lowly until her
breath was suspended, and as slowly fell again with a deep sigh, when
the steps had passed and she was disappointed of her eyes' desire. This
perpetual hunger and thirst of his presence kept her all day on the
alert. When he went forth at morning, she would stand and follow him
with admiring looks. As it grew late and drew to the time of his return,
she would steal forth to a corner of the policy wall and be seen
standing there sometimes by the hour together, gazing with shaded eyes,
waiting the exquisite and barren pleasure of his view a mile off on the
mountains. When at night she had trimmed and gathered the fire, turned
down his bed, and laid out his night-gear--when there was no more to be
done for the king's pleasure, but to remember him fervently in her
usually very tepid prayers, and go to bed brooding upon his perfections,
his future career, and what she should give him the next day for
dinner--there still remained before her one more opportunity; she was
still to take in the tray and say good-night. Sometimes Archie would
glance up from his book with a preoccupied nod and a perfunctory
salutation which was in truth a dismissal; sometimes--and by degrees
more often--the volume would be laid aside, he would meet her coming
with a look of relief; and the conversation would be engaged, last out
the supper, and be prolonged till the small hours by the waning fire. It
was no wonder that Archie was fond of company after his solitary days;
and Kirstie, upon her side, exerted all the arts of her vigorous nature
to ensnare his attention. She would keep back some piece of news during
dinner to be fired off with the entrance of the supper tray, and form as
it were the _lever de rideau_ of the evening's entertainment. Once he
had heard her tongue wag, she made sure of the result. From one subject
to another she moved by insidious transitions, fearing the least
silence, fearing almost to give him time for an answer lest it should
slip into a hint of separation. Like so many people of her class, she
was a brave narrator; her place was on the hearthrug and she made it a
rostrum, miming her stories as she told them, fitting them with vital
detail, spinning them out with endless "quo' he's" and "quo' she's," her
voice sinking into a whisper over the supernatural or the horrific;
until she would suddenly spring up in affected surprise, and pointing to
the clock, "Mercy, Mr. Archie!" she would say, "whatten a time o