On this May morning Jean woke up at five o'clock and peeped out
of the closet bed in which she slept to take a look at the day.
The sun had already risen over the rocky crest of gray old Ben
Vane, the mountain back of the house, and was pouring a stream of
golden sunlight through the eastern windows of the kitchen. The
kettle was singing over the fire in the open fireplace, a pan of
skimmed milk for the calf was warming by the hearth, and her
father was just going out, with the pail on his arm, to milk the
cow. She looked across the room at the bed in the corner by the
fireplace to see if Jock were still asleep. All she could see of
him was a shock of sandy hair, two eyes tight shut, and a
freckled nose half buried in the bed-clothes.
"Wake up, you lazy laddie," she called out to him, "or when I get
my clothes on I'll waken you with a wet cloth! Here's the sun
looking in at the windows to shame you, and Father already gone
to the milking."
Jock opened one sleepy blue eye.
"Leave us alone, now, Jeanie," he wheedled. "I was just having a
sonsie wee bit of a dream. Let me finish, and syne I'll tell you
all about it."
"Indeed, and you'll do nothing of the kind" retorted Jean, with
spirit.
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