A Dozen Ways Of Love

a maid-servant, about thirty years old; she had a pretty, though rather strong-featured, face, and yellow silken hair. When she cam

ay to Mistress Macdon

ident that every one in those pa

d, familiar manner; she sat do

f in the voice. 'She is much respectet-none more so. It would be bef

d a sweet smile; her voice fell into a ch

r. Is it walking ye are from the station? Well,

es will

ifficult. 'I couldna tell ye just exactly. There's Miss

sted understanding. 'It'll be her perhaps tha

with sighs. 'Ye'll be aware that it's a sad house ye're going to. She's verra ill is Mistress Macdonald. It's

rose as she spoke, as if it behoved her to begin her new duties with alacrity, as there might not long be

Miss Macdonald with the nursing-she's been staying at the house for a year back. That's all that there'll be of them besides the servants, except that there's Dr. Robert. His name is Macdonal

its ugliness. It had, above all, the air of being a home-a hospitable open-armed look, as if children had run in and out of it for years, as if young men had gone out from it to see the world and come back again to rest, as if young girls had fluttered about it, confiding their sports and the

s and dishes. By the fire sat the two daughters of the aged woman. They both had grey hair and wrinkled faces. The married daughter was stout and energetic; the spinste

r to eat, as if I hadn't tried that'-the voice became shri

e all understand that; it's Mistress Brown that's thinking of the situation in a wrong

posed with indigna

mind; she's been losing her memory.

l as little children; then she forgot us and your father altogether. Latterly she's been living back in the days when her father and mother were living at Kelsey Fa

and anxiety accentuated her grief. 'She was asking me how much butter we made in the d

e Trim?' asked

suppose she was one of

n old and died, perhaps, forty years ago, and my aunt's speakin

Macdonald?' the doctor asked, wi

r that her poor he

thinking if I were you I would tell

hen I was a very little girl, and then'-Miss Macdonald paused to wip

w often have I heard my mother say that not

octor's voice as if he would like to have u

eating,' broke in the minister. 'I held the

ts mistress sat-a very old lady, but there was still dignity in her pose. Her hair, perfectly white, was still plentiful; her eye had still something of brightness, and there was upon the aged features the cast of thought and the habitual look of intelligence. Beside her upon a small table were such accompaniments of age as daughter and nurse deemed suitable-the large pri

their vain discussion, and came for

or come to see you. Do yo

ena the pleasure of remembering who ye are, but perhaps it wil

fuse your meat. A person of your experience, Mistress Macdonald, ought to know that we must e

had. 'I'll no eat it-tak' it away! I'll no eat it. Not for you, no-nor for my mither

ung excited hands and stepped back a pace into the shadow; she felt too mo

ht. 'I don't know ye, gentlemen, but perhaps now my mither's not he

y were neither of them

, strangely excited. 'Was it

ed. 'No, no,' he said in cheerful tone

hly. 'Tak' away the br

he room again. The women were weepin

ervant passed into the sick-roo

sprightly yet mysterious tone in it; the withered fingers were pu

and kindly-upon this fine ruin of womanhood. The

this woman goes away; it's her t

d into the shado

y now,' sa

is it Mr.

innaird?' The maid spoke as we speak to a

well that I've longed sa

d knelt down by the old dame's kn

e something. He came to

e all wreathed with smiles; the old eyes

sitation-'I said he was to

he's been here?' There was

l knows bu

I'd been looking fo

hat ye didna care whe

his mind, would he? I'd n

ffronted when he said he

satisfactio

r-knobbed cane and wear

and he looked as handsome a m

e huge bed and wardrobe and the dark rosewood tables. The winsome young woman at her play, and the old dame living back in a tale that was lon

nie Trim; as handsom

ing out observed the di

e able to see Mr. Kinnaird to-morrow

I thought he wasna coming

w of the wardrobe and went out to

ster meditatively. 'I never h

daughters; and they too s

incredulously-'there was never a gentleman called Kinnaird that any of the fa

his head, discoun

too, had great talks with him when he was a lad. I'll write a line and

a distant country, counting himself too feeble now to cross the seas. The daughters, the younger members of this flock, were passing into advanced years.

ays w

ith my mother in this false way.' Th

r spoke sharply; he was tired of the protest. The doctor approved of t

, day by day. But she never knew them; she only mistook one or the ot

nston, ma'am?' the nurse would ask,

old lady patient and courteous, but

the new maid would c

know you, J

ht you a fine cup of mi

m no thinking that I car

air of mystery. 'Who d'ye think's do

nd by the yard t

d all to ask how

, and the smile that almost see

something to eat, Jeanie;

, and a cup of mi

? Did he like wh

ou'd had a cupful the like of his; so I brought it

e wi' the cup,

it nor sup will he tak till y

delight the c

ling and couldna see

lly over the dame's breast, and smiled in protective kindly fashion. She had a good hear

air to watch and to listen. He was a meditative man, and wrote many an essay

n had rendered wifely devotion. He thought upon his cousins, in whose lives their mother's life had seemed unalterably bound up. He would at times emerge from his corner, and, sitting down beside the lady, would take her well-worn Bible and read to her such passages as he knew were graven deep upon her heart by scenes of joy or sorrow, parting or meeting, or the very hours of birth or death, in the lives that had been dearer to her than her own. He was not an emotional man, but yet there was a ringi

id his curiosity grow that he instigated the maid to ask certain questions a

ow,' said the maid, pouring tea in a cup. '

. Kinnair

christened name tha

d it to me. It'd be no place of mine to ask

of paper that had his name

He's a verra fine gentleman; it's j

t me tell the master th

-querulously. 'No, no; nor my mither. Th

be telling him

dinna ken mysel'? Why will ye fret me

hat ye took a great big piece of bread tae it. He'll no eat the brea

n eat it, for I wouldna h

the maid put on her

I'll go back to Mr. Kinnaird, and I'

ned in the impressive air with which she spoke. 'Ye'll no do sic a thing as that, Jeanie Trim! It's no fo

of the maiden? 'Where it had died!'-it had not died. Seventy years had passed, and the love-story was presently enacting itself, as all past and all future must for ever be enacting to beings for whom time is not. Then, too, where was he who, by some means, whether of his own volition or not, had become so much a part of the pulsing life of a young girl that, when all else of life passed from her with the weight of years, her heart still r

toms that would have resulted from the mania of self-starvation. For some months longer she lived in comfort and good cheer. This clear memory of her youth was oddly interwoven with the forgetful dulness of old age, like a golden thread in a black

e to the appearance of the fine old face and still stately figure, suggested no variety of thought or emotion to the lady's decaying faculties; but at the hours when she sat and contentedly ate the food that the maid br

his black mar

stood on his feet when he

re his boots and spurs, an' his

f it, those were the

her to the gate in the lane.' Or again: 'Was it in the best parl

e smiling tae him ov

my mither in the best parlour, Jeanie Tri

stockings

s green

s a bottle when ye po

he hands of the old dame would work nervously, as if eager to get at the goffering-irons and try once more. 'An' he'd lay his hat on the floor bes

eyes shine and

his beard and whiskers that curl. Eh! but they're bonny! There's a colour and shine in the curl that minds me of the ligh

a man!' cried the blith

the shortest of my brithers is bigger than him! Ye might even c

misconceptions they might form of him were corrected one by one. There was little incid

rain the day.' Or: 'He had a fine bloom on his cheeks, I'll warrant, when he came in through this morning's bluster of

es he figured as one of the ordinary guests of a large and hospitable household. No special honour seemed to be paid him; there was always the apprehension in the love-sick girl's heart that such timely attentions as the offer

first saw Mr. Kinna

ere ever any mention of a change in the relation, or of a parting, only that suggestion of a long and weary waiting, given in

s, no doubt, for the daughter of such a house, but only one pleasure remained fixed on her memory, the pleasure of seeing Kinnaird's eyes shining upon her. These days of the lady's youth had happened at a time when religion, if strong,

e bore her than because he supposed that it made any difference in the sight of God whether she heard him or not. He was past the prime of life, and had fallen into pompous and ministerial habits of manner, but in his heart he was always pondering to find what the realiti

' he said; 'there is wonderful vitality yet, and it's

them an affection for her which transcended ordinary filial affection. They had inherited from her such strong domestic feelings that they felt her defection f

d-fashioned bed-curtains, so that they hung like high dark pillars at the four posts. They had opened wide the windows, and the light spring wind blew through the room fresh with the dews of night. Outside, the moon was riding among her clouds; the night was white. The budding trees shook their twigs together in the garde

while the minist

g daughter. She had drawn her handkerchief from her eyes,

e married daughter; her large bosom hea

mind back again,' they appealed to the minist

ut clearly and strongly in her ear; but he spoke not,

ep so long seemed slowly to

untie?' The minister spoke st

ile on the han

rd; I shallna want ... though I walk thr

, and William have go

sfied smile-'the

ho I am?' h

daughters, but in a calm, weak way, as one who had waded too far in

minister, feeling that justice should be done to one wh

ke in the free, caressing wa

who I a

her full in the face,

Jeanie

anie Trim long syne, but

rew back d

sat on the bedside, holding her hands. So they waited, and she seem

no one stood. She drew her aged hands from her daughters', a

' she murmured

t he was there himself,' sa

thin himself, 'Who knows