on the side porch of the gray stone house sat miss gordon, steadily darning at the eight pairs of stockings belonging to her eight nephews and nieces. the strenuous task of being foster-mother to the eight had long ago taught miss gordon the necessity of doing two things at once. at the present moment she was attending to three beside the darning, and had chosen her position with an eye to their accomplishment. here, where the virginia creepers shaded her from the afternoon sun, she was near enough to the wall enclosing the backyard to mark that the saturday raking and tidying of that battleground of the young gordons suffered no serious interruption. also, she could watch that little jamie, tumbling about the grass in front of her, did not stray away to the pond. and, best of all, she commanded a view of the lane leading up to the highway, for a girl in a blue cotton gown and a big white hat was moving up the path to the gate between the willows, and miss gordon had awakened to the fact that her eldest niece needed watching.
miss annie had remarked a moment before, that she thought she might as well run up to the gate and see if jerry patterson, the mailman, was at the post-office yet; and besides, it was time malcolm and jean were home from the store, and she might help to carry their parcels; and, anyway, she had nothing to do, because it wasn't time to get the tea ready yet.
miss gordon would not have stooped to quote shakespeare, considering him very irreligious and sometimes quite indelicate, and having forbidden the reading of him in the gordon family. nevertheless the unspoken thought of her mind was his—that the lady did protest too much.
of the eight, annie was her aunt's favorite. she was pretty and gentle and had caused miss gordon less trouble during the four years she had been head of her brother's house, than john or elizabeth had frequently contributed in one day. but lately it seemed as though her greatest comfort bade fair to become her greatest anxiety. for annie had suddenly grown up. the fact had been startlingly revealed by the strange actions of young mr. coulson, the school-teacher, who was probably at this moment walking across the fields towards the big gate between the willows.
at the thought, miss gordon closed her lips tightly and looked severe. to be sure, annie must marry, and young coulson seemed a rather genteel, well-made young man. he was studying law in the evenings, too, and might make his way in the world some day. but auntie jinit johnstone, who lived on the next farm, and knew the minute family history of everyone in the county of simcoe, had informed the last quilting-bee that a certain coulson—and no distant relative of the young schoolmaster either—had kept a tavern in the early days down by the lake shore. miss gordon had made no remark. she never took part in gossip. but she had mentally resolved that she would inquire carefully just how distant this relative was, and then she would take means to place their annie at a distance from the young man in an inverse ratio to the space between him and the tavern-keeper.
she peered through the tangle of alder and sumach that bordered the lane and saw her suspicions confirmed. annie was at the gate, her blue dress set against the white background of some blossom-laden cherry-boughs, while down the road, the long limbs of this probable descendant of the tavern-keeper were bearing him swiftly towards her.
miss gordon's needle flashed in and out of malcolm's sock, in a disapproving manner. she tried to look severe, but in spite of herself, her face showed something of pleasant excitement, for miss gordon was very much of a woman and could not but find a love affair interesting.
she had been a handsome girl once, and her fine, high-bred face was still almost beautiful. it was covered with innumerable tiny wrinkles, but her dark eyes were bright, and her cheeks bore a fixed pink flush, the birth-mark of the land of heather. her hair, glossy black, with not a thread of gray, was parted in the middle and lay on either side in perfectly even waves. her figure was slim and stiffly straight, her hands long and slender. she looked every inch a woman of refinement, and also a woman who would not flinch from any task that duty demanded.
and duty had asked much of her during these last few years—exile, privations, uncongenial tasks, and the mothering of eight orphans. this last demand had been the hardest. even to their own mother, upon whom the burden had been laid gradually and gently, in nature's wise way, the task had been a big one; but what had it been to her, who, without a moment's warning, had one day found herself at the head of a family, ranging from sixteen years to six days? many times she had needed all her strength of character to keep her from dropping it all, and flying back to the peace and quiet of her old edinburgh home. and yet she had struggled on under the burden for four years—four long years this spring; but even at this late day, she was overcome with a feeling of homesickness, as poignant as it had been in her first canadian springtime.
she suspended her needle and looked about her as though inquiring the cause of this renewed longing. it was a may-day—a perfect ontario may-day—all a luxury of blossoms and perfume. in the morning rain had fallen, and though now the clouds lay piled in dazzling white mountain-heaps far away on the horizon, leaving the dome above an empty quivering blue, still the fields and the gardens remembered the showers with gratitude and sparkled joyously under their garniture of diamond-drops. the wild cherry-trees bordering the lane and the highway, and the orchard behind the house were smothered in odorous blossoms of white and pink. a big flower-laden hawthorn grew in the lane, near the little gate leading from the garden. from its topmost spray a robin was pouring forth an ecstatic song—a song so out of proportion to his tiny body that he was fairly shaken by his own tumult—trills and whistles, calls and chuckles, all incoherently mingled and shouted forth in glorious hysteria. miss gordon looked up at the mad little musician and her face grew sad. she had recognized the cause of her renewed longing for home. at the little gate of her edinburgh garden there grew just such a hawthorn, and the perfume of this one was telling her not of the joy and beauty before her, but of all she had left behind.
miss gordon had never seen the loveliness nor felt the lure of this new land—a garden-land though it was, of winding flower-fringed roads, of cool, fairy-dells, and hilltops with heart-thrilling glimpses of lake and forest and stream. her harp was always hanging on the willows of this canadian babylon in mourning for the streets of edinburgh. she could never quite rise above a feeling of resentment against the land that held her in bondage, and never once dreamed that, should she go back to the prim little house in mcglashan street, with cousin griselda and their cats and their embroidery and their cup of tea at exactly half-past four in the afternoon, she would long for the old stone house in the far-off canadian valley, and the love and companionship of the merry rioters who now made her days a burden.
her grievance against canada was due to the fact that she had crossed the ocean merely to make one short summer's visit to brother william and had been held a prisoner ever since.
it had all come about through cousin griselda's mistaken idea that to be truly genteel one must travel. the cousins had ever set before themselves perfect refinement and gentility as the one condition to be devoutly striven for, and the only one in keeping with the gordon traditions. they lived in a quiet old house on a silent old street, with a sleepy old servant and two somnolent old cats. they were always excessively polite to each other and to everyone with whom they came in contact, even to the cats. every afternoon of their lives, except sunday, and once a month when the ladies' guild met at the manse, they wore their second-best black dresses, their earrings and bracelets, and sat in the parlor with the two cats and dozed and embroidered until half-past four when the tea was brought in. they always spoke slowly and carefully, and conversed upon genteel subjects. nothing less important than the doings of the royal family, or at least the nobility, and, of course, once a week, the minister's sermon, was ever discussed in their tiny parlor. and as cousin griselda often remarked privately, who were more able to discourse with ease upon such themes? for did there not live, right in edinburgh, sir william gordon, who was almost a second cousin to both, and whose wife, lady gordon, had once called on them right there in mcglashan street.
but cousin griselda was not content even with perfect refinement and titled relatives, and her vaulting ambition had led to the great mistake of margaret's life. the draper's wife next door had called, and when she had gone and keziah had carried away the three tea-cups, cousin griselda had remarked upon the almost genuine air of grandeur possessed by mrs. galbraith. margaret had asked how it could be, for mrs. galbraith had no family connections and a husband in trade, and cousin griselda had thereupon expressed the firm conviction that it was because mrs. galbraith had traveled. she had been twice to london and several times to liverpool. cousin griselda concluded by declaring that though a baronet in the family, and good blood were essential to true gentility, no one could deny that travel in foreign lands gave an air of distinction which nothing else could bestow.
the cousins were thoroughly disturbed in their minds thereafter and talked much of travel, to the neglect of the royal family. and even while the subject was absorbing them there had come to margaret her brother william's letter from far-off canada inviting her to visit him. the bare thought that margaret might go, set the cousins into a flutter of excitement. to be sure, margaret argued, canada was a very wild and frost-bound country, scarcely the place one would choose to travel over in search of further refinement. but griselda declared that surely, no matter where dear william's lot might be cast, being a gordon, he would be surrounded by an atmosphere of gentility. and so, little by little, the preposterous idea grew into a reality, and by the time the cousins had discussed the matter for a year, it was finally decided that margaret should go.
all through the twenty years of his absence, william's letters had been just as beautifully written and as nicely phrased, as they had in his student days in edinburgh. the paper was not always what true refinement called for, but one could overlook that, when one remembered that it probably came to him on dog-sleds over mountains of snow. one had to surmise much, of course, regarding william's experience in canada. his letters were all of his inner life. he said much regarding his spiritual condition, of his grievous lapses of faith, of his days on the delectable mountains and of his descents into the slough of despond, but very little of the hills and valleys of his adopted country. once, shortly after his arrival, he had stated that he was living in a shanty where the bush came right up to the door. margaret had had some misgivings, but cousin griselda had explained that a shanty was in all probability a dear little cottage, and the bush might be an american rose bush, or more likely a thorn, which in springtime would be covered with may.
but now william lived in a comfortable stone house, had married, and had a family growing up around him, who were all anxious to see their old country aunt. and so the unbelievable at last came to pass and his sister sailed for quebec.
in the home land william gordon had entered training for the ministry. his parents had died, owning their chief regret that they could not see their son in the pulpit, and his sister received the bitterest disappointment of her life, when he abandoned the calling. but william was largely celt by blood and wholly so by nature and had visions. in one of them he had seen himself before the great white throne, worthless, sin-stricken. what was he that dared to enter such a holy calling as the ministry? he who was as the dust of the earth, a priest of the most high god! he beat his brow at the blasphemy of the thought. it was nadab or abihu he was or a son of eli, and the ark would depart forever from god's people, did he dare to raise his profaning hands in its ministry. and so, partly to escape his sister's reproaches, he had sailed away to canada. here he had tried various occupations, and finally settled down to teaching school away back in the forests of lake simcoe. he married, and when a large family was growing up around him, and the ever-menacing poverty had at last seized them, he experienced the first worldly success of his life.
about a mile from the school which had witnessed his latest failure, there lay a beautiful little valley. here an eccentric englishman named jarvis had built a big stone house and for a few years had carried on a semblance of farming. this place he called the dale, and here he lived alone, except for an occasional visit from his wife, who watched his farming operations with disapproving eye from a neighboring town. the schoolmaster was his only friend, and when he died, while he left the farm to his wife, he bequeathed to william gordon his big stone house and barns, and the four-acre field in which they stood. fortune had looked for the first time upon the gordons, and she deigned them a second glance. through the energy of his wife and the influence of her people, the macdonalds, who owned half the township of oro, william gordon obtained the position of township clerk. on the modest salary from this office, supplemented by the four acres where they pastured their cow and raised garden produce, the family managed to live; and here the young gordons grew up, healthy and happy, and quite unconscious of the fact that they were exceedingly poor.
but someone had suffered in the fight against want, and when the worst of the struggle was over the brave mother began to droop. william gordon had been a kind husband, but he lived with his head in the clouds. his eyes were so dazzled by distant visions that he had failed to notice that most beautiful vision at his side, a noble woman wearing her life away in self-forgetful toil for him and his children. she never spoke of her trials, for her nature was of the kind that finds its highest enjoyment in sacrifice. she was always bright and gay. her smile and her ready laughter brightened the home in the days of her husband's deepest spiritual gloom. but one day even the smile failed. at the birth of their eighth child she went out into a new life, and the noble sacrifice was complete.
the long-expected aunt from the old country sailed a short time before baby jamie's birth. so when miss gordon arrived, it was to an unexpected scene—a darkened home, a brother stunned by his loss, and a family of orphans, the eldest, a frightened-eyed girl of sixteen, the youngest, a wailing infant of a few days.
miss gordon was made of good scotch granite, with a human heart beneath. the veneer of gentility had underneath it the pure gold of character. she seized the helm of the family ship with a heroic hand. she sailed steadily through a sea of troubles that often threatened to overwhelm her; the unaccustomed task of motherhood with its hundred trials, her brother's gloom and despair, the new conditions of the rough country—even the irony of a fate that had set her at hard, uncongenial toil in the very place where she had sought culture. but she succeeded, and had not only held her own poise in the struggle, but had managed to permeate the family life with something of her old-world refinement.
it was four long years since she had seen the hawthorn blooming in her home garden. and now the infant of that dark springtime was the sturdy boy, rolling over the grass with collie, and the sixteen-year-old girl, with the big frightened eyes, was the tall young woman up there at the gate beside the figure in gray tweed.
miss gordon had stood the trial, partly because she had never accepted the situation as final. she would go back to edinburgh and cousin griselda soon, she kept assuring herself, and though the date of her departure always moved forward, rainbow-like at her approach, she found much comfort in following it.
first she decided she must stay until the baby could walk, but when wee jamie went toddling about the big bare rooms, annie had just left school, and was not yet prepared to shoulder all the cares of housekeeping. she would wait until she saw annie capable of managing the home. then when annie's skirts came down below her boot-tops, and her hair went up in a golden pile upon her head, and she could bake bread and sweep a room to perfection, the care of the next two children presented itself. malcolm and jean had from the first shown marked ability at school, and miss gordon's long-injured pride found the greatest solace in them. she determined that malcolm must be sent to college, and william could never be trusted to do it. by strict economy she had managed to send both the clever ones to the high school in the neighboring town for the past year; how could she leave them now at the very beginning of their career?
and so the date of her return home moved steadily forward. sometimes it went out of sight altogether and left her in despair. for even if the two brilliant ones should graduate and william should cease to be so shockingly absent-minded, and the younger boys so shockingly boisterous, and mary so delicate, there was always elizabeth. whenever miss gordon contemplated the case of her third niece her castles in edinburgh toppled over. what would become of elizabeth if she were left unguided? what was to become of elizabeth in any case, was an ever-present question.
but in spite of all the ties that held her, miss gordon had determined that, come what might, her homegoing was finally settled this time. it was to take place immediately after annie's marriage. for of course annie would marry—perhaps a rich gentleman from the town—who knew? then, when annie was settled, jean must leave school and keep house, and she would sail away to edinburgh and cousin griselda.
she made this final decision once again, with some stubbornness, as the breath of the hawthorn brought a hint of her old garden. she finished malcolm's sock with a determined snip of her scissors, and took up john's.
near the end of the long porch, a door led through the high board wall into the orchard and kitchen-garden. it swung noisily open, and a tall, broad-shouldered young woman, arrayed in a gay print cotton gown, a dusty black velvet sacque, and a faded pink hat, bounced heavily upon the porch.
miss gordon glanced up, and her startled look changed to one of relief and finally to severity. she bent over her darning.
"good-afternoon, sarah emily," she remarked frigidly.
the young person was apparently unabashed by her chilling reception. she took one stride to the green bench that stood against the house and dropped upon it, letting her carpet-bag fall with a thud to the floor. she stretched out her feet in their thick muddy boots, untied her pink hat strings, and emitted a sounding sigh.
"laws—a—day, but i'm dead dog-tired," she exclaimed cordially.
miss gordon looked still severer. evidently sarah emily had returned in no prodigal-son's frame of mind. ordinarily the mistress would have sharply rebuked the girl's manner of speech, but now she bent to her work with an air of having washed her hands finally of this stubborn case.
but sarah emily was of the sort that could not be overawed by any amount of dignity. she was not troubled, either, with a burdensome sense of humility—no, not even though this was the third time she had "given notice," and returned uninvited.
"well," she exclaimed at length, as though miss gordon were arguing the case with her, "i jist had to have a recess. there ain't no one could stand the penoeuvres of that young lizzie, an' the mud she trailed all over the kitchen jist after i'd scrubbed!"
miss gordon showed no signs of sympathy. she felt some, nevertheless, and suppressed a sigh. elizabeth certainly was a trial. she deigned no remark, however, and sarah emily continued the one-sided conversation all unabashed.
"i hoofed it every fut o' the road," she remarked aggrievedly.
miss gordon took a new thread from her ball and fitted it into her needle with majestic dignity.
sarah emily was silent a moment, then hummed her favorite song.
"my grandmother lives on yonder little green,
as fine an old lady as ever was seen,
she has often cautioned me with care,
of all false young men to beware!
"i couldn't abide that there mrs. oliver another five minutes. she had too stiff a backbone for me, by a whole pail o' starch."
miss gordon's face changed. here was news. sarah emily had been at service in town during her week's absence, and not only that, she had actually been in one of its most wealthy and influential families! to miss gordon, the town, some three miles distant, was a small edinburgh, and she pined for even a word from someone, anyone, there who moved in its social world. she longed to hear more, but realized she could not afford to relax just yet.
"perhaps you will understand now what it means to be under proper discipline," she remarked.
"well, i wasn't kickin' about bein' under that, whatever it is. it was bein' under her thumb i couldn't abide—makin' me wear a white bonnet in the afternoons, jist as if i was an old granny, an' an apron not big enough for a baby's bib!"
miss gordon longed to rebuke the girl sharply, but could not bear to lose the glimpse of real genteel life.
"she has one girl an' one boy—an' that there boy! she'd dress him up in a new white get-up, 'bout every five minutes, an' he'd walk straight outside an' wallow in the mud right after. i thought i'd a' had to stand an' iron pants for that young heathen till the crack o' doom, an' i had just one pair too many so i had. an' i up an' told her you'd think she kep' a young centipede much less a human boy with only two legs to him. and then i up and skedaddled."
miss gordon's conscience added its protest to that of her dignity, and she spoke.
"i prefer that you should not discuss your various mistresses with me, sarah emily. i can have nothing to do with your affairs now, you see."
sarah emily lilted the refrain of her song:
"timmy—eigh timmy—um, timmy—tum—tum—tum,
of all false young men to beware!
"would you like muffins or pancakes for supper?" she finished up graciously.
miss gordon hesitated. sarah emily was a great trial to genteel nerves, but she was undeniably a great relief from much toilsome labor that was quite incompatible with a genteel life. sarah emily noticed her hesitation and went on:
"when mrs. jarvis came she had me make muffins every morning for breakfast."
miss gordon dropped her knitting, completely off her guard.
"why, sarah emily!" she cried, "you don't mean—not elizabeth's mrs. jarvis."
sarah emily nodded, well-pleased.
"jist her, no less! she's been visitin' mrs. oliver for near a month now, an' she was askin' after lizzie, too. i told her where i was from. i liked her. me and her got to be awful good chums, but i couldn't stand mrs. oliver. an' mrs. jarvis says, 'why, how's my little namesake?' an' o' course i put lizzie's best side foremost. i made her out as quiet as a lamb, an' as good an' bidable as mary."
"sarah emily!"—miss gordon had got back some of her severity—"you didn't tell an untruth?"
"well, not exactly, but i guess i scraped mighty nigh one."
"what did mrs. jarvis say?"
"she said she wasn't much like her mother then, an' she hoped she wouldn't grow up a little prig, or some such thing. an' she told me"—here sarah emily paused dramatically, knowing she was by this reinstating herself into the family—"she told me to tell you she was goin' to drive out some day next week and see you all, an' see what the dale looked like."
miss gordon's face flushed pink. not since the day lady gordon called upon her and cousin griselda had she been so excited. it seemed too good to be true that her dream that this rich lady, who had once owned the dale and for whom little elizabeth had been called, should really come to them. surely lizzie's fortune was made!
she turned gratefully towards her maid. sarah emily had arisen and was gathering up her hat and carpet-bag. for the first time her mistress noted the weary droop of the girl's strong frame.
"we needn't have either muffins or pancakes, sarah emily," she said kindly. "put away your things upstairs and i shall tell jean and mary to set the table for you."
but sarah emily sprang airily towards the kitchen door, strengthened by the little touch of kindness.
"pshaw, don't you worrit your head about me!" she cried gayly. "i'll slap up a fine supper for yous all in ten minutes." she swung open the kitchen door at the end of the porch, and turned before she slammed it. she stood a moment regarding her mistress affectionately.
"i tell ye what, ma'am," she cried in a burst of gratitude, "bad as ye are, other people's worse!"
she banged the door and strode off singing loudly:
"timmy—eigh timmy—um, timmy—tum—tum—tum,
of all false young men to beware!
miss gordon accepted the doubtfully worded compliment for all it really meant from sarah emily's generous heart. but the crudeness of it jarred upon her genteel nerves. unfortunately miss gordon was not so constituted as to see its humor.
she darned on, quickly and excitedly. her dream that the rich mrs. jarvis should one day take a fancy to the gordons and make their fortune was growing rosier every moment. little jamie came wandering over the grass towards her. his hands were full of dandelions and he looked not unlike an overgrown one himself with his towsled yellow curls. he leaned across her knee, his curly head hanging down, and swayed to and fro, crooning a little sleepy song. miss gordon's thin hand passed lovingly over his silky hair. her face grew soft and beautiful. at such times the castles in edinburgh grew dim and ceased to allure.
she arose and took the child's hand. "come, jamie dear," she said, "and we'll meet father." and so great was her good-humor, caused by her hopeful news, that when annie met her shyly at the garden gate with the young schoolmaster following, her aunt gave him a stately but cordial invitation to supper. in view of the prospects before the family, she felt she could for the time at least let the tavern-keeping ancestor go on suspended sentence.
the gordons gathered noisily about the supper table, william gordon, a tall, thin man, strongly resembling his sister, but with all her severity and force of character missing, came wandering in from his study. his eyes bright and kindly, but with a far-away, absent look, beamed over the large table. he sat down, then catching sight of the guest standing beside annie, rose, and shook him cordially by the hand.
the family seated themselves in their accustomed places, annie, the pretty one, at her father's right hand, then malcolm and jean, the clever ones, john the quiet one, and mary, the delicate one—a pale little girl with a sweet, pathetic mouth. on either side of their aunt were the two little boys, archie and jamie, and there was a plate between mary and john which belonged to an absent member of the family. here the visitor sat, and sarah emily was squeezed into a corner near her mistress. that sarah emily should sit with the family at all was contrary to miss gordon's wishes, and one of the few cases in which she yielded to her brother. she had brought sarah emily from a girls' home four years before, and had decreed that she would show the neighbors the proper old country way of treating a servant. sarah emily was far from the old country type, however, and william seemed to have forgotten that servants had a place of their own since he had lived so long in the backwoods. when the family would arrange themselves at table, with the maid standing properly behind her mistress, mr. gordon would wait for her to be seated before asking the blessing, regarding her with gentle inquiring eyes, and finally requesting her in a mildly remonstrating tone to come away and sit down like a reasonable body. and sarah emily, highly pleased, would drag a chair across the bare floor and plant herself down with a satisfied thud right on top of the family gentility. miss gordon tried many ways to prevent repetition of the indignity by keeping sarah emily out of the way. she disliked explaining, for william was rather queer about some things since he had been so long in this country. but sarah emily always contrived to be on hand just as the family were being seated. and finally, when her brother inquired anxiously if she wasn't afraid sarah emily had roman catholic leanings, since she refused to sit down at the table for grace, miss gordon gave up the struggle, and to the joy of all the children, sarah emily became one of the family indeed.
"where's lizzie?" asked the guest, when the pancakes had been circulated. he addressed his host, but looked at annie. mr. gordon gazed around wonderingly. "lizzie? i didn't miss the wee lamb. where's our little 'lizbeth, margaret?"
miss gordon sighed. william never knew where the children were. "did you forget it's saturday?" she inquired. "elizabeth always spends saturday afternoon with mrs. macallister," she explained to the young man.
"mrs. macallister is very much attached to elizabeth," she added, feeling very kindly just now toward her most trying child.
"lizzie always does her home-work over there," ventured archie, "'cause charles stuart does her sums for her." john gave the speaker a warning kick. archie was only seven and extremely indiscreet, but john was twelve and knew that whatever a gordon might do or say to his sister in the bosom of his own family, he must uphold her before all outsiders, and particularly in the presence of a school-teacher.
but the school-teacher was in a very happy unprofessional frame of mind. "never mind," he said, "lizzie will beat you all at something, some day!"
he knew that a good word for the little sister always brought an approving light into the blue eyes across the table. annie smiled radiantly.
"what is lizzie best at?" she inquired with sweet anxiety.
young mr. coulson looked at his plate and thought desperately. to discover any subject in which lizzie gordon was efficient was enough to confound any teacher. then he remembered the caricatures of himself he had discovered on her slate.
"she has a remarkable talent for drawing," he said generously.
annie beamed still brighter, and miss gordon glanced at him approvingly. she really did hope the story about the tavern-keeper was not true.
"perhaps elizabeth will be a great artist some day," she suggested.
"and she'll paint all our pictures," added jean, "and we'll be more like the primrose family than ever." the gordons all laughed. they generally laughed when jean spoke, because she was always supposed to say something sharp.
mr. gordon had lately been reading aloud the "vicar of wakefield," and, as always when a book was being read by them, the gordons lived in its atmosphere and spoke in its language.
"father will be the vicar," said annie, "and aunt margaret"—she looked half-frightened at her own audacity—"aunt margaret will be mrs. primrose."
"and you'll be olivia," added jean. "i'll be sophia, with john and mary for my sheep, and malcolm can be moses and wear annie's hat with the feather in it."
the gordons all laughed again.
"and who'll be the squire?" asked little mary, gazing admiringly at her wonderful sister. "mr. coulson would do, wouldn't he?"
two faces strove to hide their blushes behind the bouquet of cherry blossoms which sarah emily had placed upon the table in honor of her return.
there was an intense silence. mr. gordon looked up. nothing aroused him so quickly from his habitual reverie as silence at the table, because it was so unusual. he beheld his second son indulging in one of his spasms of silent laughter.
"what is the fun about?" he inquired genially, and then all the gordons, except the eldest and the youngest, broke into giggles. miss gordon's voice, firm, quiet, commanding, saved the situation. she turned to mr. coulson and remarked, in her stateliest manner, that it had been a wonderful rain, just such a downpour as they had in edinburgh the day after lady gordon called—she who was the wife of sir william gordon—their cousin for whom her brother had been called.
young mr. coulson seized upon the subject with a mighty interest, and plunged into a description of a terrible storm that had swept over lake simcoe in his grandfather's days—thunder and hail and blackness. the storm cleared the atmosphere at the table, and annie's cheeks were becoming cool again, when the young man brought the deluge upon himself in the most innocent manner.
"there are signs of it yet," he went on. "did you ever see the old log-house at the first jog in the ridge road?" he inquired of malcolm. "well, there are holes in the chimney yet where the lightning came through. i can remember my grandfather lifting me up to look at them. he kept tavern there in the bad old days," he added cordially, "but the coulsons have become quite respectable since."
there was another silence deeper than the last. even young archie, smothering himself with a huge slab of bread and butter and caring little about anything else, understood that to be related to a tavern-keeper placed one far beyond the pale of respectability. annie was looking at her lap now, all her rosiness gone. the young man glanced about him half-puzzled, and miss gordon again saved the day by introducing a genteel word about edinburgh and lady gordon.
but, as they left the table, she decided that again her home-going must be postponed until all danger of a gordon uniting with the grandson of a tavern-keeper was passed.