"Listen to me, Hughie," said his mother, very gently. "We know very little about this. Would you be very sorry, even for very bad men?""Oh, mother," cried Hughie, his tender little heart moved with a great compassion, "think of a whole year, all summer long, and all winter long. I think I would let anybody out.""Then, Hughie, dear," said his mother, "remember that God is much kinder than you are, and has a heart far more tender, and while He will be just and must punish sin, He will do nothing unjust or unkind, you may be quite sure of that. Do not forget how He gave up His own dear son for us."Poor Hughie could bear it no longer. He put his head in his mother's lap and sobbed out, "Oh, mother, I hope he will let them out."As he uttered this pitiful little cry, his cousin Harry got up from his chair, and moved across to the window, while Maimie openly wiped her eyes, but Ranald sat with his face set hard, and his eyes gleaming, waiting eagerly for Mrs. Murray's answer.
The mother stroked Hughie's head softly, and while her tears fell on the brown curls, said to him, "You would not be afraid to trust your mother, Hughie, and our Father in heaven loves us all much more than I love you."And with that Hughie was content.
"Now let us sing one more hymn," said his mother. "It's my choice." And she chose one of the new hymns which they had just learned in the singing school, and of which Hughie was very fond, the children's hymn, "Come to the Saviour." While they were singing they heard Mr. Murray drive into the yard.
"There's papa," said Mrs. Murray. "He will be tired and hungry,"and she hurried out to meet her husband, followed by Harry and Hughie, leaving Ranald and Maimie in the room together. Ranald had never been alone with her before, nor indeed had he ever spent five minutes of his life alone with any girl before now. But he did not feel awkward or shy; he was thinking now, as he had been thinking now and then through the whole evening, of only one thing, that Maimie was going away. That would make a great difference to him, so great that he was conscious of a heart-sinking at the mere thought of it. During the last weeks, his life had come to move about a center, and that center was Maimie; and now that she was going away, there would be nothing left. Nothing, that is, that really mattered. But the question he was revolving in his mind was, would she forget all about him. He knew he would never forget her, that was, of course, impossible, for so many things would remind him of her. He would never see the moonlight falling through the trees as it fell that night of the sugaring-off, without thinking of her. He would never see the shadows in the evening, or hear the wind in the leaves, without thinking of her.
The church and the minister's pew, the manse and all belonging to it would remind him of Maimie. He would recall how she looked at different times and places, the turn of her head, the way her hair fell on her neck, her laugh, the little toss of her chin, and the curve in her lips. He would remember everything about her. Would she remember him, or would she forget him? That was the question burning in his heart; and that question he must have settled, and this was the time.
