When she came back, she found everything tidy in the cottage, the floor swept, every dish washed and set aside; and Gibbie was examining an old shoe of Robert's, to see whether he could not mend it.Janet, having therefore leisure, proceeded at once with joy to the construction of a garment she had been devising for him.The design was simple, and its execution easy.Taking a blue winsey petticoat of her own, drawing it in round his waist, and tying it over the chemise which was his only garment, she found, as she had expected, that its hem reached his feet: she partly divided it up the middle, before and behind, and had but to backstitch two short seams, and there was a pair of sailor-like trousers, as tidy as comfortable! Gibbie was delighted with them.True, they had no pockets, but then he had nothing to put in pockets, and one might come to think of that as an advantage.Gibbie indeed had never had pockets, for the pockets of the garments he had had were always worn out before they reached him.Then Janet thought about a cap; but considering him a moment critically, and seeing how his hair stood out like thatch-eaves round his head, she concluded with herself "There maun be some men as weel's women fowk, I'm thinkin', whause hair's gien them for a coverin'," and betook herself instead to her New Testament.
Gibbie stood by as she read in silence, gazing with delight, for he thought it must be a book of ballads like Donal's that she was reading.But Janet found his presence, his unresting attitude, and his gaze, discomposing.To worship freely, one must be alone, or else with fellow-worshippers.And reading and worshipping were often so mingled with Janet, as to form but one mental consciousness.She looked up therefore from her book, and said--"Can ye read, laddie?"
Gibbie shook his head.
"Sit ye doon than, an' I s' read till ye."Gibbie obeyed more than willingly, expecting to hear some ancient Scots tale of love or chivalry.Instead, it was one of those love-awful, glory-sad chapters in the end of the Gospel of John, over which hangs the darkest cloud of human sorrow, shot through and through with the radiance of light eternal, essential, invincible.
Whether it was the uncertain response to Janet's tone merely, or to truth too loud to be heard, save as a thrill, of some chord in his own spirit, having its one end indeed twisted around an earthly peg, but the other looped to a tail-piece far in the unknown--I cannot tell; it may have been that the name now and then recurring brought to his mind the last words of poor Sambo; anyhow, when Janet looked up, she saw the tears rolling down the child's face.At the same time, from the expression of his countenance, she judged that his understanding had grasped nothing.She turned therefore to the parable of the prodigal son, and read it.Even that had not a few words and phrases unknown to Gibbie, but he did not fail to catch the drift of the perfect story.For had not Gibbie himself had a father, to whose bosom he went home every night? Let but love be the interpreter, and what most wretched type will not serve the turn for the carriage of profoundest truth! The prodigal's lowest degradation, Gibbie did not understand; but Janet saw the expression of the boy's face alter with every tone of the tale, through all the gamut between the swine's trough and the arms of the father.Then at last he burst--not into tears--Gibbie was not much acquainted with weeping--but into a laugh of loud triumph.He clapped his hands, and in a shiver of ecstasy, stood like a stork upon one leg, as if so much of him was all that could be spared for this lower world, and screwed himself together.
Janet was well satisfied with her experiment.Most Scotch women, and more than most Scotch men, would have rebuked him for laughing, but Janet knew in herself a certain tension of delight which nothing served to relieve but a wild laughter of holiest gladness; and never in tears of deepest emotion did her heart appeal more directly to its God.It is the heart that is not yet sure of its God, that is afraid to laugh in his presence.
