In a short time Hughie came back full of enthusiastic praise of his hero.
"Oh, mother!" he cried, "he is awful smart.

He can just do anything.
He can make a splendid bed of balsam brush, and porridge, and pancakes, and--and--and--everything." "A bed of balsam brush and porridge! What a wonderful boy he must be, Hughie," said Maimie, teasing him.

"But isn't he just a little queer ?" "He's not a bit queer," said Hughie, stoutly.

"He is the best, best, best boy in all the world." "Indeed! how extraordinary!" said Maimie; "you wouldn't think so to look at him." "I think he is just splendid," said Hughie; "don't you, mother ?" "Indeed, he is fery brown whatever," mocked Maimie, mimicking Ranald's Highland tongue, a trick at which she was very clever, "and--not just fery clean." "You're just a mean, mean, red-headed snip!" cried Hughie, in a rage, "and I don't like you one bit." But Maimie was proud of her golden hair, so Hughie's shot fell harmless.
"And when will you be going to the sugaring-off, Mistress Murray ?" went on Maimie, mimicking Ranald so cleverly that in spite of herself Mrs.
Murray smiled.
It was his mother's smile that perfected Hughie's fury.

Without a word of threat or warning, he seized a dipper of water and threw it over Maimie, soaking her pretty ribbons and collar, and was promptly sent upstairs to repent.
"Poor Hughie!" said his mother, after he had disappeared; "Ranald is his hero, and he cannot bear any criticism of him." "He doesn't look much of a hero, auntie," said Maimie, drying her face and curls.
"Very few heroes do," said her aunt, quietly.