43 THE HOME OF A NATURALIST. 



I think that same evening I was nestling in sister 

 Nye's arms, and she told me that the girl-companion 

 of her childhood, two years her junior, the cleverest, 

 the loveliest of our sisterhood of seven, had died the 

 year before I was born, and her name had been be- 

 stowed upon me. 



And Nye said, " That chapter mamma bade you read 

 was one of the first Jessie's favourites, and you must 

 take care of her Bible, and be a guid bairn." 



It cannot have been many weeks later when I next 

 recall our mother's room. 



She was lying on the bed, its curtains drawn a little 

 aside, and Nye bending tenderly over the pillow. The 

 light was dim in the apartment, and folk spoke in 

 whispers. Our father was standing by the mantel- 

 piece, his head leaning on his hand. 



Mam Willa (the old nurse whom we regarded with 

 profound awe at all times) was sitting on a low seat 

 by the fire muttering " guid wirds," The writing-table 

 was shoved against the wall, and where it had been 

 was set the family cradle, a ponderous wooden cot 

 which swung solemnly like the pendulum of some 

 ancient clock counting the days of the pilgrimage of a 

 race. 



We were looking into the cradle at a tiny atom of 

 humanity, and wondering where Mam Willa had found 

 the very thing we wanted — a baby brother ! 



There was a new smile on our mother's face, a new 

 hope in her eyes, as she kissed us and bade us welcome 

 "him." 



