"I think," said Jane, "the kindness of these creatures betokens a hearty welcome within!"
"Ay, that it does," answered Barnaby; "a dog that is brought up with a man in a wild place, is always of the very same disposition with himself."
Strangers seldom approached that sequestered spot--passengers never. They observed, while yet at a good distance, Barnaby's mother standing amid her burly boys at the end of the cottage, watching their approach, and they heard her calling distinctly to her husband, "Aigh! Geordie, yon's our ain Barny, I ken by auld Help's motions; but wha she is that he's bringing wi' him, is ayont my comprehension."
She hurried away in to put her fire-side in some order, and nought was then to be seen but two or three bare-headed boys, with their hair the colour of peat-ashes, setting their heads always now and then by the corner of the house, and vanishing again in a twinkling. The old shepherd was sitting on his divot-seat, without the door, mending a shoe. Barnaby strode up to him. "How are ye the night, father?"
"No that ill, Barny lad--is that you? How are ye yoursel?" said a decent-looking middle-aged man, scratching his head at the same time with the awl, and fixing his eyes, not on his son, but the companion that he had brought with him. When he saw her so young, so beautiful, and the child in her arms, the enquiring look that he cast on his son was unutterable. Silence reigned for the space of a minute. Barnaby made holes in the ground with his staff--the old shepherd began again to sew his shoe, and little George prattled to his mamma, "It's a vely good bonny halp, mamma; Geoge nevel saw sic a good halp."
"An' how hae ye been sin' we saw ye, Barny?"
"I think ye hae brought twa young strangers wi' ye?"
The old shepherd flung down his work, and followed his son round the corner of the house. It was not two minutes till he came back. Jane had sat down on the sod-seat.
"This is a pleasant evening," said he, addressing her.
"It is a very sweet evening," was the reply.
"Ye'll be weary; ye had better _gang in_ an' rest ye."
She thanked him, and was preparing to go.
"It's a muckle matter," continued he, "whan fock can depend on their ain. My Barny never deceived me a' his life, an' you are as welcome here as heart can mak ye. The flower in May is nae welcomer than ye are to this bit shieling, and your share of a' that's in it. Come your ways in, my bonny woman, an' think nae shame. Ye shall never be lookit on as either a beggar or borrower here, but just ane o' oursels." So saying he took her hand in both his, and led her into the house.