CHAPTER XIV.
"An' a' ye've got to dae," said Lizzie, laying the Fireside Companion in her lap and beginning another spell of knitting, "is jist to licht the wee stove, an' the eggs hatches theirsel's. Maist extraornar', is 't no', John?"
"Dod, ay," returned John. "Whit did ye say they ca'ed it, wumman? Cremation o' chickens? Eh?"
"Incubation, John," his wife replied, after a glance at the page. "It's the heat that gars the chickens come oot."
"Whit wey dae the chickens no' come oot when ye bile the eggs, paw?" inquired Macgregor, quitting the square blocks of wood with which he had been building "wee hooses" on the kitchen floor, and advancing to his father's knee.
"Speir at yer maw, Macgreegor," said John, laughing. "Ye' re the yin fur questions!"
"Maw, whit wey"
"I'm thinkin' it's aboot time ye wis in yer bed, dearie," his mother observed.
"But whit wey dae the chickens no'"
"Aweel, ye see, if they wis comin' oot then they wud shin be droondit," she said, hastily. "Gi'e yer paw a kiss noo, an'"
"Ay, but whit wey"
"Bilin' watter wud be ower muckle het fur the puir wee tewkies," she added, seeing that the boy was persistent. "Ye've got to gar the wee tewkies think the auld hen's settin' on them, dearie."
"If I wis to pit an egg on the hob, wud a wee tewky come oot, maw?"
"Na, na! That wud shin roast it. Ye've got to keep it nice an' cosy, but no' ower warm; jist like yersel' when ye're in yer bed. D' ye see?"
"Ay, maw.... But I'm no' wearit yet"
"Let him bide a wee, Lizzie," said the indulgent John. "Did ye ever hear tell," he went on with a twinkle in his eye, "o' the hen that fun' an aix an' sat on it fur a fortnicht, tryin' fur to hatchet?"
"Hoots!" murmured his wife, smiling to please him.
"Did the hen no' cut itsel', paw?" asked his son, gravely.
"Dod, I never thocht o' that, Macgreegor," his father answered, grinning.
"It was a daft kin' o' hen onywey," said the boy, scornfully.
"Aw, it jist done it fur a bawr," said John, by way of apology.
"Noo, Macgreegor, yer time's up," his mother remarked, with a shake of her head.
"I'm no wearit, maw."
"Are ye no'? An' whit wey wis ye yawnin' the noo, ma mannie?"
"I wisna yawnin'."
"Whit wis ye daein' then?"
"I—I wis jist openin' ma mooth, maw."
"Och, awa' wi' ye, laddie! Jist openin' yer mooth, wis ye? Deed, yer e'en's jist like twa beads wi' sleep. I seen ye rubbin' them fur the last hauf-'oor. Ay, fine ye ken it's Wee Wullie Winkie, my dearie."
"Aw, Lizzie, the wean's fine," put in John, as he cut himself a fresh fill of tobacco. "Come here, Macgreegor, an' get a wee cuddle afore ye gang to yer bed."
"Na," said Lizzie, firmly. "He'll gang to sleep on yer knee, an' then I'll ha'e a nice job gettin' him to his bed. Here, Macgreegor, till I tak' aff yer collar.... Noo, see if ye can louse yer buits.... Mercy me! if that's no' anither hole in yer stockin'. Luk at his heel, John. Ye're jist a pair, the twa o' ye! Ye're baith that sair on yer stockin's. If it's no' the heels, it's the taes; an' if it no' the taes, it's the soles; an' if it's no' the soles, it's Aweel, I've darned them afore, an' I daursay I'll darn them again," she concluded, with a philosophic smile, and stooped to assist Macgregor, who was struggling with a complicated knot in the lace of his second boot.
"John," said Lizzie two mornings later—it happened to be Sunday—"I canna get Macgreegor to rise. He's sayin' he's no' weel."
"Eh!" exclaimed her husband, laying down his razor. "No' weel? I maun see"
"No' the noo, John. I think he's sleepin' again. But—but wis ye gi'ein' him ony sweeties when ye tuk him ootbye yesterday efternune?"
"Naw, Lizzie. Ye seen a' he got yersel'. Jist thon wee bit taiblet. Is he feelin' seeck?"
"He said he wisna seeck, but jist no' weel. He's no' lukin' ill-like, but I'm no' easy in ma mind aboot him."
"I—I gi'ed him a penny yesterday," said her husband, after an awkward pause.
"Aw, John!"
"But he said he wudna spend it on sweeties—an' I'm shair he didna."
"Maybe he bocht pastry. Whit fur did ye gi'e him the penny?"
"He askit fur it. Maybe he's jist a wee thing wearit, Lizzie."
Mrs. Robinson shook her head and opened a cupboard door.
"Are ye gaun to gi'e him ile?" asked John.
"Ay, when he's wauken. Oh, John, John, ye sud be mair discreet, an' no' gi'e Macgreegor a' he asks fur. But get yer shavin' dune, an' come to yer breakfast. Ye didna see wee Jeannie's flannen petticoat, did ye? Her red yin, ye ken? I canna lay ma haun' on it, an' I'm shair it was aside her ither claes when we gaed to wur beds."
"Naw, I didna see it," John replied, dully, and sadly resumed his shaving.
"It's maist aggravatin'," murmured Lizzie. "I doot I'm lossin' ma mem'ry.... Did ma doo no' get on her braw new flannen petticoat?" she inquired of her daughter, who, however, appeared quite happy in her old garment, sitting on a hassock and piping on a horn spoon which had a whistle in its handle. "Wee Jeannie's breid an' mulk's near ready noo," she added, whereupon wee Jeannie piped with more zest than ever.
After breakfast Lizzie interviewed her son, who was again awake.
"Are ye feelin' better noo, dearie?"
"Naw."
"Whit's like the maitter?"
"I dinna ken. I dinna want to rise, maw."
Lizzie refrained from referring to the penny that had done the harm. "I doot ye're needin' a taste o' ile," she said.
Macgregor kept a meek silence.
"I'll gi'e ye a wee taste, an' then ye'll maybe try an' tak' yer breakfast."
"I'll try, maw."
He took the dose like a hero, and afterward made a meal the heartiness of which rather puzzled his mother. Then he said he was going to have another sleep.
"John," said Lizzie, "I canna think whit's wrang wi' Macgreegor. He's baith hungry an' sleepy. I wisht I kent whit he bocht wi' yer penny. I'm feart it wis some kin' o' pooshonous thing. I think I'll gang ower to Mrs. Thomson an' speir if Wullie's a' richt. Wullie an' Macgreegor wis oot thegither last nicht."
"Aye," said John. "Maybe he got somethin' tae eat frae Wullie."
"Maybe, John... If Macgreegor's wauken when I'm awa', ye micht get him to tell ye whit he dune wi' the penny. D' ye see?"
"Ay.... I'm rale vexed aboot the penny, wumman."
"Weel, dearie, ye maun try an' be mair discreet. Ye canna expec' a wean to be fu' o' wisdom, as Solyman was."
Left to himself—Lizzie had taken wee Jeannie with her—John went over to the bed and gazed anxiously upon his son. Presently the boy opened his eyes.
Weel, ma wee man," said John, with an effort to speak cheerfully, "are ye fur risin' noo?"
"Naw."
"Are ye no' ony better?"
Macgregor languidly signified that he was not.
John cleared his throat. "Whit did ye dae wi' the penny I gi'ed ye?" he asked, gently.
"I spent it."
"Ay. But whit did ye spend it on? Pastry?"
"Naw."
John felt somewhat relieved. "Aweel, tell me whit ye bocht."
"I—I'll tell ye anither time, paw," said Macgregor, after considerable hesitation.
"Did ye get ony sweeties efter yer taiblet yesterday?"
"Naw.... Can I get a wee tate taiblet noo, paw?"
"Deed, I doot ye canna. Ye're no' weel."
"Ah, but I'm no' that kin' o' no' weel, paw."
John shook his head sadly, and there ensued a long silence.
"Paw," said Macgregor at last, "hoo lang dae wee tewkies tak' to come oot their eggs?"
"Eh?"
The youngster's face was flushed as he repeated the question.
"I'm no' jist shair, Macgreegor," said John; "but I think the paper yer maw wis readin' said it wis twa-three weeks."
"Oh!" cried Macgregor in such a tone of dismay that his father was startled.
"Whit's wrang, Macgreegor?"
"I think I'll rise noo, paw," the boy remarked, soberly.
"Are ye feelin' better?"
"Ay, I'm better."
"Whit's vexin' ye, ma wee man?" cried John, suddenly, and with great tenderness.
Macgregor gave a small snuff and a big swallow as his father's arm went round him. "I—I thocht the—the wee tewky wud come oot shin," he murmured, brokenly.
"The wee tewky?"
"Ay. But I—I canna bide in ma b—b—bed twa-three weeks." And then from under the clothes Macgregor cautiously drew a tiny red flannel garment, which he unrolled and laid bare a hen's egg. "I gi'ed ma penny fur it, paw. The grocer tell't me there wis nae tewky in it, but—but I thocht there wis, an' I wis wantin' to—to keep it cosy, an'—an'"
"Aw, wee Macgreegor!" exclaimed John, realizing it all, but not even smiling.
When Lizzie returned and heard the tale she was sympathetic, but not sentimental.
"I'll jist bile the egg fur yer tea, dearie," she said.
"I wud like it fried, maw," said Macgregor, who was rapidly recovering his spirits.