bonny leaves, for all the bairns of the place
were more than glad to be allowed to share their treasures with her; and
the one who came first and brought the most of these, thought herself
the happiest, and great delight in past summers had all this given to
the child. She had watched, too, the springing of the green things in
the garden, the wakening of pale little snowdrops and auriculas, and the
gradual unfolding of the leaves and blossoms on the berry-bushes, and on
the one apple-tree, the pride of the place.

But she had never with her own hands plucked the yellow pussies from the
saughs (low willows) by the burn, nor found the wee violets, blue and
white, hiding themselves under last year's leaves. She had never
watched the slow coming of, first the buds, and then the leaves on the
trees along the lanes, nor seen the hawthorn hedges all in bloom, nor
the low hills growing greener every day, nor the wandering clouds making
wandering shadows where the gowans--the countless "crimson-tipped
flowers"--were gleaming among the grass. All this and more she saw this
year, as she lay in the strong, kind arms of Allison. And as the days
went on it would not have been easy to say whether it was the little
child, or the sad and silent woman, who got the greater good from it
all.

For Allison could no longer move along the lanes and over the fields in
a dream, her inward eyes seeing other faraway fields and hills and a
lost home, and faces hidden for evermore, when a small hand was now and
then laid upon her cheek to call her back to the present. The little
silvery voice was ever breaking in upon these dreary memories, and
drearier forebodings, with cooing murmurs of utter con