Hepburn--" Andy made reluctant acknowledgment of her smile and bow--"wants to thank you for this fireplace.""It is very beautiful indeed, Mr.Hepburn, and very thankful I am to you for building it.""Aw, it's no that bad," admitted Andy."But ye need not thank me.""But you built it?"
"Aye did I.But no o' ma ain wull.A fireplace is a feckless thing in this country an' I think little o't.""Whose idea was it then?"
"It was yon Smith buddie.He juist keepit dingin' awa' till Apromised if he got the lime--A kent o' nane in the country--A wud build the thing.""And he got the lime, eh, Andy?" said Dent.
"Aye, he got it," said Andy sourly."Diel kens whaur.""But I am sure you did it beautifully, Mr.Hepburn," said Moira, moving closer to him, "and it will be making me think of home."Her soft Highland accent and the quaint Highland phrasing seemed to reach a soft spot in the little Scot.
"Hame? An' whaur's that?" he inquired, manifesting a grudging interest.
"Where? Where but in the best of all lands, in Scotland," said Moira."Near Braemar.""Braemar?"
"Aye, Braemar.I have only come four days ago.""Aye, an' did ye say, lassie!" said Andy, with a faint accession of interest."It's a bonny country ye've left behind, and far enough frae here.""Far indeed," said Moira, letting her shining brown eyes rest upon his face."And it is myself that knows it.But when the fire burns yonder," she added, pointing to the fireplace, "I will be seeing the hills and the glens and the moors.""'Deed, then, lassie," said Andy in a low hurried voice, moving toward the door, "A'm gled that Smith buddie gar't me build it.""Wait, Mr.Hepburn," said Moira, shyly holding out her hand, "don't you think that Scotties in this far land should be friends?""An' prood I'd be, Miss Cameron," replied Andy, and, seizing her hand, he gave it a violent shake, flung it from him and fled through the door.
"He's a cure, now, isn't he!" said Dent.
"I think he is fine," said Moira with enthusiasm."It takes a Scot to understand a Scot, you see, and I am glad I know him.Do you know, he is a little like the fireplace himself," she said, "rugged, a wee bit rough, but fine.""The real stuff, eh?" said Dent."The pure quill.""Yes, that is it.Solid and steadfast, with no pretense."Meanwhile the work of inspecting the new house was going on.
Everywhere appeared fresh cause for delighted wonder, but still the origin of the raising bee remained a mystery.
Balked by the men, Cameron turned in his search to the women and proceeded to the tent where preparations were being made for the supper.
"Tut tut, Mr.Cameron," said Mrs.Cochrane, her broad good-natured face beaming with health and good humor, "what difference does it make? Your neighbors are only too glad of a chance to show their goodwill for yourself, and more for your wife.""I am sure you are right there," said Cameron.
"And it is the way of the country.We must stick together, John says.It's your turn to-day, it may be ours to-morrow and that's all there is to it.So clear out of this tent and make yourself busy.By the way, where's the pipes? The folk will soon be asking for a tune.""But I want to know, Mrs.Cochrane," persisted Cameron.
"Where's the pipes, I'm saying.John," she cried, lifting her voice, to her husband, who was standing at the other side of the house."Where's the pipes? They're not burned, I hope," she continued, turning to Cameron."The whole settlement would feel that a loss.""Fortunately no.Young Macgregor at the Fort has them.""Then I wonder if they are here.John, find out from the Inspector yonder where the pipes are.We will be wanting them this evening."To her husband's inquiry the Inspector replied that if Macgregor ever had the pipes it was a moral certainty that he had carried them with him to the raising, "for it is my firm belief," he added, "that he sleeps with them.""Do go and see now, like a dear man," said Mrs.Cochrane to Cameron.
From group to group of the workers Cameron went, exchanging greetings, but persistently seeking to discover the originator of the raising bee.But all in vain, and in despair he came back to his wife with the question "Who is this Smith, anyway?""Mr.Smith," she said with deliberate emphasis, "is my friend, my particular friend.I found him a friend when I needed one badly.""Yes, but who is he?" inquired Moira, who, with Mr.Dent in attendance, had sauntered up."Who is he, Mr.Dent? Do you know?""No, not from Adam's mule.He's old Thatcher's man.That's all Iknow about him."
"He is Mr.Thatcher's man? Oh!" said Moira, "Mr.Thatcher's servant." A subtle note of disappointment sounded in her voice.
"Servant, Moira?" said Allan in a shocked tone."Wipe out the thought.There is no such thing as servant west of the Great Lakes in this country.A man may help me with my work for a consideration, but he is no servant of mine as you understand the term, for he considers himself just as good as I am and he may be considerably better.""Oh, Allan," protested his sister with flushing face, "I know.Iknow all that, but you know what I mean.""Yes, I know perfectly," said her brother, "for I had the same notion.For instance, for six months I was a 'servant' in Mandy's home, eh, Mandy?""Nonsense!" cried Mandy indignantly."You were our hired man and just like the rest of us.""Do you get that distinction, Moira? There is no such thing as servant in this country," continued Cameron."We are all the same socially and stand to help each other.Rather a fine idea that.""Yes, fine," cried Moira, "but--" and she paused, her face still flushed.
