‘There’s a new bairnie til ye, mother! Ye maun daut her a wee, she’s unco tired!’ she said, and seating herself on a stool, went on with the darning of the stocking. Mistress Barclay looked down on Phemy with such a face of loving benignity that the poor miserable girl threw her arms round her neck, and laid her head on her bosom. Instinctively the mother began to hush and soothe her, and in a moment more was singing a lullaby to her. Phemy fell fast asleep. Then Kirsty told what she had done, and while she spoke, the mother sat silent brooding, and hushing, and thinking. CHAPTER XVIII PHEMY’S CHAMPION When she had told all, Kirsty rose, and laying aside the stocking, said, ‘I maun awa to Weelset, mother. I promised the bairn I would lat Francie ken whaur she was, and gie him the chance o’ sayin his say til her.’ ‘Verra weel, lassie! ye ken what ye’re aboot, and I s’ no interfere wi’ ye. But, eh, ye’ll be tired afore ye win to yer bed!’ ‘I’ll no tramp it, mother; I’ll tak the gray mear.’ ‘She’s gey and fresh, lassie; ye maun be on yer guaird.’ ‘A’ the better!’ returned Kirsty. ‘To hear ye, mother, a body wud think I cudna ride!’ ‘Forbid it, bairn! Yer father says, man or wuman, there’s no ane i’ the countryside like ye upo’ beast-back.’ ‘They tak to me, the craturs! It was themsels learnt me to ride!’ answered Kirsty, as she took a riding whip from the wall, and went out of the kitchen. The mare looked round when she entered the stable, and whinnied. Kirsty petted and stroked her, gave her two or three handfuls of oats, and while she was eating strapped a cloth on her back: there was no side-saddle about the farm. Kirsty could ride well enough sideways on a man’s, but she liked the way her father had taught her far better. Utterly fearless, she had, in his training from childhood until he could do no more for her, grown a horsewoman such as few. The moment the mare had finished her oats, she bridled her, led her out, and sprang on her back; where sitting as on a pillion, she rode quietly out of the farm-close. The moment she was beyond the gate, she leaned back, and, throwing her right foot over the mare’s crest, rode like an Amazon, at ease, and with mastery. The same moment the mare was away, up hill and down dale, almost at racing speed. Had the coming moon been above the horizon, the Amazon farm-girl would have been worth meeting! So perfectly did she yield her lithe, strong body to every motion of the mare, abrupt or undulant, that neither ever felt a jar, and their movements seemed the outcome of a vital force common to the two. Kirsty never thought whether she was riding well or ill, gracefully or otherwise, but the mare knew that all was right between them. Kirsty never touched the bridle except to moderate the mare’s pace when she was too much excited to heed what she said to her.