from
a dove's wing! Cheer thee, my darling--cheer thee! What! Thine own creed
teaches thee that the gentle Mother of Christ, with her little white
angels round her, watches over all innocent maids,--and thinkest thou
she will let an old woman's malice and envy blight thy young days? No,
no! _Thou_ accursed?" And the _bonde_ laughed loudly to hide the tears
that moistened his keen eyes. "Thou art the sweetest blessing of my
heart, even as thy mother was before thee! Come, come! Raise thy pretty
head--here are these merry lads growing long-faced,--and Britta is
weeping enough salt water to fill a bucket! One of thy smiles will set
us all right again,--ay, there now!"--as she looked up and, meeting
Philip's eloquent eyes, blushed, and withdrew herself gently from her
father's arms,--"Let us finish our supper and think no more of yonder
villainous old hag--she is crazy, I believe, and knows not what she says
half her time. Now, Britta, cease thy grunting and sighing--'twill spoil
thy face and will not mend the hole in thy grandmother's brain!"

"Wicked, spiteful, ugly old thing!" sobbed Britta; "I'll never, never,
never forgive her!" Then, running to Thelma, she caught her hand and
kissed it affectionately. "Oh, my dear, my dear! To think she should
have cursed you, what dreadful, dreadful wickedness! Oh!" and Britta
looked volumes of wrath. "I could have beaten her black and blue!"

Her vicious eagerness was almost comic--every one laughed, including
Thelma, though she pressed the hand of her little servant very warmly.

"Oh fie!" said Lorimer seriously. "Little girls mustn't whip their
grandmothers; it's specially forbidden in the Prayer-book, isn't it,
Phil?"

"I'm sure I don't know!" replied Errington merrily. "I believe there is
something to the effect that a man may not marry his grandmother--perhaps
that is what you mean?"

"Ah, no doubt!" murmured Lorimer languidly, as, with the others, he
resumed his seat at the supper-table. "I knew there was a special
mandate respecting one's particularly venerable relations, with a view
to self-guidance in case they should prove troublesome, like Britta's
good grand-mamma. What a frightfully picturesque mouthing old lady she
is!"

"She is _la petroleuse_ of Norway!" exclaimed Duprez. "She would make an
admirable dancer in the Carmagnole!"

Macfarlane, who had preserved a discreet silence throughout the whole
scene, here looked up.

"She's just a screech-owl o' mistake