Presently he brought her the slate, with all the rest rubbed out, and these words standing alone--sir giby galbreath.Janet read them aloud, whereupon Gibbie began stabbing his forehead with the point of his slate-pencil, and dancing once more in triumph: he had, he hoped, for the first time in his life, conveyed a fact through words.
"That's what they ca' ye, is't?" said Janet, looking motherly at him: "--Sir Gibbie Galbraith?"Gibbie nodded vehemently.
"It'll be some nickname the bairns hae gien him," said Janet to herself, but continued to gaze at him, in questioning doubt of her own solution.She could not recall having ever heard of a Sir in the family; but ghosts of things forgotten kept rising formless and thin in the sky of her memory: had she never heard of a Sir Somebody Galbraith somewhere? And still she stared at the child, trying to grasp what she could not even see.By this time Gibbie was standing quite still, staring at her in return: he could not think what made her stare so at him.
"Wha ca'd ye that?" said Janet at length, pointing to the slate.
Gibbie took the slate, dropped upon his seat, and after considerable cogitation and effort, brought her the words, gibyse fapher.Janet for a moment was puzzled, but when she thought of correcting the p with a t, Gibbie entirely approved.
"What was yer father, cratur?" she asked.
Gibbie, after a longer pause, and more evident labour than hitherto, brought her the enigmatical word, asootr, which, the Sir running about in her head, quite defeated Janet.Perceiving his failure, he jumped upon a chair, and reaching after one of Robert's Sunday shoes on the crap o' the wa', the natural shelf running all round the cottage, formed by the top of the wall where the rafters rested, caught hold of it, tumbled with it upon his creepie, took it between his knees, and began a pantomime of the making or mending of the same with such verisimilitude of imitation, that it was clear to Janet he must have been familiar with the processes collectively called shoemaking; and therewith she recognized the word on the slate--a sutor.She smiled to herself at the association of name and trade, and concluded that the Sir at least was a nickname.And yet--and yet--whether from the presence of some rudiment of an old memory, or from something about the boy that belonged to a higher style than his present showing, her mind kept swaying in an uncertainty whose very object eluded her.
"What is 't yer wull 'at we ca' ye, than, cratur?" she asked, anxious to meet the child's own idea of himself.
He pointed to the giby.
"Weel, Gibbie," responded Janet,--and at the word, now for the first time addressed by her to himself, he began dancing more wildly than ever, and ended with standing motionless on one leg: now first and at last he was fully recognized for what he was!--"Weel, Gibbie, Is' ca' ye what ye think fit," said Janet."An' noo gang yer wa's, Gibbie, an' see 'at Crummie's no ower far oot o' sicht.">From that hour Gibbie had his name from the whole family--his Christian name only, however, Robert and Janet having agreed it would be wise to avoid whatever might possibly bring the boy again under the notice of the laird.The latter half of his name they laid aside for him, as parents do a dangerous or over-valuable gift to a child.
