, my uncle's
wife, lay abed--her they ca'ed the Leddy, a fine strapping woman, with
kindly hands to man and beast and a wheedling, coaxing way with her,
though she could be cold and haughty at times, for she came of fighting
stock, and could not thole clavering and fussing, and I think she would
not hasten her stately step to be in time for the Last Judgment, for
the pride of her.

The room was fine and cool, with a wood fire spluttering in the great
stone fireplace, and the light playing on the carved pillars of the
canopied bed, and blinking on the oak panels; but it was a fine room,
with deerskin rugs here and there on the floor, and space to move about
without smashing trumpery that women collect round them, God knows why,
except to hide the lines of the building.

My aunt lay there on the great bed, her dark hair damp and clinging to
the white brow, and one arm crooked round her child, and she was gazing
at his head where the hair was already thickening, when Belle came to
the bedside.

"It's not red," said my aunt. "I feared it would be red, for there are
red ones here and there in his house . . . look, woman, it's not red;
it will not be red."

"Na, na, it's fair, Leddy--fair and fause; but it'll darken wi' the
years, never fear. What ails ye at rid, Leddy--the prettiest man in
these parts is rid enough?"

"Poor Dan," cried my aunt, with a bright smile and no hesitation. "The
Laird tells me he's wasted enough keep for many bullocks laying the
yard with straw lest his horses should wake me in the mornings, but
I've missed his songs lying here. They were merry enough too in the
fine spring mornings if the words were . . ." And a delicate flush
crept over her neck and face, and she smiled a little as at the fault
of some wayward boy.

The door was opened softly, and a tall woman entered--a tall woman with
a world of sorrow in her wise old eyes, and years of patience in the
clasp of her hands.

"Betty," cried the patient--"Betty, is everything done well, now I'm
tied to my son," and she put her cheek to the downy head.

"The weemen are flighty and the lads are quate, and the hoose will no'
be itsel' till ye will be moving about again, an' Miss Janet's lad
will . . ."

"I will not have Dan called that, Betty," says my aunt. "Ewan
McBride's lad he is, if ye must deave me with his forebears . . ."

"My dearie, my ain dearie, did I not nurse his mother when she grat
ower his wee body and a' the warl'