CHRISTINE

Friends, who have wandered with me through England, and Scotland, and old New York, come now to Fife, and I will tell you the story of Christina Ruleson, who lived in the little fishing village of Culraine, seventy years ago. You will not find Culraine on the map, though it is one of that chain of wonderful little towns and villages which crown, as with a diadem, the forefront and the sea-front of the ancient kingdom of Fife. Most of these towns have some song or story, with which they glorify themselves, but Culraine—hidden in the clefts of her sea-girt rocks—was 2 in the world, but not of the world. Her people lived between the sea and the sky, between their hard lives on the sea, and their glorious hopes of a land where there would be “no more sea.”

Seventy years ago every man in Culraine was a fisherman, a mighty, modest, blue-eyed Goliath, with a serious, inscrutable face; naturally a silent man, and instinctively a very courteous one. He was exactly like his great-grandfathers, he had the same fishing ground, the same phenomena of tides and winds, the same boat of rude construction, and the same implements for its management. His modes of thought were just as stationary. It took the majesty of the Free Kirk Movement, and its host of self-sacrificing clergy, to rouse again that passion of religious faith, which made him the most thorough and determined of the followers of John Knox.

The women of these fishermen were in many respects totally unlike the men. They had a character of their own, and they occupied a far more prominent position in the village than the men did. They were the agents through whom all sales were effected, and all the money passed through their hands. They were talkative, assertive, bustling, and a marked contrast to their gravely silent husbands.

The Fife fisherman dresses very much like a sailor—though he never looks like one—but the Fife fisher-wife had then a distinctly foreign look. She 3 delighted in the widest stripes, and the brightest colors. Flaunting calicoes and many-colored kerchiefs were her steady fashion. Her petticoats were very short, her feet trigly shod, and while unmarried she wore a most picturesque headdress of white muslin or linen, set a little backward over her always luxuriant hair. Even in her girlhood she was the epitome of power and self-reliance, and the husband who could prevent her in womanhood from making the bargains and handling the money, must have been an extraordinarily clever man.

I find that in representing a certain class of humanity, I have accurately described, mentally and physically, the father and mother of my heroine; and it is only necessary to say further that James Ruleson was a sternly devout man. He trusted God heartily at all hazards, and submitted himself and all he loved to the Will of God, with that complete self-abnegation which is perhaps one of the best fruits of a passionate Calvinism.

For a fisherman he was doubtless well-provided, but no one but his wife, Margot Ruleson, knew the exact sum of money lying to his credit in the Bank of Scotland; and Margot kept such knowledge strictly private. Ruleson owned his boat, and his cottage, and both were a little better and larger than the ordinary boat and cottage; while Margot was a woman who could turn a penny ten times over better than any other woman in the cottages of Culraine. Ruleson also had been blessed with 4 six sons and one daughter, and with the exception of the youngest, all the lads had served their time in their father’s boat, and even the one daughter was not excused a single duty that a fisher-girl ought to do.

Culraine was not a pretty village, though its cottages were all alike whitewashed outside, and roofed with heather. They had but two rooms generally—a but and a ben, with no passage between. The majority were among the sand hills, but many were built on the lofty, sea-lashed rocks. James Ruleson’s stood on a wide shelf, too high up for the highest waves, though they often washed away the wall of the garden, where it touched the sandy shore.

The house stood by itself. It had its own sea, and its own sky, and its own garden, the latter sloping in narrow, giddy paths to the very beach. Sure feet were needed among its vegetables, and its thickets of gooseberry and currant bushes, and its straying tangles of blackberry vines. Round the whole plot there was a low stone wall, covered with wall-flowers, wild thyme, rosemary, and house-leek.

A few beds around the house held roses and lilies, and other floral treasures, but these were so exclusively Margot’s property, and Margot’s adoration, that I do not think she would like me even to write about them. Sometimes she put a rosebud in the buttonhole of her husband’s Sunday coat, and sometimes 5 Christina had a similar favor, but Margot was intimate with her flowers. She knew every one by a special name, and she counted them every morning. It really hurt her to cut short their beautiful lives, and her eldest son Norman, after long experience said: “If Mither cuts a flower, she’ll ill to live wi’. I wouldna tine her good temper for a bit rosebud. It’s a poor bargain.”

One afternoon, early in the June of 1849, Christine Ruleson walked slowly up the narrow, flowery path of this mountain garden. She was heard before she was seen, for she was singing an east coast ballad, telling all the world around her, that she

So much she sang, and then she turned to the sea. The boat of a solitary fisherman, and a lustrously white bird, were lying quietly on the bay, close together, and a large ship with all her sails set was dropping lazily along to the south. For a few moments she watched them, and then continued her song.

She was tall and lovely, and browned and bloomed in the fresh salt winds. Her hair had been loosened by the breeze, and had partially escaped from her cap. She had a broad, white brow, and the dark blue eyes that dwelt beneath it were full of soul—not 6 a cloud in them, only a soft, radiant light, shaded by eyelids deeply fringed, and almost transparent—eyelids that were eloquent—full of secrets. Her mouth was beautiful, her lips made for loving words—even little children wanted to kiss her. And she lived the very life of the sea. Like it she was subject to ebb and flow. Her love for it was perhaps prenatal, it might even have driven her into her present incarnation.

When she came to the top of the cliff, she turned and gazed again at the sea. The sunshine then fell all over her, and her dress came into notice. It was simple enough, yet very effective—a white fluted cap, lying well back on her bright, rippling hair, long gold rings in her ears, and a vivid scarlet kerchief over her shoulders. Her skirt was of wide blue and gray stripes, but it was hardly noticeable, for whoever looked in Christine’s face cared little about her dress. He could never tell what she wore.

As she stood in the sunshine, a young man ran out of the house to meet her—a passing handsome youth, with his heart in his eager face and outstretched hands.

“Christine! Christine!” he cried. “Where at a’ have you keepit yourself? I hae been watching and waiting for you, these three hours past.”

“Cluny! You are crushing the bonnie flowers i’ my hands, and I’m no thanking you for that.”

“And my puir heart! It is atween your twa 7 hands, and it’s crushing it you are, day after day. Christine, it is most broke wi’ the cruel grip o’ longing and loving—and not a word o’ hope or love to help it haud together.”

“You should learn seasonable times, Cluny. It’s few lasses that can be bothered wi’ lovers that come sae early. Women folk hae their hands full o’ wark o’ some kind, then.”

“Ay, full o’ flowers. They canna even find time to gie the grip o’ their hand to the lad that loves them, maist to the death throe.”

“I’m not wanting any lad to love me to the death throe, and I’m not believing them, when they talk such-like nonsense. No indeed! The lad I love must be full o’ life and forthput. He must be able to guide his boat, and throw and draw his nets single-handed—if needs be.”

“I love you so! I love you so! I can do nothing else, Christine!”

“Havers! Love sweetens life, but it’s a long way from being life itsel’. Many a man, and many a woman, loses their love, but they dinna fling their life awa’ because o’ that misfortune—unless they have no kindred to love, and no God to fear.”

“You can’t tell how it is, Christine. You never were i’ love, I’m thinking.”

“I’m thankfu’ to say I never was; and from all I see, and hear, I am led to believe that being in love isna a superior state o’ life. I’m just hoping that what you ca’ love isna of a catching quality.”

“I wish it was! Maybe then, you might catch love from me. Oh Christine, give me a hope, dear lass. I canna face life without it. ‘Deed I can not.”

“I might do such a thing. Whiles women-folk are left to themsel’s, and then it goes ill wi’ them;” and she sighed and shook her head, as if she feared such a possibility was within her own fate.

“What is it you mean? I’m seeking one word o’ kindness from you, Christine.”

Then she looked at him, and she did not require speech. Cluny dared to draw closer to her—to put his arm round her waist—to whisper such alluring words of love and promise, that she smiled and gave him a flower, and finally thought she might—perhaps—sometime—learn the lesson he would teach her, for, “This warld is fu’ o’ maybe’s, Cluny,” she said, “and what’s the good o’ being young, if we dinna expect miracles?”

“I’m looking for no miracle, Christine. I’m asking for what a man may win by a woman’s favor. I hae loved you, Christine, since I was a bit laddie o’ seven years auld. I’ll love you till men carry me to the kirk yard. I’d die for your love. I’d live, and suffer a’ things for it. Lassie! Dear, dear lassie, dinna fling love like mine awa’. There’s every gude in it.”

She felt his heart throbbing in his words, but ere she could answer them, her brother Neil called her three times, in a voice that admitted of no delay. “Good-by, Cluny!” she said hurriedly. “You 9 ken Neil isna to be put off.” Then she was gone, and Cluny, full of bewildered loving and anxious feelings, rushed at headlong speed down the steep and narrow garden path, to his grandmother’s cottage on the sands.

Neil stood by a little pine table covered with books and papers. He was nearly twenty-one years old, and compared with his family was small in stature, lightly built, and dark in complexion. His hair was black, his eyes somberly gray, and full of calculation. His nose, lean and sharp, indicated selfish adherence to the realities of life, and the narrow nostrils positively accused him of timidity and caution. His mouth was firm and discreet. Taken as a whole, his face was handsome, though lean and thoughtful; but his manner was less pleasant. It was that of a serious snob, who thinks there is a destiny before him. He had been petted and spoiled all his life long, and his speech and conduct were full of the unpleasant survivals of this treatment. It spoiled him, and grated on Christine’s temperament, like grit in a fine salad.

He had never made a shilling in his life, he was the gentleman of the family, elected by the family to that position. In his boyhood he had been delicate, and quite unfit for the rough labor of the boats, but as he had developed an extraordinary love for books and learning, the minister had advised his dedication to the service of either the Law or the Gospel. To this proposal the whole household 10 cheerfully, even proudly, agreed. To have an educated man among the Rulesons pleased everyone. They spoke together of the great Scotch chancellors, and the great Scotch clergy, and looked upon Neil Ruleson, by special choice and election, as destined in the future to stand high among Scotland’s clergy or Scotland’s lawyers.

For this end, during eleven years, all had given their share without stint or holdback. That Neil had finally chosen to become a Lord of the Law, and to sit on the Bench, rather than stand in the Pulpit, was a great disappointment to his father, who had stubbornly hoped his son would get the call no man can innocently refuse to answer. His mother and brothers were satisfied. Norman Ruleson had once seen the Lords ride in civic pomp and splendid attire to Edinburgh Parliament House, and he was never weary of describing the majesty of the judges in their wigs and gowns, and the ceremonials that attended every step of the administration of justice.

“And the big salary coming to the judges!” Normany always added—“the salary, and the visible honors arena to be lightlied, or made little o’. Compared wi’ a minister’s stipend, a judge’s salary is stin-pen-dous! And they go wi’ the best i’ the land, and it isna anything o’ a wonder, when a judge is made a lord. There was Lord Chancellor Campbell, born in Fife itsel’, in the vera county town o’ Cupar. I have seen the house next the Bell Inn 11 where he was born, and his feyther was the minister o’ Cupar. About the year 18——”

“You needna fash either us, or yoursel’, Norman, wi’ names and dates; it will be time in plenty, when you can add our lad to the list.”

Margot at this hour was inclined to side with her husband. Margot believed in realities. She saw continually the honorable condition of the Scotch clergy; Norman’s story about the royal state and power of the judges was like something read out of a book. However, now that Neil was in his last year of study, and looking forward to the certificate which would place him among men in such a desirable condition, she would not darken his hopes, nor damp his ardor.

Neil’s classes in the Maraschal college at Aberdeen were just closed, but he was very busy preparing papers for their opening in September. This was to be his final term, and he expected to deliver a valedictory speech. The table in the best room, which he was permitted to occupy as a study, was covered with notes, which he wished copied—with books from which he was anxious to recite—with work of many kinds, which was waiting for Christine’s clear brain and fine penmanship.

It had been waiting an hour and Neil was distinctly angry.

“Mother! Where at all is Christine?” he asked.

“She went to your brither Norman’s cottage. His little lad isna as weel as he should be.”

“And my wark has to wait on a sick bairn. I’m not liking it. And I have no doubt she is wasting my time with Cluny McPherson—no doubt at all.”

“Weel! That circumstance isna likely to be far out o’ the way.”

“It is very far out of my way. I can tell you that, Mother.”

“Weel, lad, there’s no way always straight. It’s right and left, and up and down, wi’ every way o’ life.”

“That is so, Mother, but my work is waiting, and it puts me out of the right way, entirely!”

“Tut! tut! What are you complaining aboot? The lassie has been at your beck and call the best pairt o’ her life. And it’s vera seldom she can please you. If she gave you the whites o’ her e’en, you would still hae a grumble. It’s Saturday afternoon. What’s your will sae late i’ the week’s wark?”

“Ought I not to be at my studies, late and early?”

“That stands to reason.”

“Well then, I want Christine’s help, and I am going to call her.”

“You hae had her help ever sin’ you learned your A B C’s. She’s twa years younger than you are, but she’s twa years ahead o’ you in the ordinary essentials. Do you think I didna tak’ notice that when she was hearing your tasks, she learned them the while you were stumbling all the way through 13 them. Dod! The lassie knew things if she only looked in the face o’ them twice o’er, and it took you mair than an hour to get up to her—what you ca’ history, and ge-o-graph-y she learned as if they were just a bairn’s bit rhyming, and she was as quick wi’ the slate and figures as you were slow. Are you forgetting things like these?”

“It is not kind in you to be reminding me of them, Mother. It is not like you.”

“One o’ my duties to a’ my men-folk, is to keep them in mind o’ the little bits o’ kindness they are apt to forget. Your feyther isna to mind, he ne’er misses the least o’ them. Your brother Norman is like him, the rest o’ you arena to lippen to—at a’ times.”

“I think I have helped Christine as much as she has helped me. She knows that, she has often said so.”

“I’ll warrant! It was womanlike! She said it to mak’ ye feel comfortable, when you o’erworked her. Did ye ever say the like to her?”

“I am going to call her. She is better with me than with Cluny Macpherson—that I am sure of.”

“You and her for it. Settle the matter as it suits ye, but I can tell ye, I hae been parfectly annoyed, on several occasions, wi’ your clear selfishness—and that is the vera outcome o’ all my thoughts on this subject.”

Then Neil went to the door, and called Christine thrice, and the power of long habit was ill to restrain, 14 so she left her lover hurriedly and went to him.

“I have been watching and waiting—waiting for you, Christine, the last three hours.”

“Tak’ tent o’ what you say, Neil. It isna twa hours yet, since we had dinner.”

“You should have told me that you were intending to fritter and fool your afternoon away.”

“My mither bid me go and speir after Norman’s little laddie. He had a sair cold and fever, and——”

“Sit down. Are your hands clean? I want you to copy a very important paper.”

“What aboot?”

“Differences in the English and Scotch Law.”

“I don’t want to hae anything to do wi’ the Law. I canna understand it, and I’m no wanting to understand it.”

“It is not necessary that you should understand it, but you know what a peculiar writing comes from my pen. I can manage Latin or Greek, but I cannot write plainly the usual English. Now, you write a clear, firm hand, and I want you to copy my important papers. I believe I have lost honors at college, just through my singular writing.”

“I wouldn’t wonder. It is mair like the marks the robin’s wee feet make on the snow, than the writing o’ human hands. I wonder, too, if the robin kens his ain footmarks, and if they mean anything to him. Maybe they say, ‘It’s vera cold this morning—and the ground is covered wi’ snow—and 15 I’m vera hungry—hae ye anything for me this morning?’ The sma footmarks o’ the wee birds might mean all o’ this, and mair too, Neil.”

“What nonsense you are talking! Run away and wash your hands. They are stained and soiled with something.”

“Wi’ the wild thyme, and the rosemary, and the wall-flowers.”

“And the rough, tarry hand of Cluny Macpherson. Be quick! I am in a hurry.”

“It is Saturday afternoon, Neil. Feyther and Eneas will be up from the boats anon. I dinna care to write for you, the now. Mither said I was to please mysel’ what I did, and I’m in the mind to go and see Faith Balcarry, and hae a long crack wi’ her.”

Neil looked at her in astonishment. There was a stubborn set to her lovely mouth, he had never seen there before. It was a feminine variety of an expression he understood well when he saw it on his father’s lips. Immediately he changed his tactics.

“Your eyes look luck on anything you write, Christine, and you know how important these last papers are to me—and to all of us.”

“Wouldna Monday suit them, just as weel?”

“No. There will be others for Monday. I am trusting to you, Christine. You always have helped me. You are my Fail-Me-Never!”

She blushed and smiled with the pleasure this acknowledgment 16 gave her, but she did not relinquish her position. “I am vera sorry, Neil,” she answered, “but I dinna see how I can break my promise to Faith Balcarry. You ken weel what a friendless creature she is in this world. How could I disappoint a lass whose cup is running o’er wi’ sorrow?”

“I will make a bargain with you, Christine. I will wait until Monday, if you will promise me to keep Cluny Macpherson in his place. He has no business making love to you, and I will make trouble for him if he does so.”

“What ails you at Cluny? He is in feyther’s boat, and like to stay there. Feyther trusts him, and Eneas never has a word out o’ the way with him, and you ken that Eneas is often gey ill to wark wi’, and vera demanding.”

“Cluny Macpherson is all right in the boat, but he is much out of his place holding your two hands, and making love to you. I saw him doing it, not ten minutes ago.”

“Cluny has made love to me a’ his life lang. There is nae harm in his love.”

“There is no good in it. Just as soon as I am one of Her Majesty’s Councilors at Law, I shall take an office in the town, and rent a small floor, and then I shall require you to keep house for me.”

“You are running before you can creep, Neil. How are you going to pay rents, and buy furnishings? Forbye, I couldna leave Mither her lane. She hasna been hersel’ this year past, and whiles 17 she has sair attacks that gie us all a fearsome day or twa.”

“Mither has had those attacks for years.”

“All the more reason for us to be feared o’ them. Neil, I canna even think o’ my life, wanting Mither.”

“But you love me! I am bound to bring all kinds o’ good luck to our family.”

“Mither is good luck hersel’. There would be nae luck about the house, if Mither went awa’.”

“Well then, you will give Cluny up?”

“I canna say that I will do anything o’ that kind. Every lass wants a lover, and I have nane but Cluny.”

“I have a grand one in view for you.”

“Wha may the lad be?”

“My friend at the Maraschal. He is the young Master of Brewster and Ballister, and as fine a young fellow as walks in shoe leather. The old Ballister mansion you must have seen every Sabbath, as you went to the kirk.”

“Ay, I hae seen the roof and turrets o’ it, among the thick woods; but naebody has lived there, since I was born.”

“You are right, but Ballister is going to open the place, and spend gold in its plenishing and furnishing. It is a grand estate, and the young master is worthy of it. I am his friend, and I mean to bring you two together. You are bonnie, and he is rich; it would be a proper match. I owe you something, 18 Christine, and I’ll pay my debt with a husband worthy of you.”

“And how would I be worthy o’ him? I hae neither learning nor siller. You are talking foolishness, Neil.”

“You are not without learning. In my company you must have picked up much information. You could not hear my lessons and copy my exercises without acquiring a knowledge of many things.”

“Ay, a smattering o’ this and that. You wouldna call that an education, would you?”

“It is a better one than most girls get, that is, in the verities and the essentials. The overcome is only in the ornamentals, or accomplishments—piano-playing, singing, dancing, and maybe what you call a smattering of the French tongue. There is a piano in Ballister, and you would pick out a Scotch song in no time, for you sing like a mavis. As for dancing, you foot it like a fairy, and a mouthful of French words would be at your own desire or pleasure.”

“I hae that mouthfu’ already. Did you think I wrote book after book full o’ your French exercises, and heard you recite Ollendorf twice through, and learned naething while I was doing it? Neil, I am awa’ to Faith, I canna possibly break my word to a lass in trouble.”

“A moment, Christina——”

“I havna half a moment. I’ll do your writing Monday, Neil.”

“Christine! Christine!”

She was beyond his call, and before he got over his amazement, she was out of sight. Then his first impulse was to go to his mother, but he remembered that she had not been sympathetic when he had before spoken of Christine and Cluny Macpherson.

“I will be wise, and take my own counsel,” he thought, and he had no fear of wanting his own sympathy; yet when he reviewed his conversation with Christine, he was annoyed at its freedom.

“I ought not to have told her about Ballister,” he thought, “she will be watching for him at the kirk, and looking at the towers o’ Ballister House as if they were her own. And whatever made me say I thought of her as my housekeeper? She would be the most imprudent person. I would have the whole fishing-village at my house door, and very likely at my fireside; and that would be a constant set-down for me.”

This train of thought was capable of much discreet consideration, and he pursued it until he heard the stir of presence and conversation in the large living room. Then he knew that his father and brother were at home, to keep the preparation for the Sabbath. So he made himself look as lawyer-like as possible, and joined the family. Everyone, and everything, had a semi-Sabbath look. Ruleson was in a blue flannel suit, so was Eneas, and Margot had put on a clean cap, and thrown over her shoulders 20 a small tartan shawl. The hearth had been rid up, and the table was covered with a clean white cloth. In the oven the meat and pudding were cooking, and there was a not unpleasant sancta-serious air about the people, and the room. You might have fancied that even the fishing nets hanging against the wall knew it was Saturday night, and no fishing on hand.

Christine was not there. And as it was only on Saturday and Sunday nights that James Ruleson could be the priest of his family, these occasions were precious to him, and he was troubled if any of his family were absent. Half an hour before Christine returned home, he was worrying lest she forget the household rite, and when she came in he asked her, for the future, to bide at home on Saturday and Sabbath nights, saying he “didna feel all right,” unless she was present.

“I was doing your will, Feyther, anent Faith Balcarry.”

“Then you were doing right. How is the puir lassie?”

“There’s little to be done for her. She hasna a hope left, and when I spoke to her anent heaven, she said she knew nobody there, and the thought o’ the loneliness she would feel frightened her.”

“You see, James,” said Margot, “puir Faith never saw her father or mother, and if all accounts be true, no great loss, and I dinna believe the lassie ever knew anyone in this warld she would want to see in 21 heaven. Nae wonder she is sae sad and lonely.”

“There is the great multitude of saints there.”

“Gudeman, it is our ain folk we will be seeking, and speiring after, in heaven. Without them, we shall be as lonely as puir Faith, who knows no one either in this world, or the next, that she’s caring to see. I wouldn’t wonder, James, if heaven might not feel lonely to those who win there, but find no one they know to welcome them.”

“We are told we shall be satisfied, Margot.”

“I’m sure I hope sae! Come now, and we will hae a gude dinner and eat it cheerfully.”

After dinner there was a pleasant evening during which fishers and fishers’ wives came in, and chatted of the sea, and the boats, and the herring fishing just at hand; but at ten o’clock the big Bible, bound round with brass, covered with green baize, and undivested of the Books of the Apocrypha, was laid before the master. As he was trying to find the place he wanted, Margot stepped behind him, and looked over his shoulder:

“Gudeman,” she said softly, “you needna be harmering through thae chapters o’ proper names, in the Book o’ Chronicles. The trouble is overganging the profit. Read us one o’ King David’s psalms or canticles, then we’ll go to our sleep wi’ a song in our hearts.”

“Your will be it, Margot. Hae you any choice?”

“I was reading the seventy-first this afternoon, and I could gladly hear it o’er again.”

And O how blessed is that sleep into which we fall, hearing through the darkness and silence, the happy soul recalling itself—“In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust—Thou art my hope, O Lord God—my trust from my youth—I will hope continually—and praise Thee—more and more—my soul which Thou hast—redeemed! Which Thou hast redeemed!” With that wonderful thought falling off into deep, sweet sleep—it might be into that mysteriously conscious sleep, informed by prophesying dreams, which is the walking of God through sleep.

One day leads to another, and even in the little, hidden-away village of Culraine, no two days were exactly alike. Everyone was indeed preparing for the great fishing season, and looking anxiously for its arrival, but if all were looking for the same event, it had for its outcome in every heart a different end, or desire. Thus, James Ruleson hoped its earnings would complete the sum required to build a cottage for his daughter’s marriage portion, and Margot wanted the money, though not for the same object. Norman had a big doctor’s bill to pay, and Eneas thought of a two weeks’ holiday, and a trip to Edinburgh and Glasgow; while Neil was anxious about an increase 24 in his allowance. He had his plea all ready—he wanted a new student’s gown of scarlet flannel, and some law books, which, he said, everyone knew were double the price of any other books. It was his last session, and he did hope that he would be let finish it creditably.

He talked to Christine constantly on the subject, and she promised to stand up for the increase. “Though you ken, Neil,” she added, “that you hae had full thirty pounds a session, and that is a lot for feyther to tak’ out o’ the sea; forbye Mither was aye sending you a box full o’ eggs and bacon, and fish and oatmeal, ne’er forgetting the cake that men-folk all seem sae extra fond o’. And you yoursel’ were often speaking o’ the lads who paid their fees and found their living out o’ thirty pounds a session. Isn’t that sae?”

“I do not deny the fact, but let me tell you how they manage it. They have a breakfast of porridge and milk, and then they are away for four hours’ Greek and Latin. Then they have two pennyworths of haddock and a few potatoes for dinner, and back to the college again, for more dead languages, and mathematics. They come back to their bit room in some poor, cold house, and if they can manage it, have a cup of tea and some oat cake, and they spend their evenings learning their lessons for the next day, by the light of a tallow candle.”

“They are brave, good lads, and I dinna wonder they win all, an’ mair, than what they worked for. 25 The lads o’ Maraschal College are fine scholars, and the vera pith o’ men. The hard wark and the frugality are good for them, and, Neil, we are expecting you to be head and front among them.”

“Then I must have the books to help me there.”

“That stands to reason; and if you’ll gie me your auld gown, I’ll buy some flannel, and mak’ you a new one, just like it.”

“The college has its own tailor, Christine. I believe the gowns are difficult to make. And what is more, I shall be obligated to have a new kirk suit. You see I go out with Ballister a good deal—very best families and all that—and I must have the clothes conforming to the company. Ballister might—nae doubt would—lend me the money—but——”

“What are you talking anent? Borrowing is sorrowing, aye and shaming, likewise. I’m fairly astonished at you naming such a thing! If you are put to a shift like that, Christine can let you hae the price o’ a suit o’ clothing.”

“O Christine, if you would do that, it would be a great favor, and a great help to me. I’ll pay you back, out of the first money I make. The price o’ the books I shall have to coax from Mother.”

“You’ll hae no obligation to trouble Mother. Ask your feyther for the books you want. He would be the vera last to grudge them to you. Speak to him straight, and bold, and you’ll get the siller wi’ a smile and a good word.”

“If you would ask him for me.”

“I will not!”

“Yes, you will, Christine. I have reasons for not doing so.”

“You hae just one reason—simple cowardice. O Man! If you are a coward anent asking a new suit o’ clothes for yoursel’, what kind o’ a lawyer will you mak’ for ither folk?”

“You know how Father is about giving money.”

“Ay, Feyther earns his money wi’ his life in his hands. He wants to be sure the thing sought is good and necessary. Feyther’s right. Now my money was maistly gi’en me, I can mair easily risk it.”

“There is no risk in my promise to pay.”

“You havna any sure contract wi’ Good Fortune, Neil, and it will be good and bad wi’ you, as it is wi’ ither folk.”

“I do not approve of your remarks, Christine. When people are talking of the fundamentals—and surely money is one of them—they ought to avoid irritating words.”

“You’ll mak’ an extraordinar lawyer, if you do that, but I’m no sure that you will win your case, wanting them. I thought they were sort o’ necessitated; but crooked and straight is the law, and it is well known that what it calls truth today, may be far from truth tomorrow.”

“What ails you today, Christine? Has the law injured you in any way?”

“Ay, it played us a’ a trick. When you took up the books, and went to the big school i’ the toun to prepare for Aberdeen, we all o’ us thought it was King’s College you were bound for, and then when you were ready for Aberdeen, you turned your back on King’s College, and went to the Maraschal.”

“King’s College is for the theology students. The Maraschal is the law school.”

“I knew that. We a’ know it. The Maraschal spelt a big disappointment to feyther and mysel’.”

“I have some work to finish, Christine, and I will be under an obligation if you will leave me now. You are in an upsetting temper, and I think you have fairly forgotten yourself.”

“Well I’m awa, but mind you! When the fishing is on, I canna be at your bidding. I’m telling you!”

“Just so.”

“I’ll hae no time for you, and your writing. I’ll be helping Mither wi’ the fish, from the dawn to the dark.”

“Would you do that?”

“Would I not?”

She was at the open door of the room as she spoke, and Neil said with provoking indifference: “If you are seeing Father, you might speak to him anent the books I am needing.”

“I’ll not do it! What are you feared for? You’re parfectly unreasonable, parfectly ridic-lus!” 28 And she emphasized her assertions by her decided manner of closing the door.

On going into the yard, she found her father standing there, and he was looking gravely over the sea. “Feyther!” she said, and he drew her close to his side, and looked into her lovely face with a smile.

“Are you watching for the fish, Feyther?”

“Ay, I am! They are long in coming this year.”

“Every year they are long in coming. Perhaps we are impatient.”

“Just sae. We are a’ ready for them—watching for them—Cluny went to Cupar Head to watch. He has a fine sea-sight. If they are within human ken, he will spot them, nae doubt. What hae you been doing a’ the day lang?”

“I hae been writing for Neil. He is uncommon anxious about this session, Feyther.”

“He ought to be.”

“He is requiring some expensive books, and he is feared to name them to you; he thinks you hae been sae liberal wi’ him already—if I was you, Feyther, I would be asking him—quietly when you were by your twa sel’s—if he was requiring anything i’ the way o’ books.”

“He has had a big sum for that purpose already, Christine.”

“I know it, Feyther, but I’m not needing to tell you that a man must hae the tools his wark is requiring, or he canna do it. If you set Neil to mak’ 29 a table, you’d hae to gie him the saw, and the hammer, and the full wherewithals, for the makin’ o’ a table; and when you are for putting him among the Edinbro’ Law Lords, you’ll hae to gie him the books that can teach him their secrets. Isn’t that fair, Feyther?”

“I’m not denying it.”

“Weel then, you’ll do the fatherly thing, and seeing the laddie is feared to ask you for the books, you’ll ask him, ‘Are you wanting any books for the finishing up, Neil?’ You see it is just here, Feyther, he could borrow the books——”

“Hang borrowing!”

“Just sae, you are quite right, Feyther. Neil says if he has to borrow, he’ll never get the book when he wants it, and that he would never get leave to keep it as long as he needed. Now Neil be to hae his ain books, Feyther, he will mak’ good use o’ them, and we must not fail him at the last hour.”

“Wha’s talking o’ failing him? Not his feyther, I’m sure! Do I expect to catch herrings without the nets and accessories? And I ken that I’ll not mak’ a lawyer o’ Neil, without the Maraschal and the books it calls for.”

“You are the wisest and lovingest o’ feythers. When you meet Neil, and you twa are by yoursel’s, put your hand on Neil’s shoulder, and ask Neil, ‘Are you needing any books for your last lessons?’”

“I’ll do as you say, dear lass. It is right I should.”

“Nay, but he should ask you to do it. If it was mysel’, I could ask you for anything I ought to have, but Neil is vera shy, and he kens weel how hard you wark for your money. He canna bear to speak o’ his necessities, sae I’m speaking the word for him.”

“Thy word goes wi’ me—always. I’ll ne’er say nay to thy yea,” and he clasped her hand, and looked with a splendid smile of affection into her beautiful face. An English father would have certainly kissed her, but Scotch fathers rarely give this token of affection. Christine did not expect it, unless it was her birthday, or New Year’s morning.

It was near the middle of July, when the herring arrived. Then early one day, Ruleson, watching the sea, smote his hands triumphantly, and lifting his cap with a shout of welcome, cried—

“There’s our boat! Cluny is sailing her! He’s bringing the news! They hae found the fish! Come awa’ to the pier to meet them, Christine.”

With hurrying steps they took the easier landward side of descent, but when they reached the pier there was already a crowd of men and women there, and the Sea Gull, James Ruleson’s boat, was making for it. She came in close-hauled to the wind, with a double reef in her sail. She came rushing across the bay, with the water splashing her gunwale. Christine kept her eyes upon the lad at the tiller, a handsome lad, tanned to the temples. His cheeks were flushed, and the wind was in his hair, 31 and the sunlight in his eyes, and he was steering the big herring boat into the harbor.

The men were soon staggering down to the boats with the nets, coiling them up in apparently endless fashion, and as they were loaded they were very hard to get into the boats, and harder still to get out. Just as the sun began to set, the oars were dipped, and the boats swept out of the harbor into the bay, and there they set their red-barked sails, and stood out for the open sea.

Ruleson’s boat led the way, because it was Ruleson’s boat that had found the fish, and Christine stood at the pier-edge cheering her strong, brave father, and not forgetting a smile and a wave of her hand for the handsome Cluny at the tiller. To her these two represented the very topmost types of brave and honorable humanity. The herring they were seeking were easily found, for it was the Grand Shoal, and it altered the very look of the ocean, as it drove the water before it in a kind of flushing ripple. Once, as the boats approached them, the shoal sank for at least ten minutes, and then rose in a body again, reflecting in the splendid sunset marvelous colors and silvery sheen.

With a sweet happiness in her heart, Christine went slowly home. She did not go into the village, she walked along the shore, over the wet sands to the little gate, which opened upon their garden. On her way she passed the life-boat. It was in full readiness for launching at a moment’s notice, 32 and she went close to it, and patted it on the bow, just as a farmer’s daughter would pat the neck of a favorite horse.

“Ye hae saved the lives of men,” she said. “God bless ye, boatie!” and she said it again, and then stooped and looked at a little brass plate screwed to the stern locker, on which were engraved these words:

And as she climbed the garden, she thought of the lad who had left Culraine thirty years ago, and gone to Glasgow to learn ship building, and who had given this boat to his native village out of his first savings. “And it has been a lucky boat,” she said softly, “every year it has saved lives,” and then she remembered the well-known melody, and sang joyously—

Then with a merry, inward laugh she stopped, and said with pretended displeasure: “Be quiet, Christine! You’re makin’ poetry again, and you shouldna do the like o’ that foolishness. Neil thinks it isna becoming for women to mak’ poetry—he says men lose their good sense when they do it, and women! He hadna the words for their shortcomings in the matter. He could only glower and shake his head, and look up at the ceiling, which he remarked needed a coat o’ clean lime and water. Weel, I suppose Neil is right! There’s many a thing not becomin’ to women, and nae doubt makin’ poetry up is among them.”

When she entered the cottage, she found the Domine, Dr. Magnus Trenabie, drinking a cup of tea at the fireside. He had been to the pier to see the boats sail, for all the men of his parish were near and dear to him. He was an extraordinary man—a scholar who had taken many degrees and honors, and not exhausted his mental powers in getting them—a calm, sabbatic mystic, usually so quiet that his simple presence had a sacramental efficacy—a man who never reasoned, being full of 34 faith; a man enlightened by his heart, not by his brain.

Being spiritually of celestial race, he was lodged in a suitable body. Its frame was Norse, its blood Celtic. He appeared to be a small man, when he stood among the gigantic fishermen who obeyed him like little children, but he was really of average height, graceful and slender. His head was remarkably long and deep, his light hair straight and fine. The expression of his face was usually calm and still, perhaps a little cold, but there was every now and then a look of flame. Spiritually, he had a great, tender soul quite happy to dwell in a little house. Men and women loved him, he was the angel on the hearth of every home in Culraine.

When Christine entered the cottage, the atmosphere of the sea was around and about her. The salt air was in her clothing, the fresh wind in her loosened hair, and she had a touch of its impetuosity in the hurry of her feet, the toss of her manner, the ring of her voice.

“O Mither!” she cried, then seeing the Domine, she made a little curtsey, and spoke to him first. “I was noticing you, Sir, among the men on the pier. I thought you were going with them this night.”

“They have hard work this night, Christine, and my heart tells me they will be wanting to say little words they would not like me to hear.”

“You could hae corrected them, Sir.”

“I am not caring to correct them, tonight. Words 35 often help work, and tired fishers, casting their heavy nets overboard, don’t do that work without a few words that help them. The words are not sinful, but they might not say them if I was present.”

“I know, Sir,” answered Margot. “I hae a few o’ such words always handy. When I’m hurried and flurried, I canna help them gettin’ outside my lips—but there’s nae ill in them—they just keep me going. I wad gie up, wanting them.”

“When soldiers, Margot, are sent on a forlorn hope of capturing a strong fort, they go up to it cheering. When our men launch the big life-boat, how do they do it, Christine?”

“Cheering, Sir!”

“To be sure, and when weary men cast the big, heavy nets, they find words to help them. I know a lad who always gets his nets overboard with shouting the name of the girl he loves. He has a name for her that nobody but himself can know, or he just shouts ‘Dearie,’ and with one great heave, the nets are overboard.” And as he said these words he glanced at Christine, and her heart throbbed, and her eyes beamed, for she knew that the lad was Cluny.

“I was seeing our life-boat, as I came home,” she said, “and I was feeling as if the boat could feel, and if she hadna been sae big, I would hae put my arms round about her. I hope that wasna any kind o’ idolatry, Sir?”

“No, no, Christine. It is a feeling of our humanity, 36 that is wide as the world. Whatever appears to struggle and suffer, appears to have life. See how a boat bares her breast to the storm, and in spite of winds and waves, wins her way home, not losing a life that has been committed to her. And nothing on earth can look more broken-hearted than a stranded boat, that has lost all her men. Once I spent a few weeks among the Hovellers—that is, among the sailors who man the life-boats stationed along Godwin Sands; and they used to call their boats ‘darlings’ and ‘beauties’ and praise them for behaving well.”

“Why did they call the men Hovellers?” asked Margot. “That word seems to pull down a sailor. I don’t like it. No, I don’t.”

“I have been told, Margot, that it is from the Danish word, overlever, which means a deliverer.”

“I kent it wasna a decent Scotch word,” she answered, a little triumphantly; “no, nor even from the English. Hoveller! You couldna find an uglier word for a life-saver, and if folk canna be satisfied wi’ their ain natural tongue, and must hae a foreign name, they might choose a bonnie one. Hoveller! Hoveller indeed! It’s downright wicked, to ca’ a sailor a hoveller.”

The Domine smiled, and continued—“Every man and woman and child has loved something inanimate. Your mother, Christine, loves her wedding ring, your father loves his boat, you love your Bible, I love the silver cup that holds the sacramental 37 wine we drink ‘in remembrance of Him’;” and he closed his eyes a moment, and was silent. Then he gave his cup to Christine. “No more,” he said, “it was a good drink. Thanks be! Now our talk must come to an end. I leave blessing with you.”

They stood and watched him walk into the dusk in silence, and then Margot said, “Where’s Neil?”

“Feyther asked him to go wi’ them for this night, and Neil didna like to refuse. Feyther has been vera kind to him, anent his books an’ the like. He went to pleasure Feyther. It was as little as he could do.”

“And he’ll come hame sea-sick, and his clothes will be wet and uncomfortable as himsel’.”

“Weel, that’s his way, Mither. I wish the night was o’er.”

“Tak’ patience. By God’s leave the day will come.”

The next morning the women of the village were early at the pier to watch the boats come in. They were already in the offing, their gunwales deep in the water, and rising heavily on the ascending waves; so they knew that there had been good fishing. Margot was prominent among them, but Christine had gone to the town to take orders from the fish dealers; for Margot Ruleson’s kippered herring were famous, and eagerly sought for, as far as Edinburgh, and even Glasgow.

It was a business Christine liked, and in spite of her youth, she did it well, having all her mother’s bargaining ability, and a readiness in computing values, that had been sharpened by her knowledge of figures and profits. This morning she was unusually fortunate in all her transactions, and brought home such large orders that they staggered Margot.

“I’ll ne’er be able to handle sae many fish,” she said, with a happy purposeful face, “but there’s naething beats a trial, and I be to do my best.”

“And I’ll help you, Mither. It must ne’er be said that we twa turned good siller awa’.”

“I’m feared you canna do that today, Christine. Neil hasna been to speak wi’, since he heard ye had gone to the toun; he wouldna’ even hear me when I ca’ed breakfast.”

“Neil be to wait at this time. It willna hurt him. If Neil happens to hae a wish, he instantly feels it to be a necessity, and then he thinks the hale house should stop till his wish is gi’en him. I’m going to the herring shed wi’ yoursel’.”

“Then there will be trouble, and no one so sorry for it as Christine! I’m telling you!”

At this moment Neil opened the door, and looked at the two women. “Mother,” he said in a tone of injury and suffering, “can I have any breakfast this morning?”

“Pray, wha’s hindering you? Your feyther had his, an hour syne. Your porridge is yet boiling in the pot, the kettle is simmering on the hob, and the cheena still standing on the table. Why didna you lift your ain porridge, and mak’ yoursel’ a cup o’ tea? Christine and mysel’ had our breakfasts before it chappit six o’clock. You cam’ hame wi’ your feyther, you should hae ta’en your breakfast with him.”

“I was wet through, and covered with herring 40 scales. I was in no condition to take a meal, or to sit with my books and Christine all morning, writing.”

“I canna spare Christine this morning, Neil. That’s a fact.” His provoking neatness and deliberation were irritating to Margot’s sense of work and hurry, and she added, “Get your breakfast as quick as you can. I’m wanting the dishes out o’ the way.”

“I suppose I can get a mouthful for myself.”

“Get a’ you want,” answered Margot; but Christine served him with his plate of porridge and basin of new milk, and as he ate it, she toasted a scone, and made him a cup of tea.

“Mother is cross this morning, Christine. It is annoying to me.”

“It needna. There’s a big take o’ fish in, and every man and woman, and every lad and lass, are in the herring sheds. Mither just run awa’ from them, to see what orders for kippers I had brought—and I hae brought nine hundred mair than usual. I must rin awa’ and help her now.”

“No, Christine! I want you most particularly, this morning.”

“I’ll be wi’ you by three in the afternoon.”

“Stay with me now. I’ll be ready for you in half an hour.”

“I can hae fifty fish ready for Mither in half an hour, and I be to go to her at once. I’ll be back, laddie, by three o’clock.”

“I’m just distracted with the delay,” but he 41 stopped speaking, for he saw that he was alone. So he took time thoroughly to enjoy his scone and tea, and then, not being quite insensible to Christine’s kindness, he washed the dishes and put them away.

He had just finished this little duty, when there was a knock at the outside door. He hesitated about opening it. He knew no villager would knock at his father’s door, so it must be a stranger, and as he was not looking as professional and proper as he always desired to appear, he was going softly away, when the door was opened, and a bare-footed lad came forward, and gave him a letter.

He opened it, and looked at the signature—“Angus Ballister.” A sudden flush of pleasure made him appear almost handsome, and when he had read the epistle he was still more delighted, for it ran thus:

Neil was really much pleased with the message, and glad to hear of an opportunity to make money, 42 for though the young man was selfish, he was not idle; and he instantly perceived that much lucrative business could follow this early initiation into the Ballister affairs. He quickly finished his arrangement of the dishes and the kitchen, and then, putting on an old academic suit, made his room as scholarly and characteristic as possible. And it is amazing what an air books and papers give to the most commonplace abode. Even the old inkhorn and quill pens seemed to say to all who entered—“Tread with respect. This is classic ground.”

His predominating thought during this interval was, however, not of himself, but of Christine. She had promised to come to him at three o’clock. How would she come? He was anxious about her first appearance. If he could in any way have reached her, he would have sent his positive command to wear her best kirk clothes, but at this great season neither chick nor child was to be seen or heard tell of, and he concluded finally to leave what he could not change or direct to those household influences which usually manage things fairly well.

As the day went on, and Ballister did not arrive, he grew irritably nervous. He could not study, and he found himself scolding both Ballister and Christine for their delay. “Christine was so ta’en up wi’ the feesh, naething else was of any import to her. Here was a Scottish gentleman coming, who might be the makin’ o’ him, and a barrel o’ herrin’ stood in his way.” He had actually fretted himself into 43 his Scotch form of speech, a thing no Gael ever entirely forgets when really worried to the proper point.

When he had said his heart’s say of Christine, he turned his impatience on Ballister—his behavior was that o’ the ordinary rich young man, who has naething but himsel’ to think o’. He, Neil Ruleson, had lost a hale morning’s wark, waiting on his lairdship. Weel, he’d have to pay for it, in the long run. Neil Ruleson had no waste hours in his life. Nae doubt Ballister had heard o’ a fast horse, or a fast——

Then Ballister knocked at the door, and Neil stepped into his scholarly manner and speech, and answered Ballister’s hearty greeting in the best English style.

“I am glad to see you, Neil. I only came to Ballister two days ago, and I have been thinking of you all the time.” With these words the youth threw his Glengary on the table, into the very center and front of Neil’s important papers. Then he lifted his chair, and placed it before the open door, saying emphatically as he did so—

O Neil! Love of your ain country is a wonderful thing. It makes a man of you.”

“Without it you would not be a man.”

Ballister did not answer at once, but stood a moment with his hand on the back of the deal, rush-bottomed chair, and his gaze fixed on the sea and the crowd of fishing boats waiting in the harbor.

Without being strictly handsome, Ballister was very attractive. He had the tall, Gaelic stature, and its reddish brown hair, also brown eyes, boyish and yet earnest. His face was bright and well formed, his conversation animated, his personality, in full effect, striking in its young alertness.

“Listen to me, Neil,” he said, as he sat down. “I came to my majority last March, when my uncle and I were in Venice.”

“Your uncle on your mother’s side?”

“No, on the sword side, Uncle Ballister. He told me I was now my own master, and that he would render into my hands the Brewster and Ballister estates. I am sure that he has done well by them, but he made me promise I would carefully go over all the papers relating to his trusteeship, and especially those concerning the item of interests. It seems that my father had a good deal of money out on interest—I know nothing about interest. Do you, Neil?”

“I know everything that is to be known. In my profession it is a question of importance.”

“Just so. Now, I want to put all these papers, rents, leases, improvements, interest accounts, and so forth, in your hands, Neil. Come with me to Ballister, and give the mornings to my affairs. Find 45 out what is the usual claim for such service, and I will gladly pay it.”

“I know the amount professionally charged, but——”

“I will pay the professional amount. If we give the mornings to this work, in the afternoons we will ride, and sail, fish or swim, or pay visits—in the evenings there will be dinner, billiards, and conversation. Are you willing?”

“I am delighted at the prospect. Let the arrangement stand, just so.”

“You will be ready tomorrow?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Good. I will——”

Then there was a tap at the door, and before Neil could answer it, Christine did so. As she entered, Ballister stood up and looked at her, and his eyes grew round with delighted amazement. She was in full fisher costume—fluted cap on the back of her curly head, scarlet kerchief on her neck, long gold rings in her ears, gold beads round her throat, and a petticoat in broad blue and yellow stripes.

“Christine,” said Neil, who, suddenly relieved of his great anxiety, was unusually good-tempered. “Christine, this is my friend, Mr. Angus Ballister. You must have heard me speak of him?”

“That’s a fact. The man was your constant talk”—then turning to Ballister—“I am weel pleased to see you, Sir;” and she made him a little curtsey so full of independence that Ballister knew well she 46 was making it to herself—“and I’m wondering at you twa lads,” she said, “sitting here in the house, when you might be sitting i’ the garden, or on the rocks, and hae the scent o’ the sea, or the flowers about ye.”

“Miss Ruleson is right,” said Ballister, in his most enthusiastic mood. “Let us go into the garden. Have you really a garden among these rocks? How wonderful!”

How it came that Ballister and Christine took the lead, and that Neil was in a manner left out, Neil could not tell; but it struck him as very remarkable. He saw Christine and his friend walking together, and he was walking behind them. Christine, also, was perfectly unembarrassed, and apparently as much at home with Ballister as if he had been some fisher-lad from the village.

Yet there was nothing strange in her easy manner and affable intimacy. It was absolutely natural. She had never realized the conditions of riches and poverty, as entailing a difference in courtesy or good comradeship; for in the village of Culraine, there was no question of an equality founded on money. A man or woman was rated by moral, and perhaps a little by physical qualities—piety, honesty, courage, industry, and strength, and knowledge of the sea and of the fisherman’s craft. Christine would have treated the great Duke of Fife, or Her Majesty, Victoria, with exactly the same pleasant familiarity.

She showed Ballister her mother’s flower garden, that was something beyond the usual, and she was delighted at Ballister’s honest admiration and praise of the lovely, rose-sweet plot. Both seemed to have forgotten Neil’s presence, and Neil was silent, blundering about in his mind, looking for some subject which would give him predominance.

Happily strolling in and out the narrow walks, and eating ripe gooseberries from the bushes, they came to a little half-circle of laburnum trees, drooping with the profusion of their golden blossoms. There was a wooden bench under them, and as Christine sat down a few petals fell into her lap.

“See!” she cried, “the trees are glad o’ our company,” and she laid the petals in her palm, and added—“now we hae shaken hands.”

“What nonsense you are talking, Christine,” said Neil.

“Weel then, Professor, gie us a bit o’ gude sense. Folks must talk in some fashion.”

And Neil could think of nothing but a skit against women, and in apologetic mood and manner answered:

“I believe it is allowable, to talk foolishness, in reply to women’s foolishness.”

“O Neil, that is cheap! Women hae as much gude sense as men hae, and whiles they better them”—and then she sang, freely and clearly as a bird, two lines of Robert Burns’ opinion—

She still held the golden blossoms in her hand, and Ballister said:

“Give them to me. Do!”

“You are vera welcome to them, Sir. I dinna wonder you fancy them. Laburnum trees are money-bringers, but they arena lucky for lovers. If I hed a sweetheart, I wouldna sit under a laburnum tree wi’ him, but Feyther is sure o’ his sweetheart, and he likes to come here, and smoke his pipe. And Mither and I like the place for our bit secret cracks. We dinna heed if the trees do hear us. They may tell the birds, and the birds may tell ither birds, but what o’ that? There’s few mortals wise enough to understand birds. Now, Neil, come awa wi’ your gude sense, I’ll trouble you nae langer wi’ my foolishness. And good day to you, Sir!” she said. “I’m real glad you are my brother’s friend. I dinna think he will go out o’ the way far, if you are wi’ him.”

Ballister entreated her to remain, but with a smile she vanished among the thick shrubbery. Ballister was disappointed, and somehow Neil was not equal to the occasion. It was hard to find a subject Ballister felt any interest in, and after a short interval he bade Neil good-bye and said he would see him on the following day.

“No, on the day after tomorrow,” corrected Neil. “That was the time fixed, Angus. Tomorrow I will 49 finish up my work for the university, and I will be at your service, very happily and gratefully, on Friday morning.” Then Neil led him down the garden path to the sandy shore, so he did not return to the cottage, but went away hungry for another sight of Christine.

Neil was pleased, and displeased. He felt that it would have been better for him if Christine had not interfered, but there was the delayed writing to be finished, and he hurried up the steep pathway to the cottage. Some straying vines caught his careless footsteps, and threw him down, and though he was not hurt, the circumstance annoyed him. As soon as he entered the cottage, he was met by Christine, and her first remark added to his discomfort:

“Whate’er hae you been doing to yoursel’, Neil Ruleson? Your coat is torn, and your face scratched. Surely you werna fighting wi’ your friend.”

“You know better, Christine. I was thrown by those nasty blackberry vines. I intend to cut them all down. They catch everyone that passes them, and they are in everyone’s way. They ought to be cleared out, and I will attend to them tomorrow morning, if I have to get up at four o’clock to do it.”

“You willna touch the vines. Feyther likes their fruit, and Mither is planning to preserve part o’ it. And I, mysel’, am vera fond o’ vines. The wee wrens, and the robin redbreasts, look to the vines 50 for food and shelter, and you’ll not dare to hurt their feelings, for

“Stop, Christine, I have a great deal to think of, and to ask your help in.”

“Weel, Neil, I was ready for you at three o’clock, and then you werna ready for me.”

“Tell me why you dressed yourself up so much? Did you know Ballister was coming?”

“Not I! Did you think I dressed mysel’ up for Angus Ballister?”

“I was wondering. It is very seldom you wear your gold necklace, and other things, for just home folk.”

“Weel, I wasn’t wearing them for just hame folk. Jennie Tweedie is to be married tonight, and Mither had promised her I should come and help them lay the table for the supper, and the like o’ that. Sae I was dressed for Jennie Tweedie’s bridal. I wasna thinking of either you, or your fine friend.”

“I thought perhaps you had heard he was coming. Your fisher dress is very suitable to you. No doubt you look handsome in it. You likely thought its novelty would—would—make him fall in love with you.”

“I thought naething o’ that sort. Novelty! Where would the novelty be? The lad is Fife. If he was sae unnoticing as never to get acquaint wi’ a Culraine fisher-wife, he lived maist o’ his boyhood in Edinburgh. Weel, he couldna escape seeing the Newhaven fisherwomen there, nor escape hearing their wonderful cry o’ ‘Caller herrin’!’ And if he had ony feeling in his heart, if he once heard that cry, sae sweet, sae heartachy, and sae winning, he couldna help looking for the woman who was crying it; and then he couldna help seeing a fisher-wife, or lassie. I warn you not to think o’ me, Christine Ruleson, planning and dressing mysel’ for any man. You could spane my love awa’ wi’ a very few o’ such remarks.”

“I meant nothing to wrong you, Christine. All girls dress to please the men.”

“Men think sae. They are vera mich mista’en. Girls dress to outdress each ither. If you hae any writing to do, I want to gie you an hour’s wark. I’ll hae to leave the rest until morning.”

Then Neil told her the whole of the proposal Angus had made him. He pointed out its benefits, both for the present and the future, and Christine listened thoughtfully to all he said. She saw even further than Neil did, the benefits, and she was the first to name the subject nearest to Neil’s anxieties.

“You see, Neil,” she said, “if you go to Ballister, you be to hae the proper dress for every occasion. 52 The best suit ye hae now will be nane too good for you to wark, and to play in. You must hae a new suit for ordinary wear, forbye a full dress suit. I’ll tell you what to do—David Finlay, wha dresses a’ the men gentry round about here, is an old, old friend o’ Feyther’s. They herded together, and went to school and kirk togither, and Feyther and him have helped each ither across hard places, a’ their life long.”

“I don’t want any favors from David Finlay.”

“Hae a little patience, lad. I’m not asking you to tak’ favors from anyone. I, mysel’, will find the money for you; but I canna tell you how men ought to dress, nor what they require in thae little odds and ends, which are so important.”

“Odds and ends! What do you mean?”

“Neckties, gloves, handkerchiefs, hats, and a proper pocket book for your money. I saw Ballister take his from his pocket, to put the laburnum leaves in, and I had a glint o’ the bank bills in it, and I ken weel it is more genteel-like than a purse. I call things like these ‘odds and ends.’”

“Such things cost a deal of money, Christine.”

“I was coming to that, Neil. I hae nearly ninety-six pounds in the bank. It hes been gathering there, ever since my grandfeyther put five pounds in for me at my baptisement—as a nest egg, ye ken—and all I hae earned, and all that Feyther or Mither hae gien me, has helped it gather; and on my last birthday, when Feyther gave me a pound, and Mither ten shillings, 53 I had ninety-six pounds. Now, Neil, dear lad, you can hae the use o’ it all, if so be you need it. Just let Dave Finlay tell you what to get, and get it, and pay him for it—you can pay me back, when money comes easy to you.”

“Thank you, Christine! You have always been my good angel. I will pay you out o’ my first earnings. I’ll give you good interest, and a regular I. O. U. which will be——”

“What are you saying, Neil? Interest! Interest! Interest on love? And do you dare to talk to me anent your I. O. U. If I canna trust your love, and your honor, I’ll hae neither interest nor paper from you. Tak my offer wi’ just the word between us, you are vera welcome to the use o’ the money. There’s nae sign o’ my marrying yet, and I’ll not be likely to want it until my plenishing and napery is to buy. You’ll go to Finlay, I hope?”

“I certainly will. He shall give me just what is right.”

“Now then, my time is up. I will be ready to do your copying at five o’clock in the morning. Then, after breakfast, you can go to the town, but you won’t win into the Bank before ten, and maist likely Finlay will be just as late. Leave out the best linen you hae, and I’ll attend to it, wi’ my ain hands.”

“Oh, Christine, how sweet and good you are! I’m afraid I am not worthy o’ your love!”

“Vera likely you are not. Few brothers love their 54 sisters as they ought to. It willna be lang before you’ll do like the lave o’ them, and put some strange lass before me.”

“There’s nae lass living that can ever be to me what you hae been, and are. You hae been mother and sister baith, to me.”

“Dear lad, I love thee with a’ my heart. All that is mine, is thine, for thy use and help, and between thee and me the word and the bond are the same thing.”

Christine was much pleased because Neil unconsciously had fallen into his Scotch dialect. She knew then that his words were spontaneous, not of consideration, but of feeling from his very heart.

In a week the change contemplated had been fully accomplished. Neil had become accustomed to the luxury of his new home, and was making notable progress in the work which had brought him there.

Twice during the week Margot had been made royally happy by large baskets of wonderful flowers and fruit, from the Ballister gardens. They were brought by the Ballister gardener, and came with Neil’s love and name, but Margot had some secret thoughts of her own. She suspected they were the result of a deeper and sweeter reason than a mere admiration for her wonderful little garden among the rocks; but she kept such thoughts silent in her heart. One thing she knew well, that if Christine were twitted on the subject, she would hate Angus 55 Ballister, and utterly refuse to see him. So she referred to the gifts as entirely from Neil, and affected a little anxiety about their influence on Ballister.

“I hope that young man isna thinking,” she said, “that his baskets o’ flowers and fruit is pay enough for Neil’s service.”

“Mither, he promised to pay Neil.”

“To be sure. But I didna hear o’ any fixed sum. Some rich people hae a way o’ giving sma’ favors, and forgetting standing siller.”

“He seemed a nice young man, Mither, and he did admire your garden. I am sure he has told Neil to send the flowers because you loved flowers. When folk love anything, they like others who love as they do. Mebbe they who love flowers hae the same kind and order o’ souls. You ken if a man loves dogs, he is friendly at once wi’ a stranger who loves dogs; and there’s the Domine, who is just silly anent auld coins—copper, siller or gold—he cares not, if they’re only auld enough. Nannie Grant, wha keeps his house, told Katie Tweedie that he took a beggar man into his parlor, and ate his dinner with him, just because he had a siller bit o’ Julius Cæsar in his pouch, and wouldna part wi’ it, even when he was wanting bread.”

“Weel then, the Domine doubtless wanted the penny.”

“Vera likely, but he wouldna tak it frae the puir soul, wha thought sae much o’ it; and Nannie was 56 saying that he went away wi’ a guid many Victoria pennies i’ his pouch.”

“The Domine is a queer man.”

“Ay, but a vera guid man.”

“If he had a wife, he would be a’ right.”

“And just as likely a’ wrang. Wha can tell?”

“Weel, that’s an open question. What about your ain marriage?”

“I’ll marry when I find a man who loves the things I love.”

“Weel, the change for Neil, and for the a’ of us has been—in a way—a gude thing. I’ll say that.”

Margot was right. Even if we take change in its widest sense, it is a great and healthy manifestation, and it is only through changes that the best lives are made perfect. For every phase of life requires its own environment, in order to fulfill perfectly its intention and if it does not get it, then the intent, or the issue, loses much of its efficiency. “Because they have no changes, therefore they fear not God,” is a truth relative to the greatest nations, as well as to the humblest individual.

Neil was benefited in every way by the social uplift of a residence in a gentleman’s home, and the active, curious temperament of Angus stimulated him. Angus was interested in every new thing, in every new idea, in every new book. The world was so large, and so busy, and he wanted to know all about its goings on. So when Neil’s business was over for the day, Angus was eagerly waiting to tell 57 him of something new or strange which he had just read, or heard tell of, and though Neil did not realize the fact, he was actually receiving, in these lively discussions with his friend, the very best training for his future forensic and oratorical efforts.

Indeed he was greatly pleased with himself. He had not dreamed of being the possessor of so much skill in managing an opposite opinion; nor yet of the ready wit, which appeared to flow naturally with his national dialect. But all this clever discussion and disputing was excellent practice, and Neil knew well that his visit to Ballister had been a change full of benefits to him.

One of the results of Neil’s investigations was the discovery that Dr. Magnus Trenabie had been presented to the church of Culraine by the father of Angus, and that his salary had never been more than fifty pounds a year, with the likelihood that it had often been much less. Angus was angry and annoyed.

“I give my gamekeeper a larger salary,” he said. “It is a shame! The doctor’s salary must be doubled at once. If there are any technicalities about it, look to them as quickly as possible. Did my father worship in that old church?”

“He did, and I have heard my father tell very frequently, how the old man stood by the church when the great Free Kirk secession happened. He says that at that burning time everyone left Dr. Trenabie’s church but Ballister and ten o’ his tenants, 58 and that the doctor took no notice of their desertion, but just preached to your father and the ten faithful. He was never heard to blame the lost flock, and he never went into the wilderness after them. Your father would not hear of his doing so.

“Magnus,” he would say, “tak’ time, and bide a wee. The puir wanderers will get hungry and weary in their Free Kirk conventicles, and as the night comes on, they’ll come hame. Nae fear o’ them!”

“Did they come home?”

“Every one of them but three stubborn old men. They died out of its communion, and the old Master pitied them, and told their friends he was feared that it would go a bit hard wi’ them. He said, they had leaped the fence, and he shook his head, and looked down and doubtful anent the outcome, since naebody could tell what ill weeds were in a strange pasture.”

After this discovery Angus went to the old church, where his father had worshiped, and there he saw Christine, and there he fell freshly in love with her every Sabbath day. It did not appear likely that love had much opportunity, in those few minutes in the kirk yard after the service, when Neil and Angus waited for Margot and Christine, to exchange the ordinary greetings and inquiries. James Ruleson, being leading elder, always remained a few minutes after the congregation had left, in order 59 to count the collection and give it to the Domine, and in those few minutes Love found his opportunity.

While Neil talked with his mother of their family affairs, Angus talked with Christine. His eyes rained Love’s influence, his voice was like a caress, the touch of his hand seemed to Christine to draw her in some invisible way closer to him. She never remembered the words he said, she only knew their inarticulate meaning was love, always love. When it was time for Ruleson to appear, Margot turned to Angus and thanked him for some special gift or kindness that had come to the cottage that week, and Angus always laughed, and pointing to Neil, said:

“Neil is the culprit, Mrs. Ruleson. It is Neil’s doing, I assure you.” And of course this statement might be, in several ways, the truth. At any rate, the old proverb which advises us “never to look a gift horse in the mouth,” is a good one. For the motive of the gift is more than the gift itself.

These gifts were all simple enough, but they were such as delighted Margot’s childlike heart—an armful of dahlias or carnations—a basket of nectarines or apricots—two or three dozen fresh eggs—a pot of butter—a pair of guinea fowls, then rare in poultry yards, or a brood of young turkeys to feed and fatten for the New Year’s festival. About these fowls, Neil wrote her elaborate directions. And Margot was more delighted with these 60 simple gifts than many have been with a great estate. And Christine knew, and Angus knew that she knew, and it was a subtle tie between them, made of meeting glances and clasping hands.

So the busy fishing season passed away, and was a very fortunate one, until it was nearly over. Then there were several days of foggy, dismal weather, and one night when the nets were down a sudden violent storm drove from the north, and the boats, being at that time mostly open boats, shipped water at every sea. The greatest hurry and confusion followed, and they were finally compelled to cut the nets adrift, glad indeed to lose all, if they could only make the first shelter. And mothers and wives, standing helpless at the little windows of their cottages, watched the storm, while the men they loved were fighting the furious tempest in the black night.

“God help my men!” prayed Margot. She was weeping like a child, but yet in her anguish full of faith in God’s mercy, and looking trustfully to Him 62 to send her men home again. “I’ll ne’er fret for the nets,” she said, “they’ll hav’ to go, nae doubt o’ that. Let them go! But oh, Feyther i’ heaven, send hame my men folk!”

Ah! Women who spend such nights may well call caller herrin’ “the lives o’ men”!

In the misty daylight, the men and the boats came into harbor, but the nets in every boat—each net about eight hundred and fifty yards long—were totally lost. However, the herring season was practically over. Indeed, the men were at the point of exhaustion, for the total take had been very large, and there is scarcely any human labor more severe on the physical endurance, than the fishing for caller herrin’.

It was just at this time that Neil Ruleson had to leave Culraine for Aberdeen. He was to finish his course at the Maraschal College this year, and never before had he gone there so well provided, and never before had he felt so poor. For though he had received the unlooked-for sum of two hundred pounds for his services, he felt it to be unequal to his ambitious requirements, six weeks at Ballister House having taught him to regard many little comforts as absolute necessities.

“I am very nearly a lawyer now,” he reflected, “a professional man, and I must try and look like it, and live like it. The bare room and unfashionable clothing of the past must be changed to more respectable quarters, and more appropriate garments.” 63 Of course he knew that Christine would not permit him to injure his future fine prospects, but he had promised to repay the ninety pounds he had borrowed from her out of his first earnings, and he felt that the money was now due, and that he ought to pay it. But if he did so, he must simplify all his plans, and he had taken so much pleasure and pains in arranging the surroundings of his last session, that he was exceedingly loth to surrender even the least important of them.

While he was packing his trunk, and deliberating on this subject, the great storm came, and his father barely saved the boat and the lives of the men in her. The nets were gone, and his mother asked him plainly if he could not help his father to replace them.

“I will do so gladly, Mother,” he answered, “when I have paid my college fees, and the like, I will see what I can spare—there is Christine’s money!” he continued, in a troubled, thoughtful manner—and Margot answered,

“Ay, to be sure. If Christine hadna loaned you her money, it would hae been at her feyther’s will and want, this moment, but if you are going to keep your word, and pay Christine out o’ your first earnings, there’s nae need to talk wi’ you. Christine will help your feyther and proud and glad to do the same.”

“You see, Mother, it is nearly the end of things with me at Aberdeen, and it would be hard if my 64 future was scrimped at its beginning. That is what Ballister thinks. ‘Neil,’ he said to me, ‘you will have to speak before the public—lawyers and people of full standing—and you must have the dress that is proper and fitting.’”

“Weel, your feyther will hae to get new nets—if he is to mak’ bread for the lave o’ us.”

“The herring season is over now, and there is no immediate expense regarding it.”

“You are much mista’en, and ye ken it fine! The barrels in which the fish are packed are to pay for, and the women who packed them are not fully paid. The coopers who closed the barrels, and the Fishery Office, hae yet to send in their bills.”

“The Fishery Office! What have we to do with the Fishery Office? It is a government affair.”

“Mebbe sae. But the barrels canna be shipped until an officer frae the Fishery Office puts the crown brand on every barrel. Do you think the man does that for naething?”

“I never heard of such a thing.”

“Weel, it has to be done, whether Neil Ruleson has heard o’ the thing or not.”

“What for?”

“The crown isna branded on any barrel unless the fish in it are fine, fresh, and unbroken. But as soon as the barrels get the crown, they can be shipped to foreign ports, mostly to Stettin.”

“Why Stettin?”

“I don’t know. Ask your feyther. You are just 65 making a put-aff wi’ your questions. Answer me the one question I asked yoursel’—What can ye do to help your feyther? Answer me that.”

“Father will not use nets until the next herring season—a whole year away—in the winter, he always does line fishing. With your help, Christine can weave new nets before they are needed.”

“I see weel that you dinna intend to pay your debt to Christine, nor yet to help your feyther.”

“Father has not asked me for help. Everyone knows that father is well fore-handed.”

“O lad, the dear auld man barely saved the boat and the lives she carried! He has been roughly handled by winds and waves, and may hae to keep his bed awhile, and your brither Eneas is that hurt and bruised, he will ne’er go fishing again, while your brither Norman has a broken arm, an’ a wife that has gane into hystericals about the lost nets. You’d think it was her man she was screaming for. And Fae and Tamsen waited too lang, and went o’er the boat wi’ their nets, an’ there’s ithers that hae broken limbs, or joints out o’ place, or trouble o’ some sort.”

“I’m very sorry, Mother. If I could do any good to the general ill, I would do it, but if I ruined all my future life I do not see that I could help anyone. I must be just, before I am generous.”

“To be sure. I hope you’ll try to be just, for I am vera certain you’ll ne’er be generous; and if you 66 are just, you’ll pay your sister back her ninety pounds.”

“I will have a conversation with Christine, at once. Where is she?”

“The Domine sent for her early, she has been helping him wi’ the hurt folk, all day long. What hae you been doing?”

“I went down to the pier, to look after the boat. I knew father would be anxious about it. Then I had to go into the town. I was expecting an important letter, and the doctor was needing some medicines, and I brought them home with me. In one way, or another, the miserable day has gone. I hope Father is not much hurt.”

“It’s hard to hurt your feyther. His head keeps steady, and a steady head keeps the body as it should be—but he’s strained, and kind o’ shocked. The Domine gied him a powder, and he’s sleeping like a baby. He’ll be a’ right in a day or twa.”

“I would like to sit by him tonight, and do all I can, Mother.”

“You may well do that, Neil; but first go and bring your sister hame. I wouldn’t wonder if you might find her in Fae’s cottage. His puir, silly wife let the baby fa’, when she heard that her man and his boat was lost; and I heard tell Christine had ta’en the bairn in charge. It would be just like her. Weel, it’s growing to candle lighting, and I’ll put a crusie fu’ o’ oil in feyther’s room, and that will light you through the night.”

Neil found his sister sitting with Judith Macpherson and her grandson, Cluny. Cluny was not seriously hurt, but no man comes out of a life-and-death fight with the sea, and feels physically the better for it. Such tragic encounters do finally lift the soul into the region of Fearlessness, or into the still higher condition of Trustfulness, but such an education—like that of Godliness—requires line upon line, precept upon precept.

James Ruleson had been perfectly calm, even when for a few minutes it seemed as if men, as well as nets, must go to death and destruction; but James had been meeting the God “whose path is on the Great Waters,” for more than forty years, and had seen there, not only His wonders, but His mercies, and he had learned to say with David, “Though He slay me, yet will I put my trust in Him.”

Judith Macpherson was of a different spirit. She was a passionate old woman, and the sea had taken her husband and five sons, and her only daughter. Accordingly she hated the sea. That some day it would be “no more” was her triumphant consolation. She delighted in preaching to it this sentence of annihilation. If Judith was seen standing on the cliffs, with her arms uplifted, and her white head thrown backward, the village knew she was reminding its proud waves of their doom of utter destruction. The passionate flaming language of her denunciations will not bear transcribing, but the oldest sailors said it was “awesome and no’ to be listened 68 to, or spoken o’.” That afternoon she had been seen on the sands, in one of her frenzies of hatred, and when Neil entered her cottage, she was still rocking herself to and fro, and muttering threats and curses.

She had attended skillfully and tenderly to Cluny’s bruises and nervous excitement, but he was frightened and depressed by her mood, and he begged Christine to stay wi’ him an hour or twa. And Christine had been willing. Judith was always kind to her, and the handsome lad with his boyish adoration was at least a settled feature of her life. This night she let him tell her all his plans for their happy future, and did not feel any pressure of duty to deny his hopes. He had just come out of the very jaws of Death. What could she do, but let him dream his dream and have his say?

However, in all troubles, either personal or public, it is a great thing to be still, and to whisper to the soul—“This, too, will pass!” It is behind us today, tomorrow it will be still farther away. In a week we shall not talk of it, in a month it will have passed from Life, and belong only to Memory. There is scarcely any sorrow that may not be greatly helped and soothed by this reflection. For God does not willingly afflict the children of men, and it is He Himself, that has appointed Time to be the consoler of Sorrow.

By the end of October, the village was in its normal mood and condition. All the expenses of the 69 fishing season had been paid, and the profits satisfactorily ascertained and divided. Great quantities of cord had been procured, and the women and the older men were busily making nets for the next season, while the younger men were ready for the winter’s line-fishing. There was an air of content and even of happiness over the small community. It was realized that, in spite of the storm, the season had been good, and the Domine had reminded them on the last Sabbath, that they had not yet rendered thanks to God, nor even visibly told each other how good God had been to them.

For it was the custom of Culraine to keep a day of thanks and rejoicing when the herring had been secured, and to send word to all the near-by fishers to come and rejoice with them. They began now to prepare for this festival, and in this preparation were greatly assisted by gifts from Ballister House. Neil had gone back to the Maraschal, but Angus was still at Ballister. He had been royally generous to the village in its distress, had supplied the Domine with necessary drugs and materials, and had seen to it that the injured had those little luxuries of food which tempt the convalescent. He was still more eager to help the fishers in their thanksgiving, Margot Ruleson being the authorized distributor of all his gifts, as she was also the director of all concerning the affair.

This foy, or fair, was to be kept on the thirty-first of October, embracing particularly the Hallowe’en 70 night so dear to the peasantry of Scotland. The Domine had selected this date, possibly because he wished to prevent its usual superstitious observance. But though some old men and women doubtless lighted their Hallowe’en fires, and baked their Hallowe’en cake, with the usual magical ceremonies, the large majority were far too busy preparing for an actual and present pleasure, to trouble themselves about prophesying spells and charms.

The day was opened by a short address to the people assembled in the old kirk. About thirty minutes covered the simple ceremony. First the Domine stood up, and the people stood up with him, and all together they recited aloud the jubilant thirty-fourth psalm. Then the Domine said,

“Sit down, friends, and take heed to what I say. I have no sermon for you today. I have no sins to charge you with, and to beg you to forsake. I have just one message. It is three words long. ‘God is Love!’ Whatever you hear, whatever you do, no matter what happens to you, remember that God is Love! You are heritage-born to the sea, but the way of the Lord is through the Great Waters. God must see you in your struggles, and God must love the patient, brave, sailormen. Christ showed you special favors. He might have chosen carpenters, but he chose fishermen. And for seeing God’s wonders on the deep sea, you may be the sons and heirs of the prophet Jonas. Also,

Well, then, as often as you come unto a sermon, consider how God by his preachers trawleth for your souls. Friends, in all times of your joy and your sorrow, you have the key to God’s council chamber, and to God’s mercy chamber. It is just ‘Our Father,’ and the few blessed words that follow it. There is little need for long talk. This is the day you have set for thanksgiving. Rejoice therein! God is as well pleased with your happiness, as he was and is with your good, brave work. The hard winter days wear on. Make this day a memory to brighten them. Amen.”

There was a considerable number of visitors from fishing villages as far south as Largo, going from house to house, talking over old seasons with old comrades, and there were the sound of violins everywhere, and the laughter of children, in their Sunday clothes, playing in the streets. Even sorrowful Faith Balcarry was in a new dress, and was at least helping others to be happy. Indeed, it was Faith who suddenly burst into the Hall when the decorations were nearly finished, and cried, “Surely you’ll show the flags o’ the lads’ boaties! They’ll feel hurt if you slight their bits o’ canvas! It is most like slighting themsel’s.” She had her arms full of these bits of canvas, and the men decorating the 72 Fishers’ Hall seized them triumphantly, and told Faith they were just what they wanted; and so made Faith for once in her sad life a person helpful and of importance. Then in twenty minutes the red and blue and white ensigns were beautifully disposed among the green of larch and laurel, and the glory of marigolds and St. Michael’s daisies, and of holly oaks of every brilliant color.

When the sun was setting Angus looked in. Everyone but Christine and Faith had finished his work and gone away. Faith was brushing up the scattered leaves from the floor, Christine was standing on the top step of the ladder, setting her father’s flag in a halo of marigolds. He watched her without speaking until she turned, then the swift glory of her smile, and the joy of her surprise was a revelation. He had not dreamed before that she was so beautiful. He said he was hungry, and he hoped Christine would not send him all the way to Ballister for something to eat. Then what could Christine do but ask him to dinner? And she had already asked Faith. So he walked between Christine and Faith up to Ruleson’s cottage. And the walk through the village was so exhilarating, he must have forgotten he was hungry, even if he was really so. There was music everywhere, there were groups of beautiful women, already dressed in their gayest gowns and finest ornaments, there were equal groups of handsome young fishermen, in their finest tweed suits, with flowing neckties of every resplendent 73 color—there was such a sense of pleasure and content in the air, that everyone felt as if he were breathing happiness.

And Margot’s welcome was in itself a tonic, if anybody had needed one. Her table was already set, she was “only waiting for folks to find out they wanted their dinner—the dinner itsel’ was waitin’ and nane the better o’ it.”

Ruleson came in as she was speaking, and he welcomed the Master of Ballister with true Scotch hospitality. They fell into an easy conversation on politics, and Margot told Christine and Faith to mak’ themsel’s fit for company, and to be quick anent the business, or she wadna keep three folk waiting on a couple o’ lasses.

In half an hour both girls came down, dressed in white. Christine had loaned Faith a white frock, and a string of blue beads, and a broad blue sash. She had arranged her hair prettily, and made the girl feel that her appearance was of consequence. And light came into Faith’s eyes, and color to her cheeks, and for once she was happy, whether she knew it or not.

Christine had intended to wear a new pink silk frock, with all its pretty accessories, but a beautiful natural politeness forbade it. Faith was so abnormally sensitive, she knew she would spoil the girl’s evening if she outdressed her. So she also put on a white muslin gown, made in the modest fashion of the early Victorian era. Some lace and 74 white satin ribbons softened it, and she had in her ears her long gold rings, and round her throat her gold beads, and amidst her beautiful hair large amber combs, that looked as if they had imprisoned the sunshine.

Margot was a good cook, and the dinner was an excellent one, prolonged—as Margot thought—beyond all reasonable length, by a discussion, between Ruleson and Angus, of the conservative policy. Ruleson smoked his pipe after dinner, and kept up the threep, and the girls put out of sight the used china, and the meat and pastries left, and Margot put on her usual Sabbath attire—a light-gray silk dress, a large white collar, and a borderless cap of lace over her dark hair. The indispensable bit of color was, in her case, supplied by a vivid scarlet shawl of Chinese crêpe, one of those heavily embroidered shawls of dazzling color, which seem in these latter days to have disappeared.

It was getting near to seven o’clock, when they entered the hall and found it already full and happy. They had not thought it necessary to wait in whispering silence, until the music came and opened the entertainment. They possessed among themselves many good story tellers, and they were heartily laughing in chorus at some comic incident which a fisherman was relating, when the Ruleson party arrived.

Then there was one long, loud, unanimous cry for Christine Ruleson, for Christine was preëminent as 75 a vive-voce story teller, a rare art even among the nations of Europe. She nodded and smiled, and without any affectation of reluctance, but with a sweet readiness to give pleasure, went at once to the platform, and as easily, and as naturally as if she were telling it at her home fireside, she raised her hand for attention, and said:

Christine had noticed the Domine rise, and she pointedly addressed this question to him, and he understood her wish, and lifting up his hands and his voice, he cried out triumphantly:

“They shall be raised up with the words—‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto Me!’ These good men,” he continued, “were men of the sea, Mariners of England,

The Domine might have continued, but there was a sudden thrill of enchanting violins, the door was flung open, and the magical notes of a foursome reel filled the room, and set the feet of all tapping the floor, and made all faces radiant with anticipation. The good man then realized that it was not his hour, and he sat down, and watched the proceedings for a few minutes. Then he saw James Ruleson take his wife’s hand, and watched their first steps in the joyous reel, and he was satisfied. If the dancing was under Ruleson’s control, he knew all would be done decently and in order, and he went away so quietly that his absence was not noticed for some time.

Now, if the dancing that followed was like some of our dancing of today, I should pass it with slight notice, or it might be, with earnest disapproval, but it was not. It was real dancing. It was not waltzing, nor tangoing, and it was as far as possible from the undressed posturing called classical dancing. Everyone was modestly clothed, and had his shoes and stockings on. And naturally, and as a matter of course, they obeyed the principle of real dancing, which is articulation; that is, the foot strikes the ground with every accented note of the music. This is how Goldsmith in “The Vicar of Wakefield” 78 shows us Olivia dancing—“her foot being as pat to the music, as its echo.”

All good dancing is beautiful, and it never requires immodesty, is indeed spoiled by any movement in this direction. However, as my fisher company danced modestly and gracefully, rendering naturally the artistic demands of the music, there is no necessity to pursue the subject. As the night wore on, the dancing became more enthusiastic, and graceful gestures were flung in, and little inspiring cries flung out, and often when the fiddles stopped, the happy feet went on for several bars without the aid of music.

Thus alternately telling stories, singing, and dancing, they passed the happy hours, mingling something of heart, and brain, and body, in all they did; and the midnight found them unwearied and good-tempered. Angus had behaved beautifully. Having made himself “Hail! Well met!” with the company, he forgot for the time that he was Master of Ballister, and entered into the happy spirit of the occasion with all the natural gayety of youth.

As he had dined with Faith Balcarry, he danced with her several times; and no one could tell the pride and pleasure in the girl’s heart. Then Christine introduced to her a young fisherman from Largo town, and he liked Faith’s slender form, and childlike face, and fell truly in love with the lonely girl, and after this night no one ever heard Faith complain that she had no one to love, and that no 79 one loved her. This incident alone made Christine very happy, for her heart said to her that it was well worth while.

Cluny was the only dissatisfied person present, but then nothing would have satisfied Cluny but Christine’s undivided attention. She told him he was “unreasonable and selfish,” and he went home with his grandmother, in a pet, and did not return.

“He’s weel enough awa’,” said Christine to Faith. “If he couldna leave his bad temper at hame, he hadna ony right to bring it here.”

Of course it was not possible for Christine to avoid all dancing with Angus, but he was reasonable and obedient, and danced cheerfully with all the partners she selected, and in return she promised to walk home in his company. He told her it was “a miraculous favor,” and indeed he thought so. For never had she looked so bewilderingly lovely. Her beauty appeared to fill the room, and the calm, confident authority with which she ordered and decided events, touched him with admiring astonishment. What she would become, when he gave her the opportunity, he could not imagine.

At nine o’clock there was a sideboard supper from a long table at one side of the hall, loaded with cold meats, pastry, and cake. Every young man took what his partner desired, and carried it to her. Then when the women were served, the men helped themselves, and stood eating and talking with the merry, chattering groups for a pleasant half-hour, which 80 gave to the last dances and songs even more than their early enthusiasm. Angus waited on Christine and Faith, and Faith’s admirer had quite a flush of vanity, in supposing himself to have cut the Master of Ballister out. He flattered himself thus, and Faith let him think so, and Christine shook her head, and called him “plucky and gay,” epithets young men never object to, especially if they know they are neither the one nor the other.

At twelve o’clock Ruleson spoke to the musicians, and the violins dropped from the merry reel of “Clydeside Lasses” into the haunting melody of “Caller Herrin’,” and old and young stood up to sing it. Margot started the “cry” in her clear, clarion-like voice; but young and old joined in the imperishable song, in which the “cry” is vocalized:

At one o’clock the Fishers’ Hall was dark and still, and the echo of a tender little laugh or song from some couple, who had taken the longest way round for the nearest way home, was all that remained of the mirth and melody of the evening. Angus and Christine sauntered slowly through the village. The young man was then passionately importunate in the protestations of his love. He wooed Christine with all the honeyed words that men have used to the Beloved Woman, since the creation. And Christine listened and was happy.

At length, however, he was obliged to tell her news he had delayed as long as it was possible.

“Christine,” he said. “Dear Christine, I am going with my Uncle Ballister to the United States. We intend to see both the northern and southern states, and in California shall doubtless find the ways and means to cross over to China and Japan, and at Hongkong get passage for India, and then——”

“And then whar next?”

“Through Europe to England. I dare say the journey will take us a whole year.”

“Mair likely twa or even three years. Whatna for are you going?”

“Because my uncle is going, and he is set on having me with him.”

“I wouldn’t wonder. Maybe he is going just for your sake. Weel I hope you’ll hae a brawly fine time, and come hame the better for it.”

“I cannot tell how I am to do without seeing you, for a whole year.”

“Folk get used to doing without, vera easy, if the want isn’t siller. Love isna a necessity.”

“O, but it is! Dear Christine, it is the great necessity.”

“Weel, I’m not believing it.”

Then they were at the foot of the hill on which Ruleson’s house stood, and Christine said, “Your carriage is waiting for you, Angus, and you be to bid me good night, here. I would rather rin up the hill by mysel’, and nae doubt the puir horses are weary standin’ sae lang. Sae good night, and good-by, laddie!”

“I shall not leave you, Christine, until I have seen you safely home.”

“I am at hame here. This is Ruleson’s hill, and feyther and mither are waiting up for me.”

A few imperative words from Angus put a stop to the dispute, and he climbed the hill with her. He went as slowly as possible, and told her at every step how beautiful she was, and how entirely he loved her. But Christine was not responsive, and in spite of his eloquent tenderness, they felt the chill of their first disagreement. When they came in sight of the house, they saw that it was dimly lit, and Christine stood still, and once more bade him good-by.

Angus clasped both her hands in his. “My love! My love!” he said. “If I spoke cross, forgive me.”

“I hae naething to forgive. I owe you for mair pleasure and happiness, than I can ever return.”

“Give me one kiss of love and forgiveness, Christine. Then I will know you love Angus”—and he tried gently to draw her closer to him. “Just one kiss, darling.”

“Na! Na,” she answered. “That canna be. I’m a fisher-lass, and we hae a law we dinna break—we keep our lips virgin pure, for the lad we mean to marry.”

“You are very hard and cruel. You send me away almost broken-hearted. May I write to you?”

“If you’ll tell me about a’ the wonderfuls you see, I’ll be gey glad to hear from you.”

“Then farewell, my love! Do not forget me!”

“It’s not likely I’ll forget you,” and her voice trembled, as she whispered “Farewell!” and gave him her hand. He stooped, and kissed it. Then he turned away.

She watched him till in the dim distance she saw him raise his hat and then disappear. Still she stood, until the roll of the carriage wheels gradually became inaudible. Then she knew that she was weeping, and she wiped her eyes, and turned them upon the light in the cottage burning for her. And she thought tenderly of her lover, and whispered to her heart—“If he had only come back! I might hae given him a kiss. Puir laddie! Puir, dear laddie! His uncle has heard tell o’ the fisher-lassie, and he’s ta’en him awa’ from Christine—but he’s 84 his ain master—sae it’s his ain fault! Christine is o’er gude for anyone who can be wiled awa’ by man, or woman, or pleasure, or gold. I’ll be first, or I’ll be naething at a’!”

She found her father alone, and wide awake. “Where is Mither?” she asked.

“I got her to go to bed. She was weary and full o’ pain. Keep a close watch on your mither, Christine. The trouble in her heart grows warse, I fear. Wha was wi’ you in your hame-comin’?”

“Angus Ballister.”

“Weel, then?”

“It is the last time he will be wi’ me.”

“Is that sae? It is just as weel.”

“He is awa’ wi’ his Uncle Ballister, for a year or mair.”

“Is he thinking you’ll wait, while he looks o’er the women-folk in the rest o’ the warld?”

“It seems sae.”

“You liked him weel enough?”

“Whiles—weel enough for a lover on trial. But what would a lass do wi’ a husband wha could leave her for a year on his ain partic’lar pleasure.”

“I kent you wad act wiselike, when the time came to act. There’s nae men sae true as fishermen. They hae ane dear woman to love, and she’s the only woman in the warld for them. Now Cluny——”

“We willna speak o’ Cluny, Feyther. Both you and Mither, specially Mither, are far out o’ your usual health. What for did God gie you a daughter, 85 if it wasna to be a comfort and help to you, when you needed it? I’m no carin’ to marry any man.”

“Please God, you arena fretting anent Angus?”

“What for would I fret? He was a grand lover while he lasted. But when a man is feared to honor his love with his name, a lass has a right to despise him.”

“Just sae! But you mustna fret yoursel’ sick after him.”

“Me! Not likely!”

“He was bonnie enou’, and he had siller—plenty o’ siller!”

“I’m no’ thinkin’ o’ the siller, Feyther! Na, na, siller isn’t in the matter, but—

“Then a’s weel, lassie. I’ll just creep into Neil’s bed, for I dinna want to wake your mither for either this, or that, or ony ither thing. Good night, dearie! You’re a brave lassie! God bless you!”

Perhaps Christine was not so brave as her father thought, but she had considered the likelihood of such a situation, and had decided that there was no dealing with it, except in a spirit of practical life. She knew, also, that in the long run sentiment would have to give way to common sense, and the more intimate she became with the character of Angus Ballister, the more certain she felt that his love for her would have to measure itself against the pride and will of his uncle, and the tyranny of social estimates and customs.

She was therefore not astonished that Angus had left both himself and her untrammeled by promises. He was a young man who never went to meet finalities, especially if there was anything unpleasant or serious in them; and marriage was a finality full of serious consequences, even if all its circumstances were socially proper. And what would Society say, if Angus Ballister made a fisher-girl his wife!

“I wasna wise to hae this, or that, to do wi’ the 87 lad,” she whispered, and then after a few moments’ reflection, she added, “nor was I altogether selfish i’ the matter. Neil relied on me making a friend o’ him, and Mither told me she knew my guid sense wad keep the lad in his proper place. Weel, I hae done what was expected o’ me, and what’s the end o’ the matter, Christine? Ye hae a sair heart, lass, an’ if ye arena in love wi’ a lad that can ne’er mak’ you his wife, ye are precariously near to it.” Then she was silent, while lacing her shoes, but when this duty was well finished, she continued, “The lad has gien me many happy hours, and Christine will never be the one to say, or even think, wrang o’ him; we were baith in the fault—if it be a fault—as equally in the fault, as the fiddle and the fiddlestick are in the music. Weel, then what’s to do? Duty stands high above pleasure, an’ I must gie my heart to duty, an’ my hands to duty, even if I tread pleasure underfoot in the highway in the doin’ o’ it.”

As she made these resolutions, some strong instinctive feeling induced her to dress herself in clean clothing from head to feet, and then add bright touches of color, and the glint of golden ornaments to her attire. “I hae taken a new mistress this morning,” she said, as she clasped her gold beads around her white throat—“and I’ll show folk that I’m not fretting mysel’ anent the auld one.” And in some unreasoning, occult way, this fresh, bright clothing strengthened her.

Indeed, Margot was a little astonished when she 88 saw her daughter. Her husband had told her in a few words just how matters now lay between Ballister and Christine, and she was fully prepared with sympathy and counsels for the distracted, or angry, girl she expected to meet. So Christine’s beaming face, cheerful voice, and exceptional dress astonished her. “Lassie!” she exclaimed. “Whatna for hae you dressed yoursel’ sae early in the day?”

“I thought o’ going into the toun, Mither. I require some worsted for my knitting. I’m clean out o’ all sizes.”

“I was wanting you to go to the manse this morning. I am feared for the pain in my breast, dearie, and the powders the Domine gies me for it are gane. I dinna like to be without them.”

“I’ll go for them, Mither, this morning, as soon as I think the Domine is out o’ his study.”

“Then I’ll be contented. How are you feeling yoursel’, Christine?”

“Fine, Mither!”

“’Twas a grand ploy last night. That lad, Angus Ballister, danced with a’ and sundry, and sang, and ate wi’ the best, and the worst o’ us. I was hearing he was going awa’ for a year or mair.”

“Ay, to foreign parts. Rich young men think they arena educated unless they get a touch o’ France or Italy, and even America isna out o’ their way. You wad think a Scotch university wad be the complement o’ a Scotch gentleman!”

“Did he bid you good-by? Or is he coming here today?”

“He isna likely to ever come here again.”

“What for no? He’s been fain and glad to come up here. What’s changed him?”

“He isna changed. He has to go wi’ his uncle.”

“What did he say about marrying you? He ought to hae asked your feyther for ye?”

“For me?”

“Ay, for you.”

“Don’t say such words, Mither. There was no talk of marriage between us. What would Angus do with a girl like me for a wife?”

“You are gude enou’ for any man.”

“We are friends. We arena lovers. The lad has been friendly with the hale village. You mustna think wrang o’ him.”

“I do think vera wrang o’ him. He is just one kind o’ a scoundrel.”

“You hurt me, Mither. Angus is my friend. I’ll think nae wrang o’ him. If he was wrang, I was wrang, and you should hae told me I was wrang.”

“I was feared o’ hurting Neil’s chances wi’ him.”

“Sae we baith had a second motive.”

“Ay, few folk are moved by a single one.”

“Angus came, and he went, he liked me, and I liked him, but neither o’ us will fret o’er the parting. It had to be, or it wouldn’t hae been. Them above order such things. They sort affairs better than we could.”

“I don’t understand what you’re up to, but I think you are acting vera unwomanly.”

“Na, na, Mither! I’ll not play ‘maiden all forlorn’ for anyone. If Angus can live without me, there isna a woman i’ the world that can live without Angus as weel as Christine Ruleson can. Tuts! I hae you, Mither, and my dear feyther, and my six big brothers, and surely their love is enough for any soul through this life; forbye, there is the love beyond all, and higher than all, and truer than all—the love of the Father and the Son.”

“I see ye hae made up your mind to stand by Ballister. Vera weel! Do sae! As long as he keeps himsel’ in foreign pairts, he’ll ne’er fret me; but if he comes hame, he’ll hae to keep a few hundred miles atween us.”

“Nonsense! We’ll a’ be glad to see him hame.”

“Your way be it. Get your eating done wi’, and then awa’ to the manse, and get me thae powders. I’m restless and feared if I have none i’ the house.”

“I’ll be awa’ in ten minutes now. Ye ken the Domine doesna care for seeing folk till after ten o’clock. He says he hes ither company i’ the first hours o’ daybreak.”

“Like enou’, but he’ll be fain to hear about the doings last night, and he’ll be pleased concerning Faith getting a sweetheart. I doubt if she deserves the same.”

“Mither! Dinna say that. The puir lassie!”

“Puir lassie indeed! Her feyther left her forty 91 pounds a year, till she married, and then the principal to do as she willed wi’. I dinna approve o’ women fretting and fearing anent naething.”

“But if they hae the fret and fear, what are they to do wi’ it, Mither?”

“Fight it. Fighting is better than fearing. Weel, tak’ care o’ yoursel’ and mind every word that you say.”

“I’m going by the cliffs on the sea road.”

“That will keep you langer.”

“Ay, but I’ll no require to mind my words. I’ll meet naebody on that road to talk wi’.”

“I would not say that much.”

A suspicion at once had entered Margot’s heart. “I wonder,” she mused, as she watched Christine out of sight—“I wonder if she is trysted wi’ Angus Ballister on the cliff road. Na, na, she would hae told me, whether or no, she would hae told me.”

The solitude of the sea, and of the lonely road, was good for Christine. She was not weeping, but she had a bitter aching sense of something lost. She thought of her love lying dead outside her heart’s shut door, and she could not help pitying both love and herself. “He was like sunshine on my life,” she sighed. “It is dark night now. All is over. Good-by forever, Angus! Oh, Love, Love!” she cried aloud to the sea. “Oh, you dear old troubler o’ the warld! I shall never feel young again. Weel, weel, Christine, I’ll not hae ye going to meet trouble, it isna worth the compliment. Angus may forget me, 92 and find some ither lass to love—weel, then, if it be so, let it be so. I’ll find the right kind o’ strength for every hour o’ need, and the outcome is sure to be right. God is love. Surely that is a’ I need. I’ll just leave my heartache here, the sea can carry it awa’, and the winds blow it far off”—and she began forthwith a tender little song, that died down every few bars, but was always lifted again, until it swelled out clear and strong, as she came in sight of the small, white manse, standing bravely near the edge of a cliff rising sheerly seven hundred feet above the ocean. The little old, old kirk, with its lonely acres full of sailors’ graves, was close to it, and Christine saw that the door stood wide open, though it was yet early morning.

“It’ll be a wedding, a stranger wedding,” she thought. “Hame folk wouldna be sae thoughtless, as to get wed in the morning—na, na, it will be some stranger.”

These speculations were interrupted by the Domine’s calling her, and as soon as she heard his voice, she saw him standing at the open door. “Christine!” he cried. “Come in! Come in! I want you, lassie, very much. I was just wishing for you.”

“I am glad that I answered your wish, Sir. I would aye like to do that, if it be His will.”

“Come straight to my study, dear. You are a very godsend this morning.”

He went hurriedly into the house, and turned towards 93 his study, and Christine followed him. And before she crossed the threshold of the room, she saw Angus and his Uncle Ballister, sitting at a table on which there were books and papers.

Angus rose to meet her at once. He did it as an involuntary act. He did not take a moment’s counsel or consideration, but sprang to his feet with the joyful cry of a delighted boy. And Christine’s face reflected the cry in a wonderful, wonderful smile. Then Angus was at her side, he clasped her hands, he called her by her name in a tone of love and music, he drew her closer to his side. And the elder man smiled and looked at the Domine, who remembered then the little ceremony he had forgotten.

So he took Christine by the hand, and led her to the stranger, and in that moment a great change came into the countenance and manner of the girl, while a peculiar light of satisfaction—almost of amusement—gleamed in her splendid eyes.

“Colonel Ballister,” said the Domine, “I present to you Miss Christine Ruleson, the friend of your nephew, the beloved of the whole village of Culraine.”

“I am happy to make Miss Ruleson’s acquaintance,” he replied and Christine said,

“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Sir. When you know Angus, you wish to know the man who made Angus well worth the love he wins.”

The Domine and Angus looked at the beautiful girl in utter amazement. She spoke perfect English, 94 in the neat, precise, pleasant manner and intonation of the Aberdeen educated class. But something in Christine’s manner compelled their silence. She willed it, and they obeyed her will.

“Sit down at the table with us, Christine,” said the Domine. “We want your advice;” and she had the good manners to sit down, without affectations or apologies.

“Colonel, will you tell your own tale? There’s none can do it like you.”

“It is thus, and so, Miss Ruleson. Two nights ago as I sat thinking of Angus in Culraine, I remembered my own boyhood days in the village. I thought of the boats, and the sailors, and the happy hours out at sea with the nets, or the lines. I remembered how the sailors’ wives petted me, and as I grew older teased me, and sang to me. And I said to my soul, ‘We have been ungratefully neglectful, Soul, and we will go at once, and see if any of the old playfellows are still alive.’ So here I am, and though I find by the Domine’s kirk list that only three of my day are now in Culraine, I want to do some good thing for the place. The question is, what. Angus thinks, as my memories are all of playtime, I might buy land for a football field, or links for a golf club. What do you say to this idea, Miss Ruleson?”

“I can say naething in its favor, Sir. Fishers are hard-worked men; they do not require to play hard, and call it amusement. I have heard my father say 95 that ball games quickly turn to gambling games. A game of any sort would leave all the women out. Their men are little at home, and it would be a heartache to them, if they took to spending that little in a ball field, or on the golf links.”

“Their wives might go with them, Christine,” said Angus.

“They would require to leave many home duties, if they did so. It would not be right—our women would not do it. Once I was at St. Andrews, and I wanted to go to the golf links with my father, but the good woman with whom we were visiting said: ‘James Ruleson, go to the links if so be you want to go, but you’ll no daur to tak’ this young lassie there. The language on the links is just awfu’. It isna fit for a decent lass to hear. No, Sir, golf links would be of no use to the women, and their value is very uncertain to men.’”

“Women’s presence would doubtless make men more careful in their language,” said Angus.

“Weel, Angus, it would be doing what my Mither ca’s ‘letting the price o’er-gang the profit.’”

“Miss Ruleson’s objections are good and valid, and we admit them,” said the Colonel; “perhaps she will now give us some idea we can work out”—and when he looked at her for response, he caught his breath at the beauty and sweetness of the face before him. “What are you thinking of?” he asked, almost with an air of humility, for the visible presence of goodness and beauty could hardly have affected 96 him more. And Christine answered softly: “I was thinking of the little children.” And the three men felt ashamed, and were silent. “I was thinking of the little children,” she continued, “how they have neither schoolhouse, nor playhouse. They must go to the town, if they go to school; and there is the bad weather, and sickness, and busy mothers, and want of clothing and books, and shoes, and slates, and the like. Our boys and girls get at the Sunday School all the learning they have. The poor children. They have hard times in a fishing-village.”

“You have given us the best of advice, Miss Ruleson, and we will gladly follow it,” said the Colonel. “I am sure you are right. I will build a good schoolhouse in Culraine. I will begin it at once. It shall be well supplied with books and maps, and I will pay a good teacher.”

“Not a man teacher, Sir. They have small patience with little children. They will use the taws on baby hands, that cannot make a ‘k’ or a ‘z’ at first sight. Give them a woman teacher, who will not be afraid of the bairnies snuggling into her arms, and telling her all their little troubles.”

“Domine,” said the Colonel, “we have received our orders. What say you?”

“I say a school, by all means, Sir. To the children of Culraine it will be a dispensation.”

“First, we must have land for it.”

“I was thinking, as you spoke, of James Ruleson’s 97 land. It lies at the foot of his hill, and would be the very best location for a schoolhouse.”

“Then we will see James Ruleson.”

“Father is line-fishing now. He will not be home until five o’clock,” said Christine.

“If possible, we will see him after five. Come, Domine, let us have a look through the old kirk.”

“I saw it standing open,” said Christine, “and I was thinking there might be a strange wedding there today.”

“No, no, Christine. It was opened for the Colonel, though there are no Ballister effigies in it. If it was an old English kirk, there would be knights and crusaders, and soldiers lying there, in stone state. We do not like images in our kirks. The second command stands clean against it. Come with us, Christine, and when we return I will give you the medicine your mother requires.”

So the Domine and the Colonel led the way, and Angus and Christine followed. And when they reached the kirkyard, Angus said, “Stand here a moment, you dear, dear girl, and tell me how you could talk to my uncle in the high English of Aberdeen. It was beautiful! How did you acquire it?”

“Through long years of practice, Angus. I heard all Neil’s lessons, and I always spoke the English, when I was with Neil. He didna like me to speak Scotch, because he was feared of spoiling his English. It was our home secret, for it would have been 98 a great offense, if I had used English in the village. You can see that.”

“Yes, of course.”

“They dinna mind the Domine speaking English, yet if he particularly wants them to do anything, he is maist sure to drop into the most familiar Scotch.”

“Neil must have had great influence over you, Christine,” and Angus said the words disagreeably. He was feeling jealous of any influences but his own controlling Christine.

“Ay, I always did what he told me to do. Step softly, Angus. The Domine is talking.”

When they reached the Domine’s side, they found him turning the leaves of a very old Bible. “You see, Colonel,” he said, “my father gave me The Book when I first came here. My ancestors have preached from it since A.D. 1616. It came to me through a long succession of good men. It has been my close, personal friend ever since. The finest Bible in Scotland could not take its place. There are pages in it that have been luminous to me. I have seen the glory shining out of the black letters. There are pages in it so sensitive to me that I feel a special spiritual emanation from them. I will be glad of a new cushion for The Book, for the one on which it now lies is worn and shabby, and that ought not to be.”

“Then I cannot give you a new Bible, even for the church.”

“Impossible! I could not preach from a new 99 Bible. Colonel, it is not a book, it is a friend. We have secrets together. I have promises from it, that are yet owing me. It holds our confidences for thirty years. Sometimes I think it really speaks to me. Sometimes a glory seems to shine over the page I am reading, and my soul is so happy, that my tongue speaks aloud joyfully the shining words that have been given me.”

“I would not separate you from such a Bible, Sir.”

“I shall be grateful if you give me a new cushion for it. Nothing is too good for The Book.”

Then they stood looking thoughtfully over the bare place. It had an old, past look. It was plain and moldy, and needed repairing in every way. The Colonel made a note of what was required in the nave of the kirk, and then glanced upward. The gallery appeared to be in still worse condition, but in front of it there was a wonderfully beautiful model of a full-rigged ship.

“Ah!” exclaimed the Colonel, “a ship instead of a clock! Is that right, Sir?”

“Quite. I put it there. It was made by a sailor lad born in Culraine, who came here to die. Long, painful, hopeless days were soothed by the fashioning of that miniature ship. All the village watched its progress, all felt an interest in the dying lad. He finished it on the eve of his death. Young and old came to bid him good-by, and to see his white, trembling hands dress the topmost spar, and fly the blue Peter. ‘I am just about to sail,’ he said, ‘sae 100 I’ll up wi’ the blue Peter. That means I’m ready to go. Let her carry it till I’m safely hame.’ I put a new Peter on the top-mast last year,” said the Domine, and his eyes filled with tears, as he looked steadfastly at the emblem.

“We seem to expect a clock in the front of the gallery, Sir. Can a ship take its place?”

“Nothing, nothing, could be more appropriate. The favorite image of the church in all ages has been a ship, or a boat. The first preaching was connected with a ship, for while Noah builded the ark, he preached repentance. The holiest object of the Jewish tabernacle was the ark, made like a boat. All Christ’s known life is associated with boats. The favorite image of the early persecuted church was a boat beaten by the winds and waves, and our own churches preserve everywhere this world-wide idea, by calling the body of the church the nave, from navis, a ship.”

“That is very interesting information, Sir,” said Angus.

“You are going to Venice, Ballister; you will find many of the oldest churches in Venice built in the shape of a ship; and near Lisbon there is a chapel of marble, with pillars like masts, and its sails and cordage carved on the walls. Is not this life a voyage to the eternal shores, and what could typify our safety better than a ship with Christ for the captain of our salvation? You see, I will still be preaching. I make no excuse.”

“None is necessary. We are glad to listen.”

“Come now, Christine, and I will give you medicine for your mother. Gentlemen, in a few minutes I will return here.”

When they were alone the Domine said: “Christine, you did wisely, and your speech was correct and beautiful, but I would advise you to keep your English for special occasions.”

“Sir, not even my father and mother know I can drop the Scotch. When the time comes to tell them, I——”

“Yes, yes. And the villagers? It might be an offense.”

“You are right, Sir.”

“You speak as if you had learned to speak at the Maraschal.”

“Yes, sir. I learned it from Neil. We always talked it together, for Neil hated the dialect, and I made a bargain wi’ him. I promised to talk as he taught me, if he would keep the circumstance from everyone. He said he would, and he has stood by his promise. Sae have I, but I hae been talking English nearly five years now.”

“You wonderful woman! Then this morning you gave yourself away.”

“I wanted to do it—I couldna resist the want. And it was only to you, and the twa Ballisters. Nane o’ you three will go blabbing. Anyway, when Neil leaves the Maraschal, he will care little how I talk. 102 He’ll hae finer folk than Christine, to crack and claver wi’.”

“He will not find finer folk easily. Now run home as quickly as you can, and prepare your father and mother for the Ballister visit. I will come with him, and ask your mother to have a cup of tea by the fire for us.”

“Will Angus be wi’ ye, Sir?”

“No, he will not.”

“Why?”

“Because I am going to send him to the factor’s, and also to Lawyer Semple’s. You need not be looking for him. Try and leave well alone. It is hard to make well better, and it is very easy to make it worse. If you hurry a little, I think you may be home by twelve o’clock.”

So Christine hurried a little, and reached home by the noon hour. Her dinner was ready, and her father very unexpectedly was sitting by the fireside.

“Feyther,” she said, “I hope you arena sick,” and then she smiled at the inquiry, for his broad, rosy face was the very picture of robust health.

“Sick! Na, na, lassie! I’m weel enou’, but Norman was feeling badly. His arm hurts him sairly, and I was noticing that the fish had gane to deep waters. We’ll hae a storm before long.”

Then Christine served the dinner waiting for her, and while they were eating, she told the great news of a school for Culraine. Ruleson was quickly enthusiastic. 103 Margot, out of pure contradiction, deplored the innovation.

The walk to the toun, she said, was gude for the childer. If they were too tired to learn after it, it showed that learning was beyond their capabilities, and that they would be better making themsel’s usefu’ at hame. And what were women with large families to do without their big lads to bring water to wash wi’, and their half-grown lasses to tak’ care o’ the babies, and help wi’ the cooking and cleaning?

“But, Margot,” said Ruleson, “think o’ the outcome for the childer——Think o’——”

“Ye dinna require to tell me the outcome. As soon as the childer get what they ca’ an education, they hurry awa’ to some big city, or foreign country, and that’s the end o’ them. Settle a school here, and I’ll tell you the plain result—in a few years we’ll hae neither lads nor boats, and the lasses now growing up will hae to go to Largo, or to some unkent place for husbands. Gie our lads books, and you’ll ne’er get them into the boats. That’s a fact! I’m tellin’ you!”

Between Margot and Christine the argument continued all afternoon, but Ruleson went to the foot of the hill, and looked at the land proposed for the site of the future school. He was glad that it was his land, and he was so much of a natural poet that he could see the white building, and the boys and girls trooping in and out of its wide doors. And 104 the vision of the children playing together there was so clear to his imagination, that he carefully stepped off the acres he supposed would give them sufficient room for their games; and then shutting his eyes that he might see better, he decided that it was too small, and so stepped off another acre.

“I’ll ne’er scrimp the childer, God bless them!” he thought, “for it will be a happy day to James Ruleson, when he sees them runnin’ to these acres wi’ books and balls in their hands.”

Then he went home, and Margot said something about his Sunday claes, but James did not heed her. He put on a clean shirt, and a suit of blue flannel. His shirt was open at the throat, his feet were in boots that reached nearly to his knees. But he had a grandly satisfied look, and the beautiful courtesy of men who as a rule think only good of their neighbors, and do only good to them.

Margot, like Christine, was in her fisher-costume, with little accentuations in Christine’s case; but Margot was the very mate for the splendid man she called “her man.” Scotch, from head to feet, douce and domestic, yet cleverer than James, though obedient to him—a good woman, fit for the work of this world, and not forgetful concerning a better one.

Keeping in mind the Domine’s directions about a cup of tea, Christine laid the table with their best linen and china, and though no difference was made in the food provided, Christine saw that it was well 105 cooked. After all, it was quite an event for James Ruleson, and in the outcome of it he expected to realize one of the greatest pleasures that could come to him.

About five o’clock the Domine and Ballister arrived. They entered a room full of the feeling of home. It was clean, and white as a snow drift, and there was a bright fire blazing on the hearth. The covered table with its knives and forks and spoons, and its gilt rimmed teacups, was in itself a symbol of hospitality. The Domine looked at it, and then said, “Margot, you are baking sea trout. I told you never to do that again, when I was coming, unless you intended asking me to help in the eating of it.”

“Today, they were cooked special for you, Sir, and I hope you will hae the good will to pleasure me in the eating o’ them.”

“Certainly, Margot, certainly! I could not resist your invitation.”

Hearing these words, Ruleson rose, and said, “Colonel, if you will join the Domine at the meal God has gi’en us, James Ruleson will gladly break bread with you.”

After these preliminaries, Christine served the meal, and then waited on her parents and their guests. They ate the fish with great enjoyment. It was to the Colonel a gastronomical discovery. No anchovy, no sauces of any kind, just the delicate fish, baked with a few slices of Ayrshire ham, and served with potatoes boiled in their jackets so skillfully that 106 the jackets dropped from them when touched. It was a dish pure and simple, and captivated every palate. Nothing more was needed that Christine’s quiet service and the animated conversation did not supply. As to Margot, she was kept busy filling small cups with that superexcellent tea we get in Scotland, and find it next to impossible to get anywhere else.

After the fish was fully eaten, Christine—almost without notice—cleared the table, and brought on a rice pudding, and a large pitcher of cream. The men ate the whole of it. Perhaps they did so unconsciously, for they were talking about the school in an enthusiastic manner, while it was disappearing. Then James Ruleson lit his pipe, and the Colonel his cigar, and they sat down at the fireside. The Domine, with a smile of perfect happiness, sat between them, and every remnant of dinner silently disappeared.

During the hour following the Domine drafted the principal items to be discussed and provided for, and it was further resolved to call a village meeting in the Fishers’ Hall, for the next evening. Then the Colonel’s carriage was waiting, and he rose, but really with some reluctance. He cast his eyes over the comfortable room, and looked with admiration on the good man who called it home, on the bright, cheery woman, whose love made it worth the name, and on the girl who filled it with her beauty; and he said to Margot, “Mrs. Ruleson, I have eaten today 107 the very best of dinners. I enjoyed every mouthful of it.”

“Indeed, the dinner was good, Colonel; and we were proud and glad o’ your company.”

“And you will meet us in the Hall tomorrow night, and bring all the women you can with you?”

“I’ll do my best, Sir, but our women are a dour lot. They lay out their ain way, and then mak’ the taking o’ it a point o’ duty.”

And all the way to Ballister House the Colonel wondered about his dinner—no flowers on the table, no napkins, no finger bowls, no courses, no condiments or pickles, no wine, not even a thimbleful of whiskey, nothing but excellently cooked fresh fish and potatoes, a good cup of tea with it, and then a rice pudding and plenty of cream. “Wonderful!” he ejaculated. “Upon my word, things are more evenly balanced than we think. I know noblemen and millionaires that are far from being as happy, or as well fed, as Ruleson’s family.”

The next morning the bellman went through the village calling men and women together at half-past seven, in the Fishers’ Hall; and there was great excitement about the matter. Even the boys and girls here took a noisy part in the discussion, for and against, the argument in this class being overwhelmingly in favor of the school.

Among the adults, opinion was also divided. There were lazy mothers who could not do without their girls’ help, and greedy fathers who expected 108 their little lads to make, or at least save them a few shillings a week; and Christine feared the gift would be ungraciously taken. Ruleson had a long talk with big Peter Brodie, and Peter told him not to fash himsel’ anent a lot o’ ignorant women and men folk. If they were such fools, as not to ken a blessing when it was put into their vera hands, they ought to be made to understand the fact; and with a peculiar smile he intimated that he would take great satisfaction in gieing them as many lessons as they required.

The meeting was, however, crowded, and when the Colonel and the Domine stepped on the platform, the audience were just in the mood to give them a rousing cheer. It opened the Domine’s mouth, and he said:

“Friends, I have great and good news for you. Colonel Ballister is going to build us a school of our own. We shall want some of you as Trustees, and others will have to form an executive board. We are going to have a women’s board as well. The men’s board will look after the management of the school. The women’s board will look after the bairns, and see that they get fair play in every respect. A women’s board will be a new thing, but Culraine is not afraid of new ways, if they be better ways.” Then he went into particulars, which we need not do, and concluded by telling them that James Ruleson had given land both for the school and the playground, and that it was hoped James’ approval would stand for many, and much. “We will 109 now take the vote of both men and women for, or against, the school.”

Then a man in the center of the crowded hall stood up. It was Peter Brodie.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “a vote is outside necessity. We dinna vote as to whether we want sunshine, or fish, or bread. We are sure o’ the matter. The school is mental bread and meat and sunshine to our lads and lasses. We thank God for it. There would be a deal o’ trouble i’ getting and counting names, and the like o’ that. Let us vote, gentlemen, as our forefathers voted for the Solemn League and Covenant, by just lifting their right hands above their heads. The Domine could gie us the word, and if after it there is man or woman with baith hands down, Peter Brodie will be asking the reason why.”

This speech was received with acclamation, and when the tumult had subsided, the Domine called for the silent vote of approval, that had ratified their immortal compact with their kirk. He described in picturesque words that wonderful scene in the Greyfriars’ kirkyard, when sixty thousand right hands rose as promptly as one hand for the True Religion, and he told them that after the kirk, their first duty was the school. Then he stood still a moment, and there was a profound silence. After it came the word:

“Stand!”

Men and women rose as by one impulse.

“Those who are in favor of a school in Culraine, and grateful to God and man for it, let them lift up their right hands above their heads.”

Every right hand was lifted. There was not a protesting hand, and Peter Brodie observed that if there had been one, it ought to be cut off, and cast into the fire, with a’ the lave o’ useless members.

The meeting was then practically over, but many remained. The room was warm and lighted, and it seemed unreasonable not to have a song and story, and dance out of it. Christine was entreated to remain, but she said her mither wasna feeling well, and she be to gae hame wi’ her. In truth she was much depressed because Angus had not come with his uncle. She did not like to ask why, and her heart was full of unhappy surmises. But she put the trouble aside while with her mother, and gave herself willingly to the discussion of Peter Brodie’s ill-bred and forwardsome behavior.

“I perfectly thought shame of his interference,” said Margot. “Mercifully he spoke some kind o’ Scotch, for I hae heard him—special when he was angry—rave in his native Gaelic, and then he got his ain way, for nae decent man or woman could answer his unpronounceable words. They were just a vain babblement.”

“Jean Pollok was a’ for the school tonight; this morning she was raving against it.”

“That was to be looked for. There is as much 111 two-facedness in some women, as there’s meat in an egg.”

“But for all disputing, Mither, everyone seemed to think the school would be a good thing.”

“It is this, and that, and what not, and how it will end nobody knows. Some folks are ill to please, even when they get their ain way.”

“You could hardly make Mary Leslie keep her sitting. She wanted to stand up, and ask the Domine how she was to cook and wash and clean and sew and nurse her baby, without the help o’ her girls, Jess and Flora. She said there was eleven in her family, and she wanted to know how it was to be managed. It was hard to keep her still.”

“It was vera barefaced o’ her. But she put up her hand wi’ the rest.”

“Ay, Mither. She was feared for Peter Brodie quarreling with her man. That’s Peter’s way o’ managing women; he mak’s their husbands responsible for a’ they say, and do; he says, ‘the husbands ought to hae brought up their wives better.’ He has done it, you know, Mither, several times.”

Margot laughed. “Ay,” she said, “for Tamson’s wife. Naebody blamed him. Anne Tamson has a parfectly unruly tongue, and her husband, Watty, got the licking for what she said anent Frazer and his wife. I wouldna fear the man mysel’, and the maist o’ our women could gie him as much—and mair—than he sends.”

So they talked until the cottage was reached, and 112 the day was over. Christine went gladly to her room. A crusie was burning on the table, and she removed her gown and uncoiled her long, brown hair. Then all was still, and she let herself think, and her decision was, “if Angus had wanted to come, he would have done so.

“It isna my place,” she continued, “to tak’ care on the subject. I’ll no mak’ mysel’ and ithers miserable anent him, forbye Angus Ballister is clear outside me, and my life.”

Then she rose and took a large copy book from a drawer, and sitting down at the table, took pen and ink and wrote:

Then she put the book away, turned out the light and lay down. But the old mysterious, hungering sound of the sea had an angry sough in it; and she went to sleep fearing it, and thinking of it as a deep starless darkness, hanging over the dreamlike figures of dead sailors and fishers. At midnight she awoke, the storm her father had predicted was roaring over the great waters. She went to her little window and looked out—darkness, wildness, desolation—and she 113 hasted and put plenty of peats on the fire, and carried her mother an extra quilt.

“I hae made up the fire, Mither dear,” she said, “and if ye want to get up, you’ll be warm, and I’ll come and sit by you.”

“Will I waken your feyther?”

“Whatna for? There’s naething to fear. Norman and Eneas are doubtless at hame. Most o’ our men are. Few would start after the dance. They would see the storm coming.”

“Will it be a bad storm?”

“I think it will. But the sea is His, and He made it. If there is a storm He is guiding it. Ye ken how often we sing ‘He plants His footsteps on the sea, and rides upon the storm.’” And so, sweet-eyed and fearless, she went away, but left peace and blessing behind her.

In the living room, she laid more peats on the fire. Then she went to her own room. Some words had been singing in her heart as she moved about, and she took the big copy book out of the drawer, and stooping to the crusie burning on the table, she wrote them down:

She read the words over with a smile. “They might be worse,” she thought, “but Christine! You hae 114 been writing poetry. You’ll hae to stop that nonsense! Weel, it wasna my fault. It came o’ itsel’, and I dinna feel as if I had done anything much out o’ the way—and I was maist asleep, if that is ony kind o’ an excuse. I——”

The summer had been full of interest and excitement, but it was over. There was the infallible sense of ended summer, even at noonday; and the dahlias and hollyhocks, dripping in the morning mist, seemed to be weeping for it. If it had been clear cold weather, the fishers would have been busy and happy, but it was gloomy, with black skies over the black sea, and bitter north winds that lashed the waves into fury. The open boats hardly dared to venture out, and the fish lay low, and were shy of bait.

James Ruleson, generally accompanied by Cluny Macpherson, was out every day that a boat could live on the sea, and Margot and Christine often stood together at their door or window, and watched them with anxious hearts, casting their lines in the lonely, leaden-colored sea. The boat would be one 116 minute on the ridge of the billow, the next minute in the trough of the sea, with a wall of water on either hand of them. And through all, and over all, the plaintive pipe of the gulls and snipe, the creaking of the boat’s cordage, the boom of the breakers on the shore, the sense and the presence of danger.

And Christine knew that Cluny was in that danger for her sake. He had told her on the day after the storm, as she sat sympathetically by his side, that he was only waiting for her “yes or no.” He said when she gave him either one or the other, he would go to the Henderson steamboats, in one case to work for their future happiness and home, in the other to get beyond the power of her beauty, so that he might forget her.

Forget her! Those two words kept Christine uncertain and unhappy. She could not bear to think of Cluny’s forgetting her. Cluny had been part of all her nineteen years of life. Why must men be so one or the other? she asked fretfully. Why force her to an uncertain decision? Why was she so uncertain? Then she boldly faced the question and asked herself—“Is Angus Ballister the reason?” Perhaps so, though she was equally uncertain about Angus. She feared the almost insurmountable difficulties between them. Caste, family, social usage and tradition, physical deficiencies in education and in all the incidentals of polite life, not to speak of what many would consider the greatest of all shortcomings, 117 her poverty. How could two lives so dissimilar as Angus Ballister’s and Christine Ruleson’s become one?

She asked her mother this question one day, and Margot stopped beating her oat cakes and answered, “Weel, there’s a’ kinds o’ men, Christine, and I’ll no say it is a thing impossible; but I hae come to the conclusion that in the case o’ Angus and yoursel’ you wouldna compluter if you lived together a’ the rest o’ this life.”

“Why, Mither?”

“Because you are—the baity o’ you—so weel satisfied wi’ your present mak’ up. That’s a’. And it is a’ that is needfu’ to keep you baith from going forwarder. There’s a lump a’ rank cowardice in it, too.”

“Mother, do you think I am a coward?”

“All women are frightened by what is said o’ them, or even likely to be said o’ them. And nae wonder. Women are far harder judged than men are. You would think the Ten Commands were not made for men. Yet if a woman breaks one o’ them, God’s sake! what a sinner she is!”

“I don’t see what you are meaning, Mither.”

“It’s plain enou’. Men are not set down below notice, if they break the twa first a’ their lives lang, if so be they pay their deficit to God in gold to the kirk. How many men do you know, Christine, who never break the third command? How many men honor the fourth? As to the fifth, Scots are maistly 118 ready to tak’ care o’ their ain folk. The sixth, seventh and eighth belong to the criminal class, and ye’ll allow its maistly made up o’ bad men. Concerning the ninth command, men are warse than women, but men call their ill-natured talk politics, or het’rodoxy, or some ither grand name; and I’ll allow that as soon as they begin to covet their neighbor’s house and wife and horses and cattle, they set to wark, and mak’ money and build a bigger house than he hes, and get a bonnier wife, and finer-blooded horses and cattle—and I’m not saying whether they do well or ill—there is sae much depending on the outcome o’ prosperity o’ that kind. But tak’ men as a whole, they leave the Ten Commands on the shoulders o’ their wives.”

“And do the women obey them, Mither?”

“Middling well. They do love God, and they do go to kirk. They don’t swear, and as a general thing they honor their fathers and mothers. They don’t, as a rule, murder or steal or tak’ some ither woman’s husband awa’ from her. I’m no clear about women and the ninth and tenth command. They are apt to long for whatever is good and beautiful—and I don’t blame them.”

“I wish I was better educated, Mother. I would be able to decide between Angus and Cluny.”

“Not you. The key of your life is in your heart, not in your brain.”

“It is a pity.”

“That is, as may be. In the long run, your feelings 119 will decide, and they are likely to be mair sensible than your reasons. And where love is the because o’ your inquiry, I’ll warrant a bit o’ good sense is best o’ all advisers.”

“What is gude sense? How can a girl get it?”

“Gude sense is the outcome o’ all our senses. As regards Ballister, ca’ to your decision a bit o’ wholesome pride. Ye ken what I mean.”

“Weel, weel, Angus is far awa’, and Cluny is only waiting the word I canna say, and what will I do when I hae nae lover at a’, at a’?”

“When you haven’t what you love, you must love what you hae. And I fear there is a heart fu’ o’ cares ready for us to sort. Geordie Sinclair was telling your father that Neil is flinging a big net i’ Aberdeen—dining wi’ rich folk o’ all kinds, and rinning as close friend wi’ a lad ca’ed Rath. He was saying, also, that Rath has lying siller, plenty, o’ it, and that he is studying law in the same classes as Neil, at the Maraschal.”

“I dinna see why we should fret oursel’s anent Neil dining wi’ rich folk. He was aye talkin’ o’ his intention to do the same. The mair rich friends he has, the better; it isna puir folk that go to law. Neil is casting his net vera prudently, nae doubt. I’ll warrant it will be takin’ for him even while he sleeps. Worry is just wasted on Neil.”

“I’m thinking that way mysel’, but feyther is feared he will be spending money he shouldna spend.”

“He is lawyer enou’ to ken the outcome o’ that way. Neil will be on the safe side—every day, and always! There’s nae need to fash oursel’s anent Neil!”

“Weel then, your feyther is sairly heart-hurt anent Allan’s youngest laddie. Last New Year when he went to Glasgow to see Allan, he thought things were far wrang, and he has worried himsel’ on the matter ever since. It is a dreadful thing to say, but the bairn is vera delicate, and his mother isna kind to him. She is a big strong woman, ne’er sick hersel’, and without feeling for a bairn that is never well, and often vera sick. Feyther said his heart was sair for the little fellow, lyin’ wakefu’ lang nights wi’ pain and fear, and naebody in the house carin’. Yesterday feyther hed a letter frae your brither Allan, and he was fu’ o’ grief, and begging feyther to go and see the bairn, and if possible tak’ him to Culraine, and try if we could do anything to help him to health and happiness.”

“Will she let feyther hae him?”

“She’s as uncertain as the wind, but the lad is named James after his grandfeyther, and he’ll ask for him, on that plea.”

“O Mither, get feyther to go at once! I’ll tak’ a’ the trouble o’ the child! Only to think o’ it! Only to think o’ it! A mither no carin’ for her suffering child!”

“She doesna ken what suffering is, hersel’. She ne’er tak’s cold and she doesna see why ither folks 121 should. She is never fearsome, or nervous, she never feels the dark to be full o’ what terrifies her vera soul, and she canna understand her bairn’s terror. She treats him vera much as she treats his brithers, but they are big, rugged lads, that naething hurts or frights. All right for them, but she is slowly killin’ little James, and you couldna mak’ her see it.”

“Feyther ought not to lose an hour.”

“He’ll hae to be vera cautious i’ the matter. Allan’s wife isna easily managed. Proud and strong in her health and youth, she is fairly scounfu’ o’ the weak and sick, but I think your feyther can manage her. I’ll get him awa’ tomorrow, if so be it’s possible.”

Then there was such pressure of the two women brought to bear upon the grandfather’s heart, that he was eager for the morning to come, and before it was yet light he was away to the town, to catch the earliest train to Edinburgh, from which place he could get quick transit to Glasgow.

“Now, Mither, we hae done a’ we can, at the present, for Allan’s little lad,” said Christine. “Do you think feyther will write to us?”

“I’m sure he will not. He wad rayther do a hard day’s work than write a letter. What are you going to do wi’ your day, dearie?”

“I am going to write to Neil.”

“Do. You might remind him that his feyther and mither are yet living in Culraine.”

“That news isna worth while. If he wants to write, he’ll write. If he doesna want to write, we arena begging letters. I’m thinking mair o’ little James than I am o’ Neil. You dinna like his mither, I’m thinking?”

“You’re thinking right. Allan picked her up in some unkent place, and when a man lives between sailing and docking, he hasna time to ken what he’s doing. Forbye, Christine, new relations dinna get into their place easy. They mind me o’ that new dress my sister sent me frae Liverpool. It wanted a lot o’ taking-in, and o’ letting-out. It’s just that way wi’ new relations. Allan’s wife required plentiful taking-in, and the mair letting-out there was, the mair unfittable she became.” Then Margot rubbed the end of her nose with an air of scorn, and said decidedly, “She wasna a comprehensible woman. I couldna be fashed wi’ her. It isna the bringing o’ bairns to the birth, that hurts the heart and spoils the life o’ a mither, it’s the way lads and lasses marry themsel’s that mak’s her wish she had neither lad nor lass to her name.”

“Mither, that isna like you.”

“Allan was just twenty-three when he married the woman, without word or wittens to any o’ us. It was a bad day’s wark, and he hes never been able to mend it. For there’s nae takin’-in or lettin’-out wi’ his wife. She is sure she is parfect, and what will you do, what can you do, wi’ a parfect woman? I hope and pray that I’ll never fall 123 into that state; parfection isna suitable for this warld.”

“It ought to be a grand virtue, Mither.”

“It’s the warst o’ all the vices. We hae three or four specimens o’ it in the village o’ Culraine, and they are the maist unenlightened people we hae to tak’ care o’. But when parfection is born o’ ignorance, it is unconquerable. The Domine said sae, and that only God could manage a parfect man or woman.”

“When little James comes, wouldn’t it be well to hae the Domine look him over? He can tell us what’s the matter wi’ the laddie, and what we ought to do for him.”

“That is a sensible observe, Christine. There will be nae harm in doing what it calls for.”

“Now I’ll awa’, and write to Neil. Hae ye ony special message for him, Mither?”

“You might say I would like to ken something anent thae Raths. They arena Fifemen, nor Shetlanders, Highland Scots, nor Lowland Scots; and I’m thinking they may be Irish, and if sae, I’m hopin’ they hae the true faith.”

“Mither dear, I wouldna fash wi’ the Raths. They are simply naething to us, and if we set Neil on ‘praising and proving,’ he’ll write pages anent them.”

“Sae he will. You might name the ninety pound he’s owing you.”

“It wouldna be advisable. Neil will pay when it’s 124 fully convenient to himsel’. I’m not expecting a farthing until it is sae.”

“I can think o’ nae ither thing. It seems vera superfluous to tell Neil to be good, and to do good. He has the gift o’ admiring himsel’. Tell him he can be thankful, for it isna every man that has the same capability.”

“I’ll read you my letter, Mither, when I hae written it.”

“You’d better not. You’ll say lots I wouldna say, and naething I would say, and the amends and contradictions would require another letter o’ explanations. I’m going to look through my ain lads’ outgrown breeks and jackets. I’ll warrant wee James will come to us next door to naked.”

“I didna know that you had saved the lads’ auld claes.”

“Did you think I wad throw them awa’? All our lads grew quick, they ne’er wore out a suit, and I put their wee breeks and coaties awa’. I thought they might come in for their ain bairns, and lo and behold! Allan’s little lad is, like as not, to come into his feyther’s Sunday raiment.”

“Did you save their shirts and such like?”

“Why wouldn’t I? But vera few linen things are left. They were too easy to wear and tear, to be long-lived, but I fancy I can find a sleeping gown for the bairn, and maybe a shirt or twa. But stockings are beyond mention. They got them into unmendable holes, and left them in the boats, or the 125 fish sheds, and I fairly wore my knitting needles awa’ knitting for lads wha wouldna use their feet ony way but skin-bare.”

So the grandmother went to find what clothes she could for a little lad of eight years old, and Christine sat down to answer Neil’s last letter. To herself she called it an “overflowing screed.” Indeed it was full of the great Reginald Rath, his fine family, his comfortable wealth, his sister, Roberta, and her highly respectable house in the Monteith Row o’erby the Green of Glasgow City. Christine told him in reply that she was glad he had found a friend so conformable to all his wishes. She asked him if he had heard lately from Angus Ballister, and casually mentioned that the Domine had received ten days ago a letter from the Colonel about the school building, and that Angus had sent her some bonnie pictures of the city of Rome. She also informed him that his nephew was coming to Culraine, and that she herself was going to take the charge of him, and so might not have time to write as often as she had done.

In the afternoon Faith came from the village to help with the nets a-mending, and she brought the village gossip with her, and among the news of all kinds, the date of her own marriage. She was going to wed the Largo man on Christmas Day, and she had forgotten her loneliness and melancholy, and laughed and joked pleasantly, as she went over her plans with Christine. Margot watched her, and 126 listened to her with great interest, and when at sunset the lassie went down the hill, she said to Christine: “Wonders never cease. Faith Balcarry was moping melancholy, she is now as merry as a cricket. She was sick and going to die, she’s now well and going to marry. She had nane to love her, and nane she loved. Her whole talk now is o’ the Largo man, and the wonderfu’ love he has for her, and the untelling love she has for him. Weel! Weel! I hae learned ane thing this afternoon.”

“What hae you learned, Mither?”

“I hae learned, that when a lass is dying wi’ a sair affliction, that there is parfect salvation in a lad.”

It was the evening of the third day ere James Ruleson returned home. He had met no difficulties with Mrs. Allan Ruleson that were not easily removed by the gift of a sovereign. And he found the little lad quietly but anxiously waiting for him. “My feyther whispered to me that you would come,” he said softly, as he snuggled into James’ capacious breast. “I was watching for you, I thought I could hear your footsteps, after twelve o’clock today they were coming nearer, and nearer—when you chappit at the door, I knew it was you—Grandfeyther!” And James held the child tighter and closer in his arms, and softly stroked the white, thin face that was pressed against his heart.

“I’m going to tak’ you hame to your grandmither, and your aunt Christine,” James whispered to the 127 boy. “You are going to get well and strong, and big, and learn how to read and write and play, yoursel’, like ither bairns.”

“How soon? How soon?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I thought God didna know about me. Such long, long days and nights.”

“You puir little lad! God knew all the time. It is o’er by now.”

“Will it come again?”

“Never! Never again!”

The next day they left Glasgow about the noon hour. The child had no clothing but an old suit of his elder brother, and it was cold winter weather. But James made no remark, until he had the boy in the train for Edinburgh. Then he comforted him with all the kind words he could say, and after a good supper, they both went early to bed in a small Edinburgh hostelry.

In the morning, soon after nine o’clock, James took his grandson to a ready-made tailor’s shop, and there he clothed him from head to feet in a blue cloth suit. From the little white shirt to the little blue cloth cap on his long fair hair, everything was fit and good, and the child looked as if he had been touched by a miracle. He was now a beautiful boy, spiritually frail and fair, almost angelic. Ruleson looked at him, then he looked at the pile of ragged clothes that had fallen from his little shrunken form, and he kicked them with his 128 big feet to the other end of the shop. A thick, warm overcoat, and new shoes and stockings, were added to the outfit, and then they were ready for their home train.

As they walked slowly down Prina’s Street, they met a regiment of Highland soldiers, accompanied by a fine military band. The boy was enthralled, he could not speak his delight, but he looked into his grandfather’s face with eyes painfully eloquent. It was evident that he had life to learn, not gradually, as the usual infant learns it; but that its good and evil would assail him through all his senses in their full force. And Ruleson understood, partially, how abnormally large and important very trivial events might appear to him.

Soon after four o’clock they arrived at their destination, and found a train omnibus about to go their way. Ruleson lifted his grandson into it, and the vehicle set them down at the foot of his own hill; then he carried the boy up to the cottage in his arms. The door was closed, but there was the shining of fire and candlelight through the windows. Yet their arrival was unnoticed, until Ruleson entered and stood the little child in the middle of the room. With a cry of welcome Margot and Christine rose. Ruleson pointed to the child standing in their midst. The next moment Christine was removing his coat and cap, and when Margot turned to him, his beauty and the pathos of his thin, white face went straight to her heart. She took him in 129 her arms and said, “Bonnie wee laddie, do ye ken that I am your grandmither?”

“Ay, grandmither,” he answered, “I ken. And I hae a grandfeyther too. I am vera happy. Dinna send me awa’, for ony sake.”

Then the women set him in a big chair, and admired and loved him from head to feet—his fair hair, his wonderful eyes, his little hands so white and thin—his wee feet in their neat, well-fitting shoes—his dress so good and so becoming—this new bairn of theirs was altogether an unusual one in Culraine.

Ruleson quickly made himself comfortable in his usual house dress. Christine began to set the table for their evening meal, and Margot buttered the hot scones and infused the tea. This meal had a certain air of festivity about it, and the guest of honor was the little child sitting at Ruleson’s right hand.

They had scarcely begun the meal, when there was a knock at the door, and to Margot’s cheerful “Come in, friend,” Dr. Trenabie entered.

“Blessing on this house!” he said reverently, and then he walked straight to the child, and looked earnestly into his face. The boy looked steadily back at him, and as he did so he smiled, and held up his arms. Then the Domine stooped and kissed him, and the thin, weak arms clasped him round the neck.

It was a tender, silent moment. The man’s eyes were misty with tears, and his voice had a new tone 130 in it as he said, “Ruleson, this little lad is mine, as well as yours. I have been spoken to. Through him we shall all be greatly blessed, and we shall yet see a grand preacher come out of the boats and the fisherman’s cottage.”

There was a few moments’ silence, and then Margot said, “Take your sitting, Sir, and a cup o’ tea will do you mair gude than doing without it.”

“I’ll sit down gladly.” Then they talked of the child’s extreme weakness and nervousness, and the Domine said that with plenty of fresh milk, and fresh fish, and with all the fresh air he could breathe, and all the sleep he could shut his eyes for, the little one would soon be well. “Then Christine,” he said, “must give him his first lessons. After they have been learned, it will be joy of Magnus Trenabie to see him safe through school and college. Give me so much interest in the boy, Ruleson, for he is called and chosen, and we have in our hands the making of a Man of God.”

Later in the evening, when the school affairs had been discussed and the boy and Christine had disappeared, the Domine was told the few sad incidents which made up the whole life of little James Ruleson. There was a strong tendency on his grandfather’s part to make excuses for the mother of the neglected boy. “You see, Domine,” he said, “she has never been sick, and her ither children are as rugged as hersel’. She couldna understand 131 James. She didna ken what to do wi’ him, or for him.”

“I know, Ruleson, but physical pride is as real a sin as spiritual pride, and is the cause of much suffering and unhappiness. My own father was one of those bronze men, who thought weakness to be cowardice, and sickness to be mostly imagination. His children were all weak and sensitive, but he insisted on our roughing it. Fagging and hazing were good for us, he enjoyed them. Bodily strain and mental cram were healthy hardening processes. I had a little sister, she was weak and fearful, he insisted on her taking the cold water cure. Nerves were all nonsense! ‘Look at me!’ he would say proudly, ‘I get up early, I work all day, I know nothing about headaches, or neuralgia, or nerves’—In the world he passed for a genial, hearty man.”

“We hae plenty o’ such unfeeling fellows,” said Ruleson. “I dinna fret, when they hae a hard spell o’ rheumatism. Not I!”

“It is not mere flesh and blood, Ruleson, that moves the earth on its axis. It is men whose intelligent brows wear the constant plait of tension, whose manner reveals a debility beneath which we know that suffering lurks, and who have an unconscious plaintiveness about them. Such men have fits of languor, but let the occasion come and they command their intellect and their hands just as easily as a workman commands his tools. The mother of this boy of ours was a physical tyrant in her 132 home, and she never suspected that she had under her control and keeping a spirit touched and prepared for the finest issues of life. Oh, Ruleson,

The child became rapidly an integral part of the household. No one thought of him as a transient guest, no one wanted him in that light, and he unconsciously made many changes. Margot often spoke to Christine of them: “Were you noticing your feyther this afternoon, Christine?” she asked one day, when little James had been two weeks with them. “Were you noticing him?”

“How, Mither, or whatna for?”

“Weel, as soon as he was inside the house, the laddie had his hand, and when he sat down he was on his knee, and showing him the book, and saying his letters to him—without missing ane o’ them, and granddad listening, and praising him, and telling him it was wonderfu’, an’ the like o’ that.”

“Weel, then, it is wonderfu’! He learns as if he was supping new milk. He’ll be ready for the school when the school is ready for him. And he’s nae trouble in ony way. The house would be gey dull wanting him.”

“That’s truth itsel’. I like to hear his soft footsteps, 133 and I would miss his crooning voice going o’er his lessons. You mustna gie him too lang, or too many lessons. I hae heard learning tasks were bad for sickly weans.”

“Perhaps that was the cause o’ his mither neglecting him anent his books, and such things?”

“Not it! His mither is a lazy, unfeeling hizzy! I’d like to hae the sorting o’ her—fine!”

“Maybe he was too sick to be bothered wi’ books and lessons.”

“Maybe he wad niver hae been sick at a’, if he had been gi’en a few books and lessons. Griselda Ruleson had better keep out o’ my presence. If she ventures into it, the words arena to seek, that I’ll gie her.”

One cold afternoon Christine was hearing the boy’s lessons when Cluny Macpherson called. He looked annoyed at the child’s presence and said, “I saw your mither in the village, sae I thought I wad hae a chance to speak a few words to you, wi’ nane by, but oursel’s.”

“You needna mind wee James.”

“Send him awa’. I want you, and nane but you.”

James was sent away, and then Christine said, “You hae got your will, Cluny. Now what hae you to say to me, that the little one couldna listen to?”

“I want to know, Christine, when you will marry me. I hae been waiting months for that word, and I can wait nae langer. I’m goin’ awa’ tomorrow.”

“Your waiting isna over, Cluny. Indeed no! I’m not thinking o’ marriage, nor o’ anything like it. I canna think o’ it. Mither isna fit for any hard wark, even the making o’ a bed is mair than she ought to do. I’m not thinking o’ marriage. Not I!”

“It is time you were. Maist o’ our girls marry when they are nineteen years auld.”

“I’m not nineteen yet. I don’t want to marry. I hae my wark and my duty right here, i’ this house—wark that God has set me, and I’ll not desert it for wark I set mysel’, to please mysel’.”

“That’s the way wi’ women. They bring up God and their duty to screen their neglect o’ duty. Hae ye nae duty towards me?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Will you let a lad gie ye his life-lang love, and feel nae duty anent it?”

“I dinna ask you for your love. I hae told you, mair than once, that I dinna want any man’s love.”

“Tuts! That is out o’ all nature and custom. Ye be to marry some man.”

“I havna seen the man yet.”

“I’m thinking it will be Angus Ballister. I’ll mak’ him black and blue from head to foot, if he comes near Culraine again.”

“You talk foolishness. The Ballisters own twenty houses or mair, in Culraine.”

“Houses! Twa rooms, a but and a ben, and a heather roof. What are they bothering us the now for? They hae let Culraine well alane for years—it 135 is only sin’ you and your beauty cam’ to the forefront, that they hae remembered us. The factor, to gather their rents, was a’ we saw o’ them, till your brither brought that dandified lad here, and then the auld man had to come—on the report o’ your beauty, nae doubt.”

There was a fishing net which required mending, hanging against the wall, and Christine, standing in front of it, went on weaving the broken meshes together. She did not answer the jealous, impetuous young man, and all at once he became conscious of her silence.

“Why don’t you speak to me, Christine? Oh lassie, canna you pity a lad sae miserable as I am, and a’ for the love I hae for you. I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m broken-hearted, if I hae angered you! My dear! My dear love! Will ye na speak ane word to me?”

Then she turned to him a face full of pity and anger, yet strangely beautiful. “Cluny,” she said, “I’ll talk to you, if you’ll speak o’ yoursel’ and let be a’ ither folk.”

“How can I? I’m sick wi’ the fear that you love, that you intend to marry Ballister. Tell me straight, and be done wi’ it, if that is what you intend to do.”

“You havna any right to ask me such a question. I never gave you any right to do sae.”

“You hae let me love ye wi’ a’ my heart and soul for fifteen years. Is that naething?”

“Ithers hae loved me, as weel as you.”

“They hev not. Nane on this earth lo’es you as I lo’e you. Nane!”

The man was beyond himself in uttering these words. It was a Cluny transfigured by a great love. The loftier Inner Man spoke for his mortal brother, and Christine looked at him and was astonished. He appeared to be taller, he was wonderfully handsome, his attitude of entreaty in some way ennobled him, and his voice had a strange tone of winning command in it, as he stretched out his arms and said:

“Come to me, Christine. I love you so! I love you so! You cannot say me ‘nay’ this afternoon. It is perhaps the last time. My dearie, I am going away tomorrow—it might be forever.”

“Cluny! Cluny! You distress me! What do you wish me to say, or do?”

“Tell me the truth about Ballister. Are you going to marry him?”

“I am not.”

“Perhaps not this year—but next year?”

“I am never going to marry him in any year.”

“Will you marry Cluny Macpherson?”

“It is not unlikely.”

“When? Be merciful, dearie.”

“There are several things in the way o’ my marrying anyone just yet.”

“Ay, there’s that new bairn i’ the house. Whatna for is he here?”

“He is my brither Allan’s son. He is sick, we are going to mak’ him weel.”

“Ay, and you’ll wear a’ your love on the little brat, and send a man that lo’es you to death awa’ hungry.”

“Cluny, I love no man better than I love you. Will not that satisfy you?”

“Na. It’s a mouthfu’, that’s a’. And it leaves me hungrier than ever;” and he smiled and clasped her hands so fondly, that she sat down beside him, and let him draw her close to his heart.

“Dearest woman on earth,” he whispered, “when will you be my ain? My very ain! My wife!”

“When the right time comes, laddie. I love none better than you. I’m not likely to love anyone better. When the right time comes——”

“What do you ca’ the right time?”

“When I can marry without neglecting any duty that God has left in my hands to perform, or look after. I canna say mair. There are many things to consider. Mither could not be left yet, and I am not going to leave her for any man—and I hae promised to tak’ a’ the care and charge o’ Allan’s little lad, but it’s Mither I am thinking mainly on.”

“How soon will she be well?”

“In God’s good time.”

“Christine, surely I hae trysted you this very hour. Give me ane, just ane kiss, dearie. I’ll get through years, if need be, wi’ a kiss and a promise, and work 138 will be easy to do, and siller be easy to save, if Christine be at the end o’ them.”

Then he kissed her, and Christine did not deny him, but when he took from his vest pocket a pretty gold ring holding an emerald stone, she shook her head.

“It’s your birthstone, dearie,” he said, “and it will guard you, and bring you luck, and, mind you o’ me beside. Tak’ it, frae Cluny, do!”

“Na, na, Cluny! I hae often heard my mither say, ‘I hae plenty now, but the first thing I owned was my wedding ring.’”

“I thought it would mind you o’ Cluny, and the promise ye hae just made him.”

“If I mak’ a promise, Cluny, I’ll be requiring no reminder o’ the same.”

“Will you gie me a lock o’ your bonnie brown hair, to wear next my heart?”

“I’ll hae no charms made out o’ my hair. Tak’ my word, just as I gave it. As far as I know, I’ll stand by my word, when the right time comes.”

“If you would just say a word anent the time. I mean as to the probabilities.”

“I won’t. I can’t, Cluny. I havna the ordering o’ events. You’ll be back and forth doubtless. Where are you going?”

“To the Mediterranean service, on ane o’ the Henderson boats. I’ll be making siller on thae boats.”

“Dinna mak’ it for me. It is you, your ain sel’ 139 I’ll marry, and I wouldna mind if we started wi’ the wedding ring, as Mither did. Folks may happen live on love, but they canna live without it.”

“I would hae chosen you, Christine, from out o’ a warld fu’ o’ women, but I like to think o’ you as mine by predestination, as well as choice.”

“I didna think your Calvinism went that far, Cluny. They’ll be haeing a kirk session on your views, if you publicly say the like. Ye be to ta’ care o’ the elders, laddie.”

They could talk now cheerfully and hopefully, and Cluny went away from Christine that night like a new man, for

Then every day seemed to be happier than the last. The child was sunshine in the house, whatever the weather might be. His thin, soft voice, his light step, above all, his shy little laugh, went to their hearts like music. He had only learned to laugh since he came to Culraine. Margot remembered the first time she had heard him laugh. She said he had been almost afraid, and that he had looked inquiringly into her face, as if he had done something he should not have done.

So the weeks and the months wore away, and the winter came, but the weather was sunny and not very cold, and in early December Ruleson 140 wrapped his grandson up in one of his own pilot coats, and took him to the boat, and carried him to the fishing ground, and showed him how to cast and draw the line. And Jamie took naturally to the sea, and loved it, and won Ruleson’s heart over again, whenever he begged to go with him.

Then Christmas and New Year were approaching, and there were many other pleasures and interests. Faith’s marriage was drawing near, and she was frequently at Ruleson’s, for the girl relied on Christine’s help and advice in all matters concerning the new life to which she was going. This year also, Christmas was made memorable by a box full of gifts which came all the way from Rome, with the compliments and good will of the Ballisters and which contained many remembrances for the villagers. For Ruleson himself there was a fine barometer, to Margot a brooch and earrings of white cameo, and to Christine some lovely lace, and a set of scarlet coral combs, beads, and earrings. To Christine’s care there was also intrusted a box full of Roman ribbons, scarves, and neckties, their wonderful hues making them specially welcome gifts to people so fond of brilliant colors.

From these gay treasures a scarf and sash were selected for the bride, and the rest were sent on Christmas Eve to the young girls of the village. Many other pretty trifles were among the gifts—fans and sets of Roman pearls, and laces for the neck and head, and pretty veils, and fancy handkerchiefs, 141 and in a long letter Angus directed Christine to do her will with all he sent. He only wished to repay to the village the happy hours he had spent in it the past summer.

This letter was not lover-like, but it was friendly, and sad. He said so much might have been, and yet nothing he longed for had happened. He recalled tender little episodes, and declared they were the only memories he valued. The whole tone of the letter was the tone of a disappointed and hopeless man, to whom life had lost all its salt and savor. Christine read it carefully. She was determined not to deceive herself, and in a wakeful watch of the night, she went over it, and understood.

“There isna ony truth in it,” she said to herself, “and I needna gie a thought to the lad’s fine words. He is writing anent a made-up sorrow. I’ll warrant he is the gayest o’ the gay, and that the memory o’ Christine is a little bit o’ weariness to him. Weel, he has gi’en what he could buy—that’s his way, and he will mak’ in his way a deal o’ pleasure among the young lasses.” And the next day the bits of brilliant silk were sorted and assigned, and then sent to the parties chosen, with the Ballister compliments. The affair made quite a stir in the cottages, and Angus would have been quite satisfied, if he could have heard the many complimentary things that the prettiest girls in Culraine said of him.

Two days before Christmas Day, Neil made his family a short visit. He was looking very well, 142 was handsomely dressed, and had all the appearance and air of a man thoroughly satisfied with himself and his prospects. He only stayed a short afternoon, for his friend Reginald was waiting for him at the hotel, and he made a great deal of his friend Reginald.

“You should hae brought him along wi’ you,” said Margot, and Neil looked at Christine and answered—“I lost one friend, with bringing him here, and I am not a man who requires two lessons on any subject.”

“Your friend had naething but kindness here, Neil,” answered Christine, “and he isna o’ your opinion.” And then she told him of the Christmas presents sent from Rome.

“Exactly so! That is what I complain of. All these gifts to you and the villagers, were really taken from me. I have not been remembered. Last Christmas I was first of all. A woman between two men always makes loss and trouble. I ought to have known that.”

“Weel, Neil,” said Margot, “there’s other kindnesses you can think o’er.”

“I have not had a single New Year’s gift this year—yet. I suppose Reginald will not forget me. I have my little offering to him ready;” and he took a small box from his pocket, and showed them a rather pretty pair of sleeve buttons. “Yes, they are pretty,” he commented, “rather more than I could afford, but Reginald will return the compliment. 143 I dare say it will be the only one I shall receive.”

“You ought not to forget, Neil,” said Margot, in a not very amiable tone, “you ought to remember, that you had your New Year’s gifts at Midsummer.”

“Oh, I never forget that! I could not, if I would,” he answered with an air of injury, and Christine to avert open disagreement, asked, “Where will you stay in Glasgow, Neil?”

“I shall stay with Reginald, at his sister’s house. She lives in highly respectable style, at number twelve, Monteith Row. The row is a fine row o’ stone houses, facing the famous Glasgow Green, and the Clyde river. She is a great beauty, and I expect to be the honored guest of the occasion.”

“Will you hae time to hunt up your brithers in Glasgow? Some o’ them will nae doubt be in port, and you might call at Allan’s house, and tell them that little Jamie is doing fine.”

“I do not expect I shall have a moment to spare. If I have, I will make inquiries. I think, however, Miss Rath is going to make rather a gay time in my honor, and I shall feel obligated to observe all its occasions.”

“How old is Miss Rath?” asked Christine.

“I have never asked her age. I suppose she is over twenty, as she controls her own property.”

“Happen you may lose your heart to her.”

“O! I am not a man to lose anything so important.”

“Weel, weel, you’re nae wiser than the lave o’ men, Neil.”

“I think I am, Christine. At least, I have that reputation.”

“Will you hae a cup o’ tea, Neil?”

It was Christine who asked him, and he answered, “No. I had just finished a good lunch, when I came here, and Reginald said he should wait dinner for me. He orders very liberally, I must say,” and he took out a new gold watch, and looked at the time.

His mother saw it at once, and glanced at Christine, who instantly followed an exclamation of wonder, by asking, “Whoever gave ye the bonnie timepiece, Neil?”

“I gave it to myself, Christine. I have been coaching Reginald, and two or three other students, and it’s rather a paying business. I shall do a great deal in that way after the New Year. Well, I think I must be going.”

“Your feyther will be hame within an hour. He’ll hae our wonderfu’ bairn wi’ him. You will surely stay and see them.”

“You mean Allan’s son?”

“Ay,” answered Christine, “he’s a beauty, and he is sae clever, we’ll be needing a school, and the set o’ teachers in it, to keep the lad within the proper scope o’ knowledge. He’s a maist remarkable boy!”

“I used to fill that position,” said Neil.

“Not you,” said Margot. “You were a puir weakling, every way. It took everyone’s love and labor to bring you through. I’m not sure now, if you were worth it. It was scrimp and toil through long years for a’ the Rulesons.”

“I am not ungrateful, Mother, and I shall no doubt win a high degree.”

“We hae nae doubt you will, Neil. Dinna go as soon as you come. Feyther will be here anon.”

“I cannot keep Reginald waiting. I will try and see father as I return.”

So he went, and mother and sister looked at each other, and were silent. Margot opened and shut a drawer in the dresser, pushed the chair in which Neil had sat violently into its place, and then lifted a broom and flung it down with a force that is best explained by the word ‘temper.’ She felt unable to speak, and finally burst into passionate weeping, mingled with angry words.

“Oh, Mither! Mither! dinna tak’ on that way. It’s nae new thing. It’s just what we expectit. You hae looked it in the face many a time. Oh, I’m sae glad his feyther wasna here!”

“His feyther ought to hae been here.”

“Na! na! We dinna want feyther to think a’ his love and labor was thrown awa’. It wad fairly break his heart. We must just keep the mistake to oursel’s. We can forgie, and still lo’e the puir lad, but feyther wad go to extremes, both wi’ Neil and himsel’. We can thole his selfishness. We aye 146 knew it was there. We hae held our tongues sae far. We must gae on being silent. I wouldna hae feyther know for onything. Let him hae his dream, Mither!”

“My heart feels like to break, lassie.”

“Mine too, Mither. But we needna gie feyther a heart-break. We’ll just keep the visit quiet.”

“Your way be it, Christine.”

Women do such things!

At this moment Ruleson’s voice was heard. He was coming up the hill with Jamie’s hand in his own. “They’ll be inside in a minute, Mither—a smile frae you is worth gold now,” and she stooped and kissed her mother. This unusual token of love and care went to Margot’s heart with a bound.

“You dear lassie,” she said. “I’ll do as you say,” and that moment she was called upon to make good her words. Ruleson was at the hearthstone, and Jamie was at her knees, telling her what a splendid time they had had, and how many big fish they had caught.

“Did you bring ane o’ the haddocks hame with you, James?” she asked, and Ruleson answered, “I found Tamsen’s boy at the pier, waiting to buy all my catch, and I thought ye wad hae something better for us.”

“There’s naething better than a fresh haddock. You canna cook them wrang, if you try; but I’ll find something good for good fishermen like you and Jamie.” And she spread the table with good 147 things, and Ruleson said softly, as if to himself—“Thou satisfieth my mouth with good things, my cup runneth over.” And Christine and her mother had come very close to each other and Margot had forgotten her heart-break in Christine’s kiss, and almost forgotten Neil’s visit. At any rate she was quite happy to hide it from her husband. “He’s like a’ men,” she reflected, “he doesna spit oot his anger like I do, and be rid o’ it. He buries it in his heart, and he buries it alive, and it doesna gie him a moment’s peace. Christine is right, and I’m glad I held my tongue, even frae good words.”

When all the Ballister Christmas presents had been distributed the New Year’s festival was at hand, and the village was all agog about Faith’s marriage. The arrangements had been slightly changed, and after all she was to be married from Ruleson’s house. Early in the morning she came up there with her simple bride garments in a leather trap, which she carried in her hand. She wanted Christine to dress her. She said, Christine had brought her all her good fortune, and she be to send her away, and then good would go with her.

So Christine dressed the timid little woman, and really made her look lovely, and at ten o’clock her Largo lover, called Willie Anderson, came there also. He had a couple of friends with him, and Ruleson himself took the place of Faith’s father, and gave her his arm, as they all walked together, 148 very doucely and religiously, to the Domine’s house.

The Domine had been advised of the visit, and the large Bible lay open on the table. Standing before it the young couple received the Domine’s charge, and then in the presence of their witnesses, pledged themselves to life-long love and devotion. The Domine entered the contract in his Kirk Book, and the witnesses signed it. Then the simple ceremony was over. The Domine blessed the bride, and she turned with a blushing, happy face to her husband.

“My ain! My wife!” he said, and gave her his arm, and Christine with her father and Anderson’s two friends followed. All were very silent. The bride and bridegroom were too happy to talk, and their friends understood and sympathized with the feeling.

The day was fine and clear, and the walk back to Ruleson’s was still and sweet, and in spite of its silence, very pleasant; and they had no sooner opened Ruleson’s door, than their senses were refreshed by the sight of the festal table, and the odor of delicious foods. For Margot had made a wedding dinner after her own heart. One of her precious turkeys had been sacrificed, and there was that wealth of pudding and cakes and pastry which no man loves and appreciates more than the fisherman. It was an excellent dinner, well cooked, and well enjoyed, and happily prolonged with pleasant conversation, until Christine reminded them they 149 were probably keeping the crowd asked to the Fishers’ Hall waiting.

In a pleasant haste they left all in James’ care, and went in a body to the hall. There was quite a large company there, very well employed in practicing the steps of a new strathspey, and others in exhibiting their special bits of splendor. The whole room was flashing with Roman colors, and Judith Macpherson’s Protestantism was angered by it. She said with her usual striking eloquence, that, in her opinion, they were nothing but emblems of popery. They came frae Rome. Why not? If we had elders in the kirk, worth the name o’ elders, they wad ca’ a session anent such a shamefu’ exhibition o’ the pope’s vera signs and symbols. Indeed, she told Ruleson that she would stand up in the kirk on the next Sabbath day, if he, or someone, didna tak’ the proper steps in the matter, and “I’ll tell you, James Ruleson, I’m minded to go my ways to the manse right now, and bring the Domine himsel’ here, to see the wicked testimonies.”

Then the bridal dance began, and Ruleson drew Judith aside, and told her he would himself speak anent the colors, if she thought they were sinfu’.

“Sinfu’!” she screamed. “Why Ruleson, man, they come frae the pope, and thae men they ca’ socialists. I hae heard tell o’ the tricolor, and of a’ the misery and sin that cam’ frae it in France. Isna France i’ the pope’s dominions?”

“Oh no, Judith, they arena the same countries.”

“James Ruleson, they may be different countries, but that tricolor sin is the same everywhere, even if it get into a godly place like Culraine. You must put a stop to our lasses wearing the pope’s colors, James Ruleson. That’s a fact!”

James promised to do so. In reality he would have promised anything she asked, rather than have her go to the manse and disturb the Domine. He was only too grateful to observe that the wearers of the sinful colors were not disturbed by Judith’s suspicions, and that the sailormen and fishermen were apparently most in love with the girls who wore the greatest quantity of the offensive emblems.

At three o’clock the dance was over, the greetings were all said and Willie Anderson anxious to carry off his bride on the tide top. “The waters are fu’ at four o’clock,” he said to Ruleson, “and I want to lift anchor and spread sails at the same moment. Then we’ll hae wind and tide wi’ us, and we’ll win hame on the tide top. That would be a lucky thing, you ken, Ruleson.”

“The ways o’ a good man are a’ lucky, Anderson, for they are ordered of the Lord, but a man must hae his way on his wedding day—maybe he’ll ne’er get it again!”

So Ruleson said a few words to the chattering groups, and they instantly formed into line. The violins went first, then the bride and bridegroom. Then Ruleson and Margot, Christine and her 151 brother Norman, and the rest as fancy led them in the selection of partners.

Willie Anderson’s brand-new boat lay at the pier, and he had rigged up a little gangway trimmed with ivy between it and the shore. Every boat in harbor was flying its flag, except Anderson’s boat—she was waiting for the bride, but as soon as the crowd had settled itself, Anderson went to the gangway, and a little lad waiting there for that purpose handed him a parcel. It contained the new flag for the new boat, and it was blue as the sea, and had three white words in its center, “Mine and Thine.”

And while cheering filled the air, Willie wrapped it round his bride’s slim form, and then lifting her in his strong arms, he leaped into the boat with her. In a few minutes the flag was flying at the masthead, the anchor lifted, and the Mine and Thine began her home journeying.

And as they watched her, the tide turned, the sails filled, and she danced out of harbor, for the tide ran with her, and she was timed to reach home on the tide top.

Neil did not find it convenient on his return northward, to call again at the home in Culraine. His mother was disappointed, and fretted to Christine about the neglect. His father was silent, but James Ruleson’s silence often said far more than words. When all hope of a call was over, Christine wrote to her brother, telling him in plain words what desire and hope and disappointment had filled the two days previous to the re-commencement of the Maraschal classes.

Indeed, Christine in this letter did small justice to Margot’s indignant disappointment, and now that hope was over, she made no pretense of hiding her wrong and her sorrow. The Domine saw as soon as he entered the cottage, that Margot was in great trouble, and he more than guessed the reason, for he had been called to the town very early in the day, to meet an old friend on his way to the Maraschal College, where he filled a Professor’s Chair in the medical department. Passing with this friend down the High Street, he had seen Neil with Roberta Rath on his arm, examining leisurely the attractive 154 shop windows, while Reginald trailed at speaking distance behind them.

He kept still further behind. He had no desire to interfere. Neil had never sought his confidence, and he did not know—except through Christine’s partial remarks—what the young man’s private hopes and plans might be. So he listened to Margot’s passionate complaints a little coldly, and she was quick to perceive it.

“You canna understand, Domine, what I suffer. Ye hae never had an ungratefu’ bairn. And I’m feeling for his feyther too—the dear auld man, he’ll be clean heart-broken!”

“No, no, Margot! A good heart that trusts in God, never breaks. It has no cause to break.”

“It is eleven years, Domine, we hae all o’ us been keepin’ oursel’s poor, for Neil’s sake.”

“The last eleven years, Margot, you have missed no good thing. God has been good to you, and to yours. I have seen! I have not forgotten!”

“Just a few kind words would hae paid for a’ we hae pinched and wanted.”

“There has been neither pinch nor want in your home, Margot.”

“Ye don’t ken a’ things, Sir. My man has worked harder than he ought to hae worked.”

“I think you may be mistaken, Margot. James Ruleson trusts in God. Why should he overwork himself?”

“To keep the roof o’er our heads, and find food for the bairns.”

“Nay, nay, Margot! Prayer, and lawful work, keep the door safe, and the table spread.”

“Oh Domine! If you feel that your love is slighted—that the bairn you love mair than yoursel’ lightlies ye; if you feel that he’s ’shamed o’ you!” And Margot covered her face, and her words were lost in heart-breaking sobs.

“Margot, you must cease weeping. Will it do you any good to kill yourself? What will you say to your Maker in such case?”

“I willna be feared to say all that is in my heart to Him. He knows a mither’s heart, and the griefs it tholes and carries. I canna expect you to know how love feels when it is scorned, and made little o’.”

“I know something of that same sorrow, Margot. I gave the love of my life to one who scorned it. Only God knew my sorrow, but He was sufficient for my comfort. There is only one way of conquering wrongs against love, Margot.”

Margot did not speak, and after a moment’s pause, he asked, “Do you want to know that way?”

“No, Sir. If it is your way, I’m no able to follow it.”

“Suppose you try. You think your youngest son has treated you badly?”

“Ay, I’m sure o’ it, and he’s treated his feyther and his brothers badly, and his one sister worse than 156 a’. How can folk forget injuries that tread love under feet? They canna do it.”

“They can. Do you want to know how? Do you want to know how I did it?”

“I couldna walk in your shoon, Sir. They’re o’er big for me.”

“Tell Mither, Sir. Tell her, she’ll maybe find it easier than she thinks; and maybe I could help her;” and Christine went and stood by her mother’s chair, and drew her mother’s head close to her breast, and kissed her softly, as she whispered, “Ask the Domine what to do wi’ wrangs ye canna bear, and canna pay back?”

“That’s the sair part, Sir. Christine has touched the raw. If any man or woman in the village scorns or wrangs me, I can gie them as gude as they send—words or blows—and I wad do it! Yes, I would!”

“Have you given up your kirk membership, Margot?”

“No, Sir, I hae done naething yet, requiring me to do sae; but it’s hard saying what I might be driven to, if somebody doesna mak’ Jess Morrison quit meddling wi’ my family affairs—the lying hizzy!”

“Margot! Margot! My friend Margot! You astonish me, you trouble me!”

“Weel, Domine, I’m very sorry to trouble you. I wad rather trouble the hale village than you. What do you want me to do?”

“Just to try for one month, my plan of treating any injustice, or injury, I receive.”

“Weel then, what is your plan? I’m no promising to do what I’m vera sure is far oot o’ my way, but if you had been injured on every side o’ your heart, as I hae been, what would you do?”

“When I receive an injury, Margot, I think it calmly over, and I am sure to find some excuse for part of it—the rest I forgive.”

“There’s nae excuse in Neil’s case, Sir.”

“Yes, there are several. These Rath’s promise much for his future. He may even be in love with Miss Rath, and a man in love isna a responsible creature. You hae told me, in the course of years, how much Norman’s wife troubled you, and Norman could not prevent her. I have heard the same kind of story about Robert’s and Allan’s, and Alexander’s wives. Men do not seem to be responsible, when they are seeking some woman for a wife. Take this into your thoughts, anent Neil. There were also unhappy money considerations. Evidently Neil is not ready to pay Christine’s ninety pounds back, and he does not like to be questioned about it. He would rather keep out of the way. In both these cases, it is not Neil. It is first the girl, then the money. He does not despise you, he is only too considerate about Miss Rath. In the case of the money, he is perhaps counting on its use for his advancement in life, and he would rather not talk about it. He does not hate or scorn his own people, he is only looking out for his future love, and his future living. That is such a common and natural 158 feeling, we need not wonder and weep over it. There must be other excuses to make, if I knew all about Neil’s life and hopes, and for the rest of the faults against him—forgive them, as God forgives your faults against His long suffering love and patience.”

“Mebbe that is the right way, but——”

“Right! Say that word to yourself, Margot. Say it till it rings like a shout in your soul, till you feel it in your hand like a drawn sword. It is a conquering word. Say it till your weak heart grows strong.”

“Mither will feel better in a few days, Sir.”

“To be sure she will. Neither joy nor sorrow leaves us where it found us. Poor Neil!”

“Why ‘poor Neil,’ Sir?”

“Because he cannot see beyond his limit, and his limit is self, and selfishness is utter loss. They conquer who endure. Live it down. Deserting our own is a cruel, silent treason even if they deserve it. It is a sin that our souls are ashamed of. Margot, your weakness tonight came o’er you in a moment when you were slack in Faith. You are naturally and spiritually a brave woman, Margot. What have you to fear?”

“I dinna want the lad I hae nursed at my breast to be ashamed o’ me—that is my fear, Domine. I dinna want to lose his love.”

“Does a man ever forget the mother who bore him? I can’t believe it. When all other loves 159 fade, that is green. It is nearly fifty years since I bid my mother ‘good-by’ for ever in this life. She is the dearest and sweetest mother to me yet. I remember her eyes, the touch of her lips, the soft caress of her hands, as if I had seen her yesterday. A man, however wicked, is not beyond hope, who yet loves his mother. Neil is not a bad boy. He will love you to the end.”

“I fear, I fear, Domine, that——”

“No! You do not fear. You have nothing to fear. There was a noted preacher and poet, who shall tell you what your fear is. His name was Crashaw, and he was an Englishman, who died just about two hundred years ago and he says to a fearful soul:

“Ay, that’s what you ca’ poetry. I dinna understand a word o’ it, but I can mind that David said, he didna fear, even in the dead-mirk-dale; but it’s a far-back thought to King David, and when a mither 160 is angry at her bairn, she feels as if the Lord, too, was like to lose sight o’ her, and that earth and heaven are baith a’ wrang.”

“Well, then, Margot, when you feel as if the Lord was like to lose sight o’ you, then you canna lose sight o’ the Lord. Then, in the words of your Covenanters’ Psalms, you be to cry out: ‘How lang, O Lord! Will ye mind me nae mair? How long will ye hap yer face frae me?’ And then, Margot, you mind how the few verses of doubt and fear, end—‘the Lord he’s wrought a’ things neiborlie for me’. Now, Margot, I am not going to preach to you. Your own leal heart can do that. I will just say goodnight with one verse from that same dear old book o’ psalms—‘Let the words o’ my mouth, an’ the thought o’ my heart, be for pleasure in yer sight, O Lord, my strength, and my hame bringer.’ I leave blessing with you.”

“You werna as kind as you should hae been to the Domine, Mither. He tried to comfort you,” said Christine.

“That was in the way o’ his duty. What does he know, puir fellow! anent a mither’s love or sorrow?”

“I’m glad feyther hes wee Jamie for his comfort.”

“Ay, but Jamie doesna comfort me, in the place o’ Neil.”

“You hae me, Mither. Dinna forget Christine.”

“Would I do that? Never! Christine is worth 161 a’ the lads in Scotland. They marry—and forget.”

“The Domine says he loves his mother today, better than ever, and her dead near fifty years.”

“The Domine is a wonder, and he ne’er put a wife in her place. I hope your feyther didna go to the toun today. Where has Jamie been?”

“He went out with feyther, this morning. I think they went to the boats, but I canna weel say. They ought to be hame by this hour. I wonder what is keeping them sae late?”

“Weel, Christine, the trouble hes gone by, this time, and we willna ca’ it back. If your feyther didna come across the lad i’ the town, it will mebbe be best to let him get back to the Maraschal without remark or recollection.”

“To be sure, Mither.”

“I wonder what’s keeping your feyther? It is too late, and too cold, for Jamie to be out.”

“I hear their voices, Mither. They’re coming up the hill. Stir the fire into a blaze o’ welcome. Just listen to the laddie laughing—and feyther laughing too. Whatever has happened to them?”

James Ruleson and the lad at his side came into the cottage the next moment. The light of the laugh was yet on their faces, and oh, what a happy stir their advent made in the cozy, firelit room! Margot forgot she had been crying and complaining, she was helping her man take off his heavy coat, and Christine was helping the child, who was in a state of great excitement:

“I hae been to the circus!” he cried. “Christine! Gran’mither! I hae been to the circus! It was wonderful! I did not want to leave it. I wanted to stay always there. I want to go tomorrow. Gran’feyther! Will you take me tomorrow? Say yes! Do say yes!”

“Why, James!” cried Margot, “I never heard tell o’ the like! Hae ye lost your senses, gudeman?”

“No, I think I hae just found them. I am sair-hearted, because I didna send all the lads there. Let us hae a cup o’ tea, and we will tell you how we spent the day.”

Then there was a ten minutes hurry, and at the end a well spread table, and four happy faces round it; and as Margot handed Ruleson his big tea cup, she said, “Now, James Ruleson, tell us what you and the lad hae been after today, that took you into such a sinfu’ place as a circus. You’ll hae to face the Domine on the matter. You, a ruling elder, in a circus! I’m mair than astonished! I’m fairly shocked at ye! And I’m feared it was a premeditated sin. And ye ken what the Domine thinks o’ premeditated sins.”

“It was far from a sin o’ any kind, gudewife. Jamie and I were on our way to the boat, for a few hours’ fishing, when we met a lad wi’ a note from Finlay, saying he wanted a few words o’ advice from me, and I took a sudden thought o’ a day’s rest, and a bit o’ pleasure wi’ little Jamie. Sae, to the town we went, and first o’ all to Finlay’s, 163 and I had a long talk wi’ him, about some railway shares he owns, on my advice; and they hae turned out sae weel, he wanted me to tak’ part o’ the profit. I wouldna do that, but I let him gie twenty pounds towards the school fund.”

“You might hae put that twenty in your ain pouch, gudeman, and nae fault in the same. You are too liberal anent the school. Our ain lads get naething from it.”

“Jamie will hae the gude o’ it, and lots o’ Culraine lads and lasses until they get a better one. Weel, so be it! After Finlay and I had finished our crack, I took Jamie to Molly Stark’s, and we had a holiday dinner.”

“Chicken pie! Custard pudding! Strawberry tarts! Nuts and raisins! And a big orange! Grandmither! Oh, it was beautiful! Beautiful!”

“Then we walked about the town a bit, and I saw a big tent, and men playing music before it, and when we got close pictures of animals and of horses, and men riding. And Jamie saw many little lads going in, especially one big school, and he said, ‘Grandfeyther, tak’ me in too!’ And I took counsel wi’ my ain heart for a minute, and it said to me, ‘Tak’ the lad in,’ and so I did.”

“And now you’re blaming yoursel’?”

“I am not. I think I did right. There was neither sound nor sight o’ wrang, and the little laddie went wild wi’ pleasure; and to tell the vera truth, 164 I was pleased mysel’ beyond a’ my thoughts and expectations. I would like to tak’ you, Margot, and Christine too. I would like it weel. Let us a’ go the morn’s night.”

“I hae not lost my senses yet, James. Me go to a circus! Culraine wad ne’er get o’er the fact. It wad be a standing libel against Margot Ruleson. As for Christine!”

“I wad like weel to go wi’ Feyther.”

“I’m fairly astonished at you, Christine! Lassie, the women here would ne’er see you again, they wad feel sae far above ye. I’m not the keeper o’ your feyther’s gude name, but I hae a charge o’er yours, and it is clear and clean impossible, for you to go to a circus.”

“If Feyther goes——”

“Your feyther hasna heard the last o’ his spree yet. To think o’ him leaving the narrow road. Him, near saxty years old! The kirk session on the matter will be a notable one. Elders through the length and breadth o’ Scotland will be takin’ sides. Dear me, James Ruleson, that you, in your auld age, should come to this!” and then Margot laughed merrily and her husband and Christine understood she was only joking.

“And you’ll maybe go wi’ us all some afternoon, Margot?”

“Na, na, James! I’ll not gie Jess Morrison, and the like o’ her, any occasion for their ill tongues. They’d just glory in Margot Ruleson, Elder Ruleson’s 165 wife, going to the circus. I wouldn’t be against going mysel’ I’d like to go, but I wouldn’t gie them the pleasure o’ tossing my gude name on their ill-natured tongues.”

“I saw Peter Brodie there, and his three lads, and his daughter Bella.”

“Weel, James, tak’ the little laddie again, if so you wish. Peter will stand wi’ you, and he’s the real ruling elder. But Christine is different. It lets a woman down to be talked about, whether she is right, or wrang.”

Then Jamie was allowed to give his version of the wonder and the joy of a circus, and the last cups of tea were turned into some glorious kind of a drink, by the laughter and delight his descriptions evoked. Then and there it was resolved that his grandfather must take him again on the following day, and with this joyous expectation in his heart, the child at last fell asleep.

When Ruleson and his wife were alone, Margot noticed that her man’s face became very somber and thoughtful. He was taking his bed-time smoke by the fireside, and she waited beside him, with her knitting in her hands, though she frequently dropped it. She was sure he had something on his mind, and she waited patiently for its revealing. At length he shook the ashes from his pipe, and stood it in its proper corner of the hob, then going to the window, he looked out and said,

“It’s fair and calm, thank God! Margot, I saw 166 Neil today.” As he spoke, he sat down, and looked at her, almost sorrowfully.

“What did he say for himsel’?”

“I didna speak to him. I was in Finlay’s store, at the back o’ it, whar Finlay hes his office. A young man came into the store, and Finlay got up and went to speak to him. It was Rath, and when he went awa’, Finlay called me, and showed me a little group on the sidewalk. They were Rath and his sister, our Neil and Provost Blackie’s son.”

“Our Provost Blackie’s son?”

“Just sae. And Neil and him were as well met and friendly as if they had been brought up in the same cottage. The four o’ them stood talking a few minutes, and then Neil offered his arm to Miss Rath, and led the young lady to a carriage waiting for them. She smiled and said something, and Neil turned and bowed to Rath and young Blackie, and then stepped into the carriage and took his seat beside the lady, and they drove off together.”

“Gudeman, you arena leeing to me?”

“I am telling you the plain evendown truth, Margot.”

“Did he see you?”

“No. I keepit oot o’ his way.”

“Whatna for?”

“I needna say the words.”

“I’ll say them for you—you thought he would be ashamed o’ you.”

“Ay, he might hae been. Dinna cry, woman. Dear, dear woman, dinna cry! It’s our ain fault—our ain fault. If we had stood firm for the pulpit, if we had said, ‘you must be either a preacher or a schoolmaster,’ this wouldna hae been. We were bent on makin’ a gentleman o’ him, and now he prefers gentlemen to fishermen—we ought to hae expectit it.”

“It is cruel, shamefu’, ungratefu’ as it can be!”

“Ay, but the lad is only seeking his ain good. If he still foregathered wi’ our rough fisher-lads, we wouldn’t like it. And we would tell him sae.”

“He might hae found time to rin down, and see us for an hour or twa, and gie us the reasons for this, and that.”

“He looked like he was courting the young lady—and we know of auld times, wife, that when our lads began courting, we hed to come after. I was wrang to gie in to his studying the law. Studying the gospels, he wad hae learned that there are neither rich nor poor, in God’s sight. We gave the lad to God, and then we took him awa’ frae God, and would mak’ a lawyer and a gentleman o’ him. Weel, as far as I can see, he is going to be a’ we intended. We are getting what we hae worked for. There’s nane to blame but oursel’s.”

This reasoning quite silenced Margot. She considered it constantly, and finally came to her husband’s opinion. Then she would not talk about Neil, either one way, or the other, and it soon fell 168 out that the lad’s name was never mentioned in the home where he had once ruled almost despotically. Only Christine kept her faith in Neil. She wrote him long letters constantly. She told him all that was going on in the village, all about his father and mother, the Domine and the school house. She recalled pleasant little incidents of the past, and prefigured a future when she would see him every day. And she seldom named little Jamie. She divined that Neil was jealous of the position the child had gained in the household. And Christine was no trouble-maker. Her letters were all messages of peace and good will, and without any advice from her father she had personally come to very much the same conclusion that he had arrived at. “There has been a great mistake,” she said softly to herself, “and we be to mak’ the best o’ it. It isna beyond God’s power to sort it right yet.”

So Neil was seldom named unless a letter came from him, which was not a frequent occurrence. The boxes filled with home delicacies were no longer sent, nor was their absence noted, nor their presence requested. Neil was making money as a coach to younger and wealthier students. He now dined at the best hotel, and had a very good breakfast in his comfortable rooms. But Christine felt that the breaking of this tie of “something good to eat” was a serious thing. Home was a long way further off to Neil, when the motherly baskets of homemade dainties ceased coming to him, and all Christine’s 169 apologies—whether they touched his mother’s ill health, or his own prosperity’s making them unnecessary, did not mend the matter. They were just common bread and meat, mere physical things, but their want was heart-hunger, and doubt and suspicion, in place of the love and pleasure they had always caused.

Generally, however, as one interest in life dies out, another springs up, and the school building, and the little laddie kept the Ruleson family happily busy. Ruleson had been asked to superintend the building and he did the work with a completeness which was natural to him. He looked over every load of stone, and saw that the blocks of granite were well fitting, and perfect in color. He examined all the mortar made, lest the builders follow modern habits and put too much sand among the lime. He returned as unworthy many pounds of nails, which were either too short, or too slight, for the purposes for which they were intended; and the slating for the roof was a thing he did not trust to anyone but James Ruleson. So the school house and his fishing kept him busy and happy, and Margot and Christine looked at him with wonder and pleasure. He was always smiling, and always listening to Jamie, who was chattering at his side, whenever he was on land.

So life at Culraine pursued the even tenor of its way, until the middle of March, when the school was opened for a short quarter until the herring 170 should come on in July. The building was by no means finished, but the walls were up, the windows in, the slate roof on, and the desks and forms in place. The master’s room, the painting, plastering, and decoration were untouched. Ruleson thought they could be attended to during the herring fishing, and the school formally opened in September.

To a man quite unaccustomed to business, these were tremendous, yet delightful responsibilities; and Ruleson lived between his boat and the school. When he was on land, Jamie was always at his side. Hitherto Ruleson had been noted for his reticence. Even among such a silent race as the Fife fishers his silence was remarkable. He had held his peace even from good, but the child always chattering at his side had taught him to talk. Jamie’s thirst for knowledge was insatiable, he was always wanting to know something or other, and the inquisitive “why” was constantly on his lips. Few people could remember James Ruleson’s laughing, now his big guffaw constantly carried on its echo the little lad’s shrill treble laugh. Ruleson had many amiable qualities unused and undeveloped that the boy brought out in many different ways. In his little grandson’s company he was born again, and became as a little child. This was an actual and visible conversion. The whole village testified to this wonderful new birth.

On the fourteenth of March the dream of his heart came true. He saw the little children come 171 running through the sand hills, and over the heather, to the school. From far and near, they came, wearing their best clothes, and happy as if it was a holiday. He listened to them reciting, after their teachers, a morning prayer. He heard them learning in class together the alphabet, and the first lessons in numbers and addition, a lesson which all acquired rapidly by some secret natural process. For if the teacher asked how many two and two made, he had not to wait a moment for a correct answer from every baby mouth. It amazed Ruleson, until he remembered that no one had ever taught him to count. Through generations of clever bargaining mothers, had this ability become a natural instinct. The Domine thought it might have done so.

In some way or other, the school made Christine’s life very busy. She was helping weary mothers make little dresses, and little breeches, or doing a bit of cleaning for them, or perhaps cooking a meal, or nursing the baby for an hour. She was mending or weaving nets, she was redding up her own home. She was busy with the washing or ironing, or hearing Jamie’s lessons, or helping her mother with the cooking. Her hands were never idle, and there was generally a smile on her face, a song on her lips, or a pleasant word for everyone within the sound of her cheerful voice.

She had also her own peculiar duties. There were long and frequent letters from Cluny to answer, and occasionally one from Angus Ballister, the latter 172 always enclosing a pretty piece of lace, or a trifle of some kind, special to the city he was in. Ballister’s letters troubled her, for they were written still in that tone of “it might have been,” with a certain faint sense of reproach, as if it was her fault, that it had not been. This was so cleverly insinuated, that there was nothing for her to deny, or to complain of. She wished he would not write, she wished he would cease sending her any reminders of “days forever gone.” His sentimental letters were so evidently the outcome of a cultivated heart-breaking disappointment, that they deeply offended her sense of truth and sincerity.

One day she received from him a letter dated Madrid, and it contained a handsome lace collar, which she was asked to wear for his sake, and thus remember his love “so sorrowfully passionate, and alas, so early doomed to disappointment and despair!”

“The leeing lad!” she angrily exclaimed. “I’ll just tell him the truth, and be done wi’ him. I’ll send him the collar back, and tell him I’m no carin’ to be reminded o’ him, in ony shape or fashion. I’ll tell him he kens naething about love, and is parfectly ignorant o’ any honest way o’ makin’ love. I’ll tell him that he never loved me, and that I never loved him worth talking about, and that I’ll be obligated to him if he’ll drop the makin’ believe, and write to me anent village matters, or not write at a’.”

Days so full and so happy went quickly away, and though there had been so much to do, never had the village been ready for the herring visit, as early, and so completely, as it was this summer. When Margot’s roses began to bloom, the nets were all leaded, and ready for the boats, and the boats themselves had all been overhauled and their cordage and sails put in perfect condition. There would be a few halcyon days of waiting and watching, but the men were gathering strength for the gigantic labor before them, as they lounged on the pier, and talked sleepily of their hopes and plans.

It was in this restful interval that James and Margot Ruleson received a letter from their son Neil, inviting them to the great Commencement of his college. He said he was chosen to make the valedictory speech for his class, that he had passed his examination with honor, and would receive his commission as one of Her Majesty’s attorneys at law. “If you would honor and please me by your presence, dear father and mother,” he wrote, “I shall be made very happy, and I will secure a room for you in the house where I am living, and we can have our meals together.”

It is needless to say this letter canceled all faults. Margot was delighted at the prospect of a railway journey, and a visit to Aberdeen. She was going to see for hersel’ what a university was like—to see the hundreds o’ lads studying for the law and the gospel there—to hae a change in the weary sameness 174 of her hard fisher life. For a few days she was going to be happy and play, hersel’, and see her lad made a gentleman, by the gracious permission o’ Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.

The invitation being gladly accepted, Margot had anxious consultations with Christine about her dress. She knew that she was the handsomest woman in Culraine, when she wore her best fishing costume; “but I canna wear the like o’ it,” she said in a lingering, rather longing tone.

“Na, na, Mither, ye be to dress yoursel’ like a’ ither ladies. Your gray silk is fine and fitting, but you must hae a new bonnet, and white gloves, and a pair o’ patent leather shoon—a low shoe, wi’ bows o’ black ribbon on the instep. There’s few women hae a neater foot than you hae, and we’ll gae the morn and get a’ things needfu’ for your appearance. Feyther hes his kirk suit, and he is requiring naething, if it be not a pair o’ gloves.”

“He never puts a glove on his hand, Christine.”

“Ay, weel, he can carry them in his hand. They are as respectable in his hands, as on them. It is just to show folk that he can afford to glove his hands, if he wants to do it. That is maistly what people wear fine claes of all kinds for. They would be happier i’ their ivery day loose and easy suits, I’m thinking,” said Christine.

“I wonder why Neil didna ask you, Christine. You helped him many a weary hour to the place he is now standing on. If he had not asked anyone 175 else, he ought to hae bidden you to his finishing and honoring. Why didn’t he do that proper thing? Hae ye ony quarrel wi’ him?”

“Not a word oot o’ place between us. I wrote him a four-page letter three days syne.”

“What’s the matter, then?”

“He’s feared for me, Mither. He’s feared his friend Reginald will do as Angus did, fa’ in love wi’ me, and then get oot o’ love wi’ him. Men are silly as bairns anent some things. I’m not carin’, Mither. Someone must bide at hame, and look after wee Jamie, and you yoursel’ will be mair contented if you ken I am here to tak’ tent o’ the house and bairn, and the lave o’ things.”

“Ay, it’s better. You canna leave a house its lane, any mair than a bairn. The ane will get into dole and mischief, as quick as the ither. You’ll be minding Polly Cromarty’s bit cottage, taking fire and burning to the ground, and not a man, woman, or bairn near it. And Bella Simpson the same, and Kate Dalrymple losing a’ her savings, and the house locked and barr’d and naebody in it, or near it. I’ll go to Aberdeen real happy if you are watching the house, while I’m awa’ playing, mysel’.”

So there was a week of happy preparation, and then on a fine Monday morning Mr. and Mrs. Ruleson went to Aberdeen. Margot was satisfied to leave her house in Christine’s care, but at the last hour, she had discovered another likelihood of trouble. It was the herring.

“They are maistly twa weeks earlier, or later than looked for, Christine,” she said, “and, of course, they’ll be earlier this year. I wouldn’t wonder that when we reach Aberdeen, we’ll find them there, if they arena at Culraine itsel’. And if feyther’s boat isna leading, it will be that meddlesome Peter Brodie’s boat—and that would rile me a’ the year through.”

“Mither, it is too soon for the herrin’. You needna fret yoursel’ anent the herrin’. If there are any signs o’ the feesh, I’ll gie young Donald Grant a smile, and he’ll watch for them night and day to pleasure me. I’ll not let Peter hae a chance to find them.”

“That’s a’ right.”

And when they were fairly gone and out o’ sight, Christine sat down to consider, and to draw her personality together. She felt as if there were half-a-dozen Christines, and she was equally conscious of an unusual house. Its atmosphere was intense and restless, and slightly dissatisfied. Christine considered it for a few moments, and then said, “Nae wonder! Everything in it is tapsalterie, and I’ll just go through it, and make it tidy and clean, and proper for the hame-coming.”

At Aberdeen railway station they found Neil waiting for them. He took them to the house he called “home.” It was a very respectable house, in a very respectable quarter of the city, kept by Mrs. Todd, a sea-captain’s widow, a woman with “relatives weel 177 kent, and o’ the better class o’ folk.” She took to Margot, and Margot, with some reservations, took to her. Ruleson was anxious to see the city. From the small window in his railway carriage his eyes had rested upon its granite towers and spires, and he went with Neil to walk down Maraschal and Union Streets, the latter being a most splendid roadway, with houses and pavements of gray granite. For a full mile’s length, the street looked as if it had been cut and fashioned out of the solid rock, for the mortar used could not be seen. There were splendid shops on these streets, but there was no sign of a circus, nor of any other place of amusement.

Sitting at tea with the captain’s widow, he named this fact. “I saw naething o’ a circus,” he said, “and a man with whom I talked a few minutes said there were no theaters or concert halls, or the like o’ such places, in Aberdeen.”

“Just sae,” answered the widow, “we hae nae amusements here, but preaching, preaching!”

“Gudeman, why were you seeking information anent amusements? They arena in your way.”

“I was just makin’ a few interrogatories, Margot. I wanted to ken how the people passed their days. I didna see any sign o’ manufactories. What do they mak’ then in Aberdeen?”

Ruleson looked pointedly at the widow as he spoke, and she answered with an air of quiet superiority. “Aberdeen mak’s men—men out o’ the raw material, for a’ the marts and markets o’ the 178 warld. We hae lads to be made men o’ frae every part o’ Scotland; for poor lads can get here the best o’ learning for sma’ cost. They can hae board for five shilling a week, and the professors’ fees are only seven or eight pounds a session. A twenty-five-pound bursary will pay all expenses. Many of the poor students board themselves, and a great deal can be done on porridge and milk, and fish, and meal. And we hae the gentry, too, Sir! plenty of rich lads, as well as poor ones, and the one kind helps the ither.”

Ruleson saw both kinds the next day—hundreds of braw young lads, running over with the joyous spirit of youth. Hard to control, yet thoroughly under control, they filled the large university hall with an almost intoxicating influence of life. You could not feel old while breathing it. Yet it all seemed very much like a church meeting to Margot, until Neil stepped to the front of the crowded platform. That sight brought her heart and soul home, and she laid her hand on her husband’s hand, and sat still to listen.

He looked handsome and gentlemanly, and held a folded paper in his hand. Bowing to the professors, the provost, and the other dignitaries surrounding him, he then turned a smiling face to the audience, and commenced his speech. It was a very learned discussion on a point of law then causing international argument, and as his various points reached their climax, he was warmly applauded. 179 At its close many stood up in their enthusiasm to honor him, and in the midst of this excitement, the president of the Maraschal handed him, with the set formula, the credentials which made Neil Ruleson one of Her Majesty’s gentlemen and councilors-at-law.

Neil’s father sat motionless, but his grave face changed like the pages of a book which are being turned. Margot was almost hysterical. She covered her face and wept, and all eyes were turned on her, and every heart said to itself, “She will be the lad’s mother.” And coming out of the hall, many nodded to her and smiled. They wanted her to feel that they rejoiced with her. Outside the university, Neil joined his father and mother, and as he passed through the crowd, with his mother on his arm, he was hailed with the congratulations both of those who knew him, and those who did not know him.

It was a wonderful hour to the Ruleson party, and perhaps only James Ruleson had any shadow of regret in it. He did not once voice this regret, but it was present to his thoughts and imagination. Neil as a gentleman of Scotland and a member of the Scottish bar was a great honor, but Oh, if he had seen him in the minister’s gown and bands, and heard his first sermon, how much greater his joy! How much prouder of his son’s success he would have been!

But he said nothing to Margot which could dim 180 her satisfaction. Mrs. Todd did that quite sufficiently. She spoke with contempt o’ the fool-like way Aberdeen folk went on, every time a lad happened to get a degree, or a bit o’ school honor; and the thing happening a’ the time, as it were. She made Margot feel by her short, cool remarks, that Neil’s triumph might, after all, be an ordinary affair, and for a little season took all the glory out of Neil’s achievement, though in doing so, she was careful of the reputation of her native city, and candidly admitted that in spite of a’ their well-kent scholarship, Aberdeeners were kindly folk, aye ready to gie a shout o’ encouragement to a new beginner.

Margot, however, quickly readjusted the dampened and discouraged feeling Mrs. Todd’s opinions induced. “She’s just jealous, because Neil is a Fife lad. That’s a’ there is to her say-so! I hae heard often that Aberdeeners were a jealous folk. I’m saying naething against their kindliness. They hae treated Neil weel, and nae doubt they understood weel enou’ what they were doing.”

Neil spent most of the day with his parents, but about six in the evening he came to them in full evening dress, and said he was going to the Rath’s hotel. “They have a dinner in my honor,” he continued, “and the Provost’s son, and several important people will be there; and I am to be introduced to the Hepburn of Hepburn Braes, a great nobleman in these parts. There will be ladies, too, of course, and I, am expecting a profitable and pleasant 181 evening.” And though Margot was quite elated over her son’s great friends, Ruleson would have been far prouder had he known Neil was going to take the chair at a session of elders connected with some kirk of which Neil was the Domine.

The next morning they returned to Culraine with hearts full of memories for which they could thank God, and they found their son Allan sitting at their fireside. As soon as Allan saw them enter, he rose and went to them, and took their hands in his hands, and said in a voice trembling with emotion, “Father! Mother! Your kindness to my little lad has made you father and mother twice over to me.” Then what a happy hour followed! For as they were sitting down to their evening meal, the Domine entered. He had heard of Allan’s visit and had become anxious about the child, lest he might be taken from them. And it was during these troubled hours he bethought him of the necessity for a legal adoption of little Jamie by his grandfather and himself, a plan taken into consideration that very night, and within the next three months made binding as book and bond could fix it.

The Domine was a welcome addition to the family party. He slipped with a smile into Christine’s place, and she rose and served them with grace and sweetness. And as she went softly around the table, replenishing emptied plates, and refilling teacups, saying nothing, but seeing to everyone’s comfort, her beauty took on an extraordinary charm. Woman, or 182 rather ministering angel, she seemed, and it was strange that all present took her beautiful service, as things of spiritual beauty are usually taken, without much notice. Yet she was that night the golden band around the table, that kept the sweet influences of the meal peaceful and unbroken from the beginning to the end of it. A few happy hours followed, and then the Domine took Allan back to the manse with him. “They are a’ tired here,” he said, “but you and I, Allan, can talk the night awa’.”

This they did, but there were only two or three sentences in their long conversation which concern this story. They referred to the happy family life of the Rulesons. “I never go to your father’s house, Allan,” said the Domine, “without regretting that I did not marry. I have come to the conclusion that marriage is Nature’s way of coaxing the best out of us. A man puts his back into the uplift for wife and children, for to make them happy is better than riches or fame.”

“Still you might have made a mistake, Sir.”

“Earth would be heaven, Allan, if we never made mistakes. But in spite of mistakes, men live contented with the world, and happy with each other.”

The little enthusiasm incident to Neil’s success did not last long, for

And if it is not tightly clasped, and well guarded, it soon fades away, especially if doubt or question come near it. The heart, which is never weary of recalling its sorrows, seems to have no echo for its finer joys. This, however, may be our own fault. Let us remember for a moment or two how ruthlessly we transfer yesterday into today, and last week into this week. We have either no time or no inclination to entertain joys that have passed. They 184 are all too quickly retired from our working consciousness, to some dim, little-visited nook in our memory. And taken broadly, this is well. Life is generally precious, according to the strength and rapidity of its flow, and change is the splendid surge of a life of this kind. A perfect life is then one full of changes. It is also a safe life, for it is because men have no changes, that they fear not God.

Now the people of this little fishing village had lives lined with change. Sudden deaths were inevitable, when life was lived on an element so full of change and peril as the great North Sea. Accidents were of daily occurrence. Loss of boats and nets reduced families to unlooked-for poverty. Sons were constantly going away to strange seas and strange countries, and others, who had been to the Arctic Ocean, or the ports of Australia, coming back home. The miracle of the son’s being dead and being alive again, was not infrequently repeated. Indeed all the tragedies and joys of life found their way to this small hamlet, hidden among the rocks and sand dunes that guard the seas of Fife.

Margot’s triumph was very temporary. It was not of the ordinary kind. It had in it no flavor of the sea, and the lad who had won his honors had never identified himself with the fishers of Culraine. He did not intend to live among them, and they had a salutary fear of the law, and no love for it. As a general thing neither the men nor women of Culraine cared whether Neil Ruleson won his degree or 185 not. Such pleasure as they felt in his success was entirely for his father’s sake.

And Margot was content that it should be so. She was not heart-pleased with Neil, and not inclined to discuss his plans with her neighbors. She noticed also that Neil’s father had nothing to say about his son’s success, and that if the subject was introduced, it was coldly met and quickly banished.

It hurt Christine. Her life had been so intermingled with Neil’s hopes and plans, she could not let them drop unnoticed from her consciousness. “Why do you say naething anent Neil, Mither?” she asked one wet morning, when the boats were in harbor, and Ruleson had gone down to the new schoolhouse.

“Weel, Christine, I hae said a’ there is to say.”

“Were you really disappointed, Mither?”

“In a way.”

“But Neil succeeded.”

“In a way.”

“What way, Mither?”

“His ain way. He has been vera successful i’ that way, sin’ the day he was born. A wee, shrunken, puny infant he was, but he hes been a bit too much for us all—and there’s seven big men in our family, forbye mysel’ and Christine. Whiles I had a glimmering o’ the real lad, but maistly I did the lad’s way—like the rest o’ us.”

“You said he was kind to you and Feyther.”

“He hed to be. It’s a law, like the laws o’ the 186 Medes and Persians, in Aberdeen, that lads takin’ honors should pay great attention to their feythers and mithers. Some were auld and poor—far poorer than fisher-folk ever are—they had worked, and starved, and prayed for their lads, and they were going about Aberdeen streets, linked on their lads’ arms, and all o’ them like to cry wi’ joy. Neil had to do like the lave, but I let his feyther gae his lane wi’ him. I wasna carin’ to mak’ a show o’ mysel’.”

“Then you shouldna blame Neil, Mither.”

“Should I not? I do, though.”

“What did he do wrang?”

“He did little right, and that little he had nae pleasure in. I know! He should hae spent the evening wi’ his feyther and mysel’, and told us what plans he had made for the future, but he went to the Raths’ and left us alane. He had promised all along to come hame wi’ us, and spend a few weeks wi’ the boats—your feyther is short-handed since Cluny Macpherson went awa’—and there’s little doing in the law business during July and August, but he said he had an invite to the Raths’ house on the Isle of Arran, and with them he has gane.”

“I’m sorry, sorry, Mither.”

“Sae am I, Christine, but when things hae come to ‘I’m sorry,’ there’s nae gude left i’ them.”

“Do you think he is engaged to Roberta Rath?”

“I canna say. I don’t think he kens himsel’.”

“Did you see her?”

“He pointed her out to me. She was getting into a carriage, and——”

“Weel?”

“O, she was a little body; I saw naething o’ her but a blue silk dress, and a white lace bonnet. It would be ordinary, nae doubt. She waved a white-gloved hand to Neil, and the lad’s face was like an illumination. She seemed vera sma’ and thin—just a handfu’ o’ her. Naething like yoursel’ and our ain full-statured, weel-finished women.”

“I feel as if I had lost Neil.”

“You may do sae, for a man can be lost by a woman, quite as completely as by the North Sea.”

Then Ruleson entered the cottage. He was wet through, but his face was red with health, and radiant with excitement. He had been in the new schoolhouse, and seen three large boxes unpacked. “Margot! Christine!” he cried joyfully, “you’ll be to come down the hill—the baith o’ you—and see the wonderfu’ things that hae come for ordering and plenishing o’ our school. There’s a round ball as big as that table, set in a frame—and it turns round, and round, and shows a’ the countries and seas i’ the wide warld. The Maister said it was called a globe. There’s maps o’ Scotland, and England and a’ other nations to hang on the walls, and they are painted bonnily; and there’s nae end o’ copy books and slates, and bundles o’ pencils, and big bottles o’ ink, and, Margot, I ne’er saw sae many school books i’ a’ my 188 born days. Naething has been forgotten. The maister said sae, and the Domine said sae.”

“Was the Domine there?”

“Ay, was he. He and the maister unpacked the boxes. Forbye, there is three prizes for the three best scholars—the bairns will go wild o’er them.”

“What are they?”

“I canna tell you. The Domine forbade me.”

“You’ll hae to tell me, gudeman. I’ll hae nae secrets between us twa, and I’m mair than astonished at the Domine, throwing a married man into such a temptation.”

“I’ll go wi’ you how, Feyther. I want to see the wonderfuls.”

“They are locked by for today. We are going to fix the school room Monday, and hae a kind o’ examination Tuesday. I hope to goodness the herrin’ will keep to the nor’ard for a few days.”

“Listen to your feyther, Christine! Wishing the herrin’ awa’ for a lot o’ school bairns.”

“Weel, Margot, woman, it’s maist unlikely the feesh will be here for a week or mair, but they hae a will and a way o’ their ain, and aince or twice, or mebbe mair than that, I hae seen them in these pairts in June.”

“I think the Domine might hae notified Christine. She ought, by rights, to hae been at that unpacking.”

“Weel, Margot, it cam’ my way. I dinna think my lassie grudges me the pleasure.”

And Christine looked at him with a smile that 189 deified her lovely face, and made Ruleson’s heart thrill with pleasure.

“I wad rayther you had the pleasure than mysel’, Feyther. You ken that,” she said, and Ruleson laid his hand on her head, and answered: “I ken it weel! God bless thee!”

That evening, while Christine and little Jamie were busy over Jamie’s lessons, Margot said to her husband, “Gudeman, I’d like to ken what prizes hae been bought. The Domine didna include me in his prohibition, or else he has less sense than I gie him credit for.”

“He said I had better tell naebody.”

“Ay, but you had best tell me. What classes are you givin’ prizes to? It’s a vera unusual thing to gie prizes. I think little o’ paying bairns to learn their lessons. But they’re no likely to be worth the looking at——”

“‘Deed are they—vera gude indeed, for the wee bairns for whom they were bought. There are three o’ them. The first is for the infant lass, nane o’ them over six years auld.”

“Weel, what is it?”

“The Domine——”

“Says many a thing you ta’ nae heed to. Just sae. You needna heed him on this point. Are not we twa one and the same? Speak out, man.”

“The Domine——”

“Wha’s minding the Domine here? Are you mair feared for him, than for your wife?”

Then Ruleson, with his great hearty laugh, pulled a chair to his side, and said, “Sit down, Margot. I’m mair afraid of you, than I am of any man living. I’m trem’ling wi’ fear o’ you, right now, and I’m just going to disobey the Domine, for your sake. What will ye gie me, if I break a promise for your sake?”

“I’ll keep my promise to you, and say naething anent your transgression. What kind o’ a prize could they gie to them babies i’ the infant class—nane o’ them five years auld? Did you see it?”

“Ay, I unpacked it.”

“Was it a rattle, set wi’ wee bells?”

“Naething o’ the kind. It was a big doll, bonnily dressed, and a little trunk fu’ o’ mair claes, and a full set o’ doll cheena, and a doll bed and night claes; wonderfu’, complete. My goodness! Whoever gets it will be the proud wee lassie.”

“Little Polly Craig will be getting it, o’ course. Who chose the presents?”

“I’m thinking it was the Domine and the schoolmaster’s wife.”

“Then they would be knowing wha’ they were buying for?”

“That goes without the saying. I didna hear onyone say the doll was for Polly Craig.”

“Nor I, but Polly’s mother hasna been to hold, nor to bind, anent the infant’s progress. The hale village is weary o’ the story o’ Polly’s remarkable intimacy wi’ her alphabet and spelling. The bairn may be a’ her mither says, but I’m thinking she’s 191 getting her abilities too aerly to be reliable. Weel, then, who gets the next prize?”

“Willie Tamsen.”

“I dinna ken the Tamsens.”

“They’re nice folk, from the south o’ Fife. Willie is seven years auld, or thereby. He’s clever, the schoolmaster says, in figures and geography, and weel-behaved, and quiet-like. The Domine says he’s first in his catechism class, and vera attentive to a’ that concerns his lessons—a good little lad, wi’ an astonishing power o’ ken in him.”

“Weel, what will you gie sae remarkable a bairn?”

“A gold guinea.”

“A gold guinea! I ne’er heard o’ such wild extravagance. It’s fair sinfu’. Whate’er will a lad o’ seven years auld do wi’ a guinea? Buy sweeties wi’ it. I dinna think the Domine can sanction a bit o’ nonsense like that.”

“I’m maist sure the Domine gave the guinea out o’ his ain pocket. The Tamsens are vera poor, and the laddie is the warst-dressed lad i’ the village, and he is to go and get a nice suit o’ claes for himsel’ wi’ it. The Domine knew what he was doing. The laddie will be twice as bright, when he gets claes for his little arms and legs.”

“Weel, I hae naething against Willie Tamsen. He never meddled wi’ my flowers, or stole my berries. I hope he’ll get the claes. And there was to be three prizes?”

“Ay, one for the lads and lasses from eight to 192 eleven years old, that takes in a large pairt o’ the school. The bigger lads and lasses will come in the autumn, when the herrin’ hae been, and gane.”

“I’m not asking anything anent that class. I dinna envy the schoolmaster and mistress that will hae them to manage. They’ll hae their hands fu’, or my name isna Margot Ruleson. Wha will get the third prize?”

“Our Jamie. And he has weel won it. Jamie isna a lad o’ the common order. The Domine says he’ll mak’ the warld sit up and listen to him, when he comes to full stature.”

“The Domine is as silly anent the bairn, as you are. After my ain lad, Neil, I’m expecting naething oot o’ the Nazareth o’ Culraine. We were a’ going to shout o’er Neil Ruleson—weel, we hae had our cry, and dried our eyes, and hae gane on our way again.”

“Neil has done weel—considering.”

“Gudeman, we hae better drop that ‘consideration.’ I was talking o’ our Jamie. What are they going to gie our second wonder o’ a bairn?”

“The maist beautiful book you ever saw—a big copy of Robinson Crusoe fu’ o’ pictures, and bound in blue wi’ gold lettering. The bairn will hae wonder after wonder wi’ it.”

“Did you buy the book?”

“Not I. What mak’s you ask that information?”

“Naething. Jamie should hae had something he 193 could hae halfed wi’ Christine. She has spent the best o’ her hours teaching the bairn. Few or nane o’ the lads and lasses would hae the help o’ any hame lessons. It was really Christine put Neil Ruleson among her Majesty’s lawyers.”

“Weel, then, she’ll do her pairt in putting James Ruleson among the ministers o’ the everlasting God. That will be a great honor, and pay her handsome for a’ her love and labor.”

“Gudeman, ministers arena honored as they were when we were young. If preaching were to go oot o’ fashion, we——”

“What are you saying, Margot Ruleson? The preacher’s license is to the ‘end o’ the warld.’ The Word o’ the Lord must be gien to men, as long as men people the earth.”

“Vera weel! The Word o’ the Lord is in everybody’s hands the now; and everyone is being taught to read it. Maist folk can read it as weel as the minister.”

“The Word must be made flesh! Nae book can tak’ the place o’ the face-to-face argument. Preaching will last as long as men live.”

“Weel, weel, I’m not going to get you to arguing. You arena in the clubroom, and I’m too tired to go into speculations wi’ you. I’m obliged to you, gudeman, for the information you hae imparted. I wad, however, advise the Domine to gie his next secret into the keeping o’ some woman, say mysel’. Women arena sae amiable as men, and whiles they 194 can keep a secret, which is a thing impossible to men-folk.”

“If they are married, I’ll admit there are difficulties.”

“Gude night, and gude dreams to you, James Ruleson.”

“Ye ken weel, Margot, that I never dream.”

“Sae you lose the half o’ your life, James. I’m sorry for you. I shall dream o’ the three happy bairns, and their prizes. Say, you might hae picked out another lassie; twa lads to one lass is o’erganging what’s fair. I’m awa’ to sleep—you needna answer.”

It was trying to the village that Sabbath had to come and go, before the school examination. But everything waited for arrives in its time. And this was a Monday worth waiting for. It was a perfect June day, and the sea, and the sun, and the wind held rejoicing with the green earth and the mortals on it. If there was envy, or jealousy, or bad temper among the villagers, they forgot it, or put it aside for future consideration. Everyone was in his best clothes, the boys and girls being mostly in white, and the little place looked as if there were a great wedding on hand. Christine had made an attempt to decorate the room a little. The boys cut larch boughs and trailing branches, the men loaned the flags of the boats, the women gave the few flowers from their window pots, and strips of garden, and Margot, a little sadly, cut her roses, and gave permission to 195 Christine to add to them a few laburnum branches, now drooping with their golden blossoms.

The room looked well. The flowers and the flags did not hide the globe and the maps. And the blackboard kept its look of authority, though a branch of laburnum bent over it. The schoolmaster was playing a merry Fantasia as the company gathered, but at a given signal from Christine he suddenly changed it to the children’s marching song, and the rapid, orderly manner in which it led each class to its place was a wonderful sight to the men and women who had never seen children trained to obedience by music.

The Domine opened the examination by reading, in the intense silence that followed the cessation of the music, three verses from the eighteenth chapter of St. Luke:

Then the schoolmistress touched a hand bell and a crowd of little children, none over five years old, gathered round her. Contrary to the usual practice of children, their behavior and recitals were better 196 than usual, and laughter and hand-clapping followed all their simple efforts. Polly Craig was their evident leader, and when she had told a charming story about a little girl who would do what she ought not to do, the records of the class were read by the Domine, and the prize awarded to Polly.

Willie Tamsen and Jamie Ruleson’s classes were treated in a similar way, and were equally successful in their recitations and equally delighted with their gifts. Now, the real joy in giving gifts is found in giving them to children, for the child heart beats long after we think it has outgrown itself. The perfect charm of this gathering lay in the fact that men and women became for a few hours little children again. It was really a wonderful thing to see the half-grown girls, the married women, and even old Judith Macpherson, crowding round Polly to admire the waxen beauty and the long fair curls of her prize doll.

After the school exercises the adults slowly scattered, sauntering home with their wives, and carrying their babies as proudly as Polly carried her new treasure. Truly both men and women receive the kingdom of God and Love, when they become as little children. The children remained for two hours longer in the school room. For the entertainment of their parents the youngest ones had danced some of those new dances just at that period introduced into Scotland, called polkas and mazurkas, and now, to please themselves, they began a series of those 197 mythic games which children played in the world’s infancy, and which, thank God, have not yet perished from off the face of the earth. “How many miles to Babylon?” “Hide and seek,” “In and out,” “Blind man’s buff,” and so forth, and in this part of the entertainment, everything and everyone depended upon Christine. Mothers, going home, called to her, “Christine, look after my bairn,” and then went contentedly away.

They might contentedly do so, for whoever saw Christine Ruleson that afternoon, in the midst of those forty or fifty children, saw something as near to a vision of angels, as they were likely to see on this earth. She stood among them like some divine mother. A little one three years old was on her right arm. It pulled her earrings, and rumpled her hair, and crushed her lace collar, and she only kissed and held it closer. A little lad with a crooked spine, and the seraphic face which generally distinguishes such sufferers, held her tightly by her right hand. Others clung to her dress, and called her name in every key of love and trust. She directed their games, and settled their disputes, and if anything went wrong, put it right with a kiss.

The Domine watched her for ten or fifteen minutes, then he went slowly up the hill. “Where at a’ is Christine, Domine?” asked Margot. “I’m wanting her sairly.”

“Christine is too busy to meddle with, Margot. She’s doing God’s best work—ministering to little 198 children. As I saw her half-an-hour ago, she was little lower than the angels. I’m doubting if an angel could be lovelier, or fuller of life and love, and every sweet influence.”

“Christine is a handsome lass, nae doubt o’ that, but our women are all o’ them heritage handsome. I’m doubting if Eve, being a Jewess, could be worth evening wi’ us.”

“Eve was not a Jewess. She was God’s eldest daughter, Margot.”

“Then God’s eldest daughter hasna a very gude character. She has been badly spoken of, ever since the warld began. And I do hope my Christine will behave hersel’ better than Eve did—if all’s true that is said anent her.”

“Christine is a good girl, Margot. If little children love a woman, and she loves them, the love of God is there. Margot! Margot! God comes to us in many ways, but the sweetest and tenderest of all of them, is when he sends Jesus Christ by the way of the cradle.”

All’s well that ends well. If this be true, the first session of Culraine school was a great success. It had brought an entirely new, and very happy estimate of a father’s and a mother’s duty to their children. It had even made them emulous of each other, in their care and attention to the highest wants of childhood.

The whole village was yet talking of the examination when the herring came. Then every woman 199 went gladly to her appointed post and work, and every man—rested and eager for labor—hailed the news with a shout of welcome. Peter Brodie’s big Sam brought it very early one lovely summer morning, and having anchored his boat, ran through the sleeping village shouting—“Caller Herrin’! In Culraine Bay!”

The call was an enchantment. It rang like a trumpet through the sleeping village, and windows were thrown up, and doors flung open, and half-dressed men were demanding in stentorian voices, “Where are the fish, Sam?”

“Outside Culraine Bay,” he answered, still keeping up his exultant cry of “Caller Herrin’!” and in less than half an hour men were at work preparing for the amazing physical strain before them. Much was to do if they were to cast their nets that evening, and the streets were soon busy with men and lads carrying nets and other necessities to the boats. It was up with the flag on every boat in commission, for the fishing, and this day’s last preparations excited the place as if it were some great national holiday. The women were equally full of joyful business. They had to cook the breakfast, but immediately after it were all in the packing and curing sheds. You would have been sure they were keeping holiday. Pleasant greetings, snatches of song, encouraging cries to the men struggling down to the boats with the leaded nets, shouts of hurry to the bewildered children, little flytings at their delays, O twenty different motives 200 for clamor and haste were rife, and not unpleasant, because through all there was that tone of equal interest and good fellowship that can never be mistaken.

Margot had insisted on a visit to her special shed, to see whether all was in readiness for her special labor, but Christine had entreated her to wait for her return from the town, where she was going for orders. She had left her mother with the clear understanding that she would not risk the walk and the chatter and the clatter until the following day. But as soon as she was alone, Margot changed her intentions. “I must make the effort,” she said to herself. “I’m feared of the pain, that’s all about it.” So she made the effort, and found out that there was something more than fear to be reckoned with.

Christine brought home astonishing orders, and Margot’s face flushed with pride and energy. “I’ll not let that order slip through my fingers,” she cried, “I’m going to the kippering, and what I canna do, Christine can manage, following my say-so.”

This change in Margot’s work was the only shadow on that year’s herring-tide. It was a change, however, that all felt would not be removed. Margot said, with a little laugh, that she was teaching her lassie how to make a living, or how to help some gudeman to do it. “And I have a fine scholar,” she soon began to add. “Christine can now kipper a herring as weel as her mother, and why not? She 201 has seen the kippering done, ever since she wore ankle tights.”

“And you will be glad of a bit rest to yourself, Margot, no doubt,” was the general answer.

“Ay, I have turned the corner of womanhood, and I’m wearing away down the hillside of life. I hae been in a dowie and desponding condition for a year or mair.”

“Christine is clever with business, and folks do say she has a full sense of the value of money.”

“To be sure, Nancy. There’s no harm in the like of that. Her feyther came from Aberdeen folk, and it’s weel recognized that Aberdeen folk look at both sides of a penny.”

“Christine is a clever lass, and good likewise, we were all saying that, a while ago.”

“Weel, some folk, out of bad taste, or a natural want of good sense, may think different; but there—that’s enough on the subject of Christine. Her feyther is gey touchy anent Christine, and it will be as weel to let that subject alone.”

So, day after day, Margot sat in a chair at her daughter’s side, and Christine filled the big orders as her mother instructed her. And they were well filled, in good time, and the outcome was beyond all expectation. Yet Christine looked sadly at the money, and Margot turned her head away, to hide the unbidden tears in her eyes, as she said:

“It’s all yours, lassie. I’ll not touch a farthing of it. You have fairly won it. It will happen help 202 Neil’s deficiencies. Oh, my dear lassie! Mither has done her last kippering! I feel it.”

“Then I’ll kipper for you, Mither, as long as we both live. The hill is now o’er much for you—and the noisy women, and skirling bairns! Christine will go to Mother’s shed, and Mother will bide at hame, and red up the house, and have a cup of tea ready for hungry folk, as they come weary hame.”

And Margot let it go at that, but she was as she said, “dowie and despondent.” Ruleson begged her to go with him to Edinburgh, and get the advice of a good physician, but Margot would not listen to any entreaty.

“I’ll no do any such thing,” she answered. “Not likely! The Domine can gie the pain a setback, and if God wants me here, He’ll keep me here, sick or well, and if He doesna want me here, I’m willing to go where He does want me.” From this position Margot was not movable, and now that the herring fishing was over, there did not appear to be any reason for making her restless and unhappy. So she naturally drifted into that household position, where everyone took care not to tire, and not to vex, grandmother.

One morning in the early days of October, Christine was sitting sewing, and Margot was making shortcake. They had been talking of Neil and wondering where he was.

“I’m thinking it is whole o’ a month, since we heard from the lad,” said Margot.

“I dare say it’s mair, Mother; and that letter was from some strange French seaside place, and he was thinking that they wouldna stay there very long. He has mebbe gane further awa’ than France.”

“I wouldn’t wonder—setting a young man traveling is like setting a ball rolling down a hill. Baith o’ them are hard to turn back.”

Margot had scarcely finished speaking, when Sam Brodie opened the door. He had been to the town post office and seen, in the list of uncalled-for letters, a letter addressed to Christine, so he had brought it along. It proved to be from Neil, and had been posted in Rome. Christine was familiar with that postmark, and it still had power at least to raise her curiosity. Neil’s handwriting, however, spoke for itself, and before she broke the seal, she said, “Why, Mither! It is from Neil.”

“I thought that, as soon as Sam came in. I was dreaming of a letter from Neil, last night. I dinna dream for naething. Make haste with the news—good or bad—read it all. I want to hear the warst of it.” Then Christine read aloud the following letter:

There was a few moments’ dead silence, and Christine did not lift her eyes from the paper in her hand, until a passionate exclamation from Margot demanded her notice.

“Oh, Mither, Mither!” she cried, “dinna mak’ yoursel’ sick; it’s Neil, our Neil, that you are calling a scoundrel.”

“And I’ll call a scoundrel by no ither name. It’s gude enough for him.”

“We were talking one hour ago about him marrying Miss Rath, and you took to the idea then. Now that he has done so, what for are you railing at him?”

“I’m not railing at him for marrying the lass, she’s doubtless better than he deserves. It’s the way that he’s done the business—the mean, blackguardly way he’s done the business, that shames and angers me. Dod! I would strike him on the face, if he was near my hand. I’m shamed o’ him! He’s a black disgrace to his father and mother, and to all the kind he came from.”

“Generally speaking, Mother, folks would say that Neil had done weel to himsel’ and praise him for it.”

“Who are you alluding to? Dinna call the name ‘Neil’ in my hearing. Scoundrel is gude enough to specify a scoundrel. I hae counts against him, and he must clear himself, before I’ll pass his christened name o’er my lips.”

“What are your counts against him? Maybe I can speak a word to explain them.”

“Not you! First, he has, beyond a’ doubt, deceived the lass’s brother. He should hae spoken to him first of all, and the young man wouldna hae said 206 insulting words if there wasna cause for the same.”

“The lady was of full age, and sae had the right to please herself, Mither.”

“She had not. She was as bad as Neil, or she would have sought her brother’s consent.”

“Perhaps Neil wouldna let her tell her brither.”

“That’s like enough. He has got the girl, and that means he has got full control o’ her money. Then he breaks his promise to go into partnership in business with the brother, and will open a law office in his ain name! He’ll open it, ye ken, wi’ the Rath siller, in his ain name! Having got plenty o’ the Rath siller to set himsel’ up, he drops the man whom he used to fleech and flatter enou’ to sicken a honest man. And he trusts to you to mak’ all comfortable here—but no word or whisper anent the ninety pounds he’s owing you. He has gotten mair money than he expectit wi’ his stolen wife, and yet he hasna a thought for the sister wha emptied the small savings o’ her lifetime into his unthankfu’ hands. Wae’s me, but I’m the sorrowfu’ mither this day.”

“For a’ that, Mither, dinna mak’ yoursel’ sick. Luck o’ some kind threw the Rath siller in Neil’s way.”

“Ay, and the scoundrel has ta’en all he could get o’ it.”

“That’s the way o’ the warld, Mother.”

“It isn’t the way o’ honest, honorable men. He ought to hae spoken to the young man plainly, and 207 he ought not to hae quarreled wi’ him anent their business proposal. I understand that the Rath lad was na very knowing in the law nor indeed notable for managing his ain affairs, in any way.”

“Weel, Mither, it comes to this—Neil had made up his mind to tak’ his living out o’ the Rath purse, and he finally decided that he would rayther tak’ it from the lady, than the gentleman.”

Margot laughed at this remark. “You’ll not be far wrang in that observe, Christine,” she said, “but the lad may be far out o’ his reckoning, and I’m not carin’ if it be so. Nae doubt he thought the lassie wad be easier controlled than her brither, who, I was led to believe, had a vera uncertain temper. Roberta may pay a’ our wrangs yet. Little women are gey often parfect Tartars.”

“Mither! Mither! You wouldn’t wish your ain lad to marry a Tartar o’ a wife, and sae be miserable.”

“Wouldn’t I? A stranger winning their way wi’ the Raths’ siller, wouldna hae troubled me, it would hae been out o’ my concern. Christine, there are two things no good woman likes to do. One is to bring a fool into the warld, and the other is to bring one o’ them clever fellows, who live on other people’s money, instead o’ working their way up, step by step. I’m shamed o’ my motherhood this day!”

“Na, na, Mither! Think of Norman, and Allan, and the lave o’ the lads!”

“And forbye, I think shame o’ any son o’ mine being married in a foreign country, in France itsel’, the French being our natural enemies.”

“Not just now, Mither, not just now.”

“Our natural enemies! and a kind o’ people, that dinna even speak like Christians. Ye ken I hae heard their language in this vera room, Christine, and sorry I am to hae permitted the like.”

“There’s nae harm in it, Mither.”

“It led him astray. If Ruleson’s lad hadna kent the French tongue, he would hae persuaded thae Raths that America was the only place to see the warld in.”

“Well, Mither, he went to the English church in France—the Protestant Episcopal Church!”

“Another great wrang to our family. The Rulesons are of the best Covenanting stock. What would John Knox say to a Ruleson being married in an Episcopal Church, at the very horns o’ the altar, as it were? An unchristened Turk could do naething more unfitting.”

“Mither, I hear feyther and Jamie coming up the hill. Let us hae peace this night. We will tak’ counsel o’ our pillows, and in the morning we’ll see things in a different way, perhaps.”

“Perhaps!”

And the scorn Margot threw into the seven letters of that one word, “perhaps,” would have been an impossibility to any woman less ignorant, or less prejudiced in favor of her own creed and traditions. 209 For it is in Ignorance that Faith finds its most invincible stronghold.

Ruleson came in with a newspaper in his hand. Jamie was with him, but as soon as he entered the cottage, he snuggled up to his grandmother, and told her softly, “Grandfather has had some bad news. It came in a newspaper.”

Grandfather, however, said not a word concerning bad news, until he had had his tea, and smoked a pipe. Then Christine and Jamie went to Christine’s room to read, and Ruleson, after tapping the bowl of his pipe on the hob until it was clean, turned to Margot, and said, “Gudewife, I hae news today o’ Neil’s marriage to Miss Rath.”

“Ay, Christine had a letter.”

“What do you think o’ the circumstance?”

“I’m wondering, when it was in a foreign country, and outside his ain kirk and creed, whether it was legal and lawful?”

“Neil is lawyer enough to ken he was all right. It is not the law side o’ the question I am thinking of. It is the hame side. Not a word to his ain folk, and not one o’ us present at the ceremony!”

“Neither were any of the lady’s family present. It was, I’m thinking, a marriage after Neil Ruleson’s ain heart. Neil first, and last, and altogether.”

“How’s that? The young man, her brother——”

“Neil has quarreled wi’ him. Neil has got the lady and her money, and he is going to begin business in his ain name, exclusive! I consider Neil 210 something o’ a scoundrel, and a mean one, at that.”

“I was talking to Finlay anent the matter, and he says Neil has done weel to himsel’, and he thinks him a gey clever young man.”

“And I’d like to have Finlay keep his false tongue out o’ my family affairs. I say Neil has done a dirty piece o’ business with the Raths, and that will be seen, and heard tell o’.”

“As I was saying, Margot, it is the hame side o’ the affair that gave me a shock. To think of a’ we hae done, of a’ his brithers hae done, and of the siller he got frae his sister! To think o’ it! Only to think o’ it! And not ane o’ us bid to his wedding. It fairly staggers me!”

“Nae wonder, gudeman! It’s an unspeakable business! I’ll not talk o’ it! The lad I nursed on my heart, and he’s fairly broken it at last. He’s a sinful creature!”

“We are all o’ us sinfu’ creatures, Margot!”

“We are not. You are much mista’en, James. There’s plenty o’ good men and women on every side o’ us. Neither you, nor mysel’, would do as Neil has done.”

“Perhaps not—but we baith hae our ain way o’ sinning, Margot, you ken that.”

“Speak for yoursel’, gudeman!”

“Finlay said——”

“Kay! Kay! I’ll no be fashed wi’ Finlay’s foolishness. I’m awa’ to my sleep. My lad, my dear lad, you are heart-weary. I’m sorry for you.”

“Wait a moment, Margot. Finlay says he has nae doubt Neil has married ten thousand pounds a year. Think o’ that!”

“I’ll think of nae such foolishness. And if it was twenty thousand, the lad would need it all—we hae brought him up sae badly!”

Margot disappeared with the words, and the unhappy father as he covered the fire, and pottered about the house, said sorrowfully:

“She’s right! She’s always right. If her words are in the way o’ reproach, it’s my fault! James Ruleson’s fault! I ought to hae stood out against the Maraschal. If we had made him a minister, he would hae been obligated to set an example to a kirkful o’ men and women, and folks will sin against their ain house, when they will do their duty to a kirkful.”

The winter following Neil’s marriage was a pleasant one to the village of Culraine. The weather was favorable, the line fishing more than usually prosperous, and the school remarkably successful. Ruleson took the greatest delight in its progress, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than a walk in its vicinity, when he could see the children coming and going, with their books and balls in their hands. They all knew him, but however large the group in the playground, he could pick little Jamie out of it in a moment. And oh, how good it was to see the old man defying his failure with Neil, and building still grander hopes on this lad of ten years old! Truly, from the good heart Hope springs eternal. It forgets that it is mortal, because it takes hold on immortality.

Christine heard constantly from Cluny, but it was nearly a year since she had seen him, for the crew of a passenger steamer trading to foreign ports, do not obtain leave easily, especially in their first year. And Cluny had never been in Glasgow port long enough to make a journey to Culraine and back possible. Christine did not fret herself because of his absence. She was not as one of the foolish ones, who regard a lover and love-making as the great essential of life. She had proved in her own case, that Duty was far above, and beyond Love. She had known cases where Honor had been put before Love. She had seen Angus Ballister put mere social caste before Love. It was a fact known to all the world, that gold laughed at Love, and bought and sold Love, as if he were merchandise in the market place.

She loved Cluny, but her love was subject to her duty, which at present was evidently in her own home. Her father was strong and full of the joy of living, but his work was on the winter seas, and he needed the comfort of a well-ordered house and properly-cooked food after his hard day’s fishing. Her mother was sick and failing, and it appeared to Christine’s anxious heart that she was losing, instead of gaining, ground. Margot denied this position, but Christine noticed that one little household duty after another was allowed to drift quietly into her hands. Then also there was Jamie, whom she tenderly loved, and who was wholly dependent on her 214 care and help. His food—his clothes—his lessons! What could Jamie do without her?

One morning in February, she had a letter from Cluny, which set at naught all these claims. He had two hundred pounds in the Bank of Scotland, and he wanted to get married. He was studying navigation, and he would be third officer in another year. He was fairly wasting his life without Christine. He was growing old with the disappointment he was getting constantly. He was next door to dying, with one put-off after another. If he came up on the fifteenth, would she walk over to the Domine’s with him? He felt as if the Domine might bury him, if he didna marry him. He declared he had been sick with the love and pain of wanting her, ever since he could remember himself, “and yet, Christine,” he wrote, “you are mine. Mine from your birth hour. Mine whether you love me, or don’t love me. Mine if you marry someone else. Mine even if you die, for then I would soon follow, and find you out, wherever you were.”

What was a girl of cool, reasonable nature, to do with a lover of this impetuous, vehement temper?

She told her mother that Cluny was coming, and she noticed that the news instantly changed the atmosphere of the room. Margot had been sewing and chatting cheerfully in her chair by the fireside. She dropped her work, and became thoughtful and silent. Christine knew why, and she said to herself, “Mither is fearing I am going to marry Cluny, and 215 leave her alane! As if I would! The man never lived, who could make me do the like o’ that.” She waited ten minutes to give Margot time to recover herself, but as she did not do so, she asked, “Mither, are you doubting Christine?”

“No, dearie! I couldna do that.”

“What then?”

“I’m doubting mysel’. Doubting my power to look to your feyther’s comfort, and the like o’ that, and maybe fearing a strange woman in the house.”

“Why a strange woman?”

“There’s things I canna do now—things I havna the strength for, and——”

“You think that Christine would leave you?”

“Weel, there is the peradventure.”

“Mither, put your arm round me. To the end of your life, Christine will put hers round you. Naebody can part us twa. Naebody!”

“I thought Cluny was coming—and—that——”

“I would leave you. Leave you now! Leave you, and leave feyther without anyone to cook his meals, and leave wee Jamie, who looks to me as if I was his Mither. Na, na! You mustna judge Christine in that way. What for would I leave you? Because a lad loves me out of a’ sense and reason. Even if I was his wife, love and duty would count your claim first. God said a man should leave feyther and mither, and cleave to his wife; but He didna tell a woman to leave her feyther and mither, and cleave to her husband.”

“He would mean it, Christine.”

“Then He would hae said it. He leaves nae room to question.”

“There might be what is called ‘inferences.’”

“Na, na, Mither! It is thus and so, and do, and do not, wi’ God. There’s nae inferences in any o’ His commands. When folks break them, they ken well they are breaking them. But what will we be talking o’ this matter for? You yoursel’ are beyond the obligation.”

“I ne’er had it, I may say, for my feyther was drowned ere I was born, and my mither died ere I was five years old. It’s different wi’ you, dearie.”

“It is, but Christine kens all o’ her duty, and it will be her pleasure to fulfill it.” And she clasped her mother’s hands in hers, and kissed her. And Margot’s old pawky smile flitted o’er her face, and she said, “We must ask the Domine anent this question”—then a little sarcastically—“or Neil will gie us the Common Law o’ Scotland concerning it.”

So the trouble ended with a smile and the shout of Jamie as he flung open the house door, in a storm of hurry and pleasure. “Auntie! Grandmither!” he cried. “We are going to have a tug-of-war between the English and the Scotch, on the playground, at half-past twelve. I’m on the Scotch side. Gie me my dinner, Auntie, and I’ll be awa’ to help floor Geordie Kent, and the rest of his upsetting crowd. Geordie’s mither is English, and he’s always boasting about the circumstance.”

“Are you going to tak’ the brag out o’ him, Jamie?”

“I am going to help do so, with all my might, but there’s some Border lads among the English set, and they are a hefty lot, and hard to beat.”

“That’s right, Jamie! Fife lads shout when the boat wins the harbor, not till then. All the same, laddie, bring me word o’ your victory.”

When dinner was over Christine dressed herself for her visitor, and the light of love and expectation gave to her face an unusual beauty. She wore her fisher costume, for she thought Cluny would like it best, but it was fresh and bright and quite coquettish, with its pretty fluted cap, its gold earrings, its sky-blue bodice and skirt of blue and yellow stripes, and the little kerchief of vivid scarlet round her shoulders. Its final bit of vanity was a small white muslin apron, with little pockets finished off with bows of scarlet ribbon. If she had dressed herself for a fashionable masquerade ball she would have been its most picturesque belle and beauty.

It was seven o’clock when Cluny arrived. Ruleson had gone to a meeting of the School Trustees, a business, in his opinion, of the very greatest importance; and Margot’s womanly, motherly sense told her that Cluny would rather have her absence than her company. So she had pleaded weariness, and gone to her room soon after tea was over, and Cluny had “the fair opportunity,” he so often declared he never obtained; for Margot had said to Jamie, “You’ll 218 come and sit wi’ me, laddie, and gie me the full story o’ your bloody defeat, and we’ll mak’ a consultation anent the best way o’ mending it.”

“This is glorious!” cried Cluny, as he stood alone with Christine in the firelit room. “I have you all to mysel’! Oh, you woman of all the world, what have you to say to me this night?”

“What do you want me to say, Cluny?”

“Tell me that you’ll go before the Domine with me, in the morning.”

“Now, Cluny, if you are going to begin that trouble again, I will not stay with you.”

“Trouble, trouble? What trouble? Is it a trouble to be my wife?”

“I have told you before, I could not marry you till the right time came.”

“It is the right time now! It has to be! I’ll wait no longer!”

“You will wait forever, if you talk that way to me.”

“I’ll take my ain life, Christine, rayther than hae it crumbled awa’ between your cruel fingers and lips! aye writing, and saying, ‘at the proper time’! God help me! When is the proper time?”

“When my mither is better, and able to care for hersel’, and look after feyther and the house.”

“Is she any better than she was?”

“Na, I’m feared she is worse.”

“She is maybe dying.”

“I am feared she is.”

“Then if I wait till she dies——”

“Be quiet, Cluny! How dare you calculate anything for my life, on my mither’s death? Do you think I would walk from her grave to the altar to marry you? I would hae to lose every gude sense, and every good feeling I have, ere I could be sae wicked.”

“Do you mean that after your mither’s death, you will still keep me waiting?”

“You know right well, Cluny, what our folk would say, if I didna observe the set time of mourning.”

“Great Scot! That’s a full year!”

“Ay. If a bairn dies in our village, its folk wear blacks for a year. Would I grudge a year’s respect for my mither’s memory? Forbye there would be my poor heart-broken feyther, and a’ his needs and griefs.”

“And the bairn, too, I suppose?”

“Ay, you’re right. The bairn is in our keeping, till he is fourteen. Then he goes to Domine Trenaby.”

“I hope the next storm will mak’ an end o’ me! I’m a broke man, in every worth-while. I hae money to mak’ a home, but I canna hae a home without a wife, and the wife promised me puts one mountain after another in the way, that no man can win over”—and he passionately clasped and unclasped his hands, while tears, unrecognized, flowed freely, and somewhat relieved the heart tension that for a few moments made him speechless.

It seems natural for a woman to weep, but it sends 220 a thrill of pity and fear through a woman’s heart to see a man break down in unconscious and ungovernable weeping. Christine was shocked and strangely pitiful. She soothed, and kissed, and comforted him, with a gracious abandon she had never before shown. She could not alter circumstances, but she strengthened him for the bearing of them. She actually made him confess that she would lose something in his estimation, if she was capable of leaving her mother under present conditions. In his embrace she wept with him, and both of them learned that night the full sweetness of a love that is watered with mutual tears.

So, at the last, she made him strong and confident in hopes for the future, because God is love, and the circumstances that separated them were of His ordering. And Christine would think no ill of God, she was sure that life and death, and all things God ordained, were divinely good; and her influence overarched and enveloped Cluny, and perhaps for the first time, the real meaning of life and its difficulties pealed through his heart and brain.

Then as they were talking, Ruleson returned, and Ruleson, liking Cluny well, was rejoiced to see him, and they talked together with the greatest interest, while Christine placed upon the table the simple luxuries she had prepared for this anticipated meal. It was indeed a wonderfully happy meal, prolonged by interesting conversation till nearly midnight, for Ruleson wanted to hear all Cluny could tell about 221 the Mediterranean, and Cluny was pleased to listen to Ruleson’s enthusiastic description of the good work the school was doing.

When Cluny at length rose to depart, Ruleson asked the date of his ship’s next visit to Glasgow, and then promised to meet him there, and to bring Christine with him for a two or three days’ pleasuring. Cluny was delighted, for though Christine only shook her head and smiled, he believed that in some way or other the visit could be managed. And Margot was enthusiastic about it. She said Christine must ask Faith to come and stay with her, and Norman would come to her through the night in case of trouble, and the Domine would call and see her, and wee Jamie was comfort and help baith. “Forbye,” she added, “I’m wanting to hear a’ about Neil and his wife, and their way o’ living, Christine, and if you’ll just make them an hour’s passing call, you can gie me a vera clear idea o’ the same.”

So the hastily projected trip became an anticipatory pleasure for which there was constant preparation going on. It was a wonderful prospect to Christine, who had never been five miles from her home, and Margot entered heartily into the scheme for making it a notable affair. She said the time was a lucky ordering, for it was near enough Easter to warrant a new spring suit, and she gave Christine a five-pound note, and sent her into the town to buy one. “You’ll get your ain choice, lassie,” she said, “but I’m thinking, if it should be o’ a light pearly-gray, it would 222 suit you weel, and get your gloves and parasol o’ the same shade, as near as may be, but buy your bonnet in Glasgow town, for you will hae the height o’ the fashion there, and scores o’ shops to choose from.”

So for nearly a month this pleasant expectation kept the Ruleson cottage busy and happy. Christine’s pearly-gray cashmere dress came home, and was greatly admired, even by the Domine, who also took a great interest in the proposed visit to Glasgow. He advised her to send Neil word, as soon as she arrived there:

“And do as you have always done, Christine, strive for peace and family unity. There have been wrongs, no doubt, but you Rulesons have all nursed one mother’s breast, and learned your prayers at one mother’s knees, so if there is any little trouble between Neil and yourself, Christine, forgive it.”

“I love Neil, I hae loved him all my life, Sir. I intend to go on loving him. Ninety pounds could not part us. No, nor ninety hundred pounds. There’s no money’s-worth, can count love’s-worth.”

How does a young girl feel on the eve of her first pleasure journey, when she has pretty new clothing to wear, and money enough to spend, and is going in the care of an indulgent father to have fresh and unknown entertainments, with a lover who adores her, and whom she admires and truly loves? Is she not happy and joyous, and full of eager anticipation? And it was the last day of waiting. The valise which held her new dress and her father’s best suit, 223 was packed, Faith had readily taken hold of the house duties, and Margot had been, and was, unusually well and active. Ruleson had gone fishing “to pass the time,” he said, and all was ready for the early start they proposed to make in the morning.

Ruleson generally came home in time for his six o’clock meal, but Christine, standing at the open door about four o’clock, saw him making for the harbor. “Father’s just like a bairn,” she thought. “I’m gey uplifted mysel’, but I’m plum steady, to what he is.” Then Margot joined her. “Is that your feyther coming, Christine?”

“Ay, it’s feyther, sure enou’!”

“What for is he coming at this time o’ day?”

“He’s just in a wave o’ excitement, he isna heeding what the clock says.”

“What time is it?”

“Not quite four.”

“Weel, you hed better put on the kettle; he’s used to eating as soon as he comes hame, and if his head is wrang anent the time, his stomach is doubtless wrang anent its eating.”

So the women went inside, and Christine put on the kettle, and Margot began to lay the cloth, and set the china on the table. It took Ruleson about half an hour to walk between his boat and his house, but suddenly Margot noticed that he was overdue, and yet not in sight. She called Christine, and they stood together at the land side door, and watched 224 for him. A sudden silence fell between them, they stopped wondering about his delay, and kept their eyes on the road. The time seemed to stand still. Margot went into the house and sat down. Christine’s life seemed to be in her eyes. Every minute was like an hour. “Feyther, Feyther!” she said in an anxious whisper. “Whatna for are you delaying? What at all is keeping you? Come, Feyther!” And to this strong cry of the Inner Woman, he turned a corner, and was in full view.

Christine saw in a moment that something was wrong. “He isna walking like himsel’! He must hae got hurt some way or ither!” and she ran like a deer to meet him.

“Feyther! Feyther! Whatever’s ailing you?”

He stood still and looked at her, and she was shocked at his appearance.

“Have you hurt yoursel’, Feyther?”

“Something has hurt me. I hae taken a sair cold and shivering. I am ill, lassie. I maun hae a doctor as soon as maybe. I am in a hot and cauld misery. I can hardly draw a breath.”

Margot met them at the door. “Feyther is ill, Mither! Where’s Jamie? He will run and tell the Domine. Get feyther into his bed, and if I canna find Jamie, I’ll away mysel’ for the Domine. Perhaps I had better go to the town for Doctor Fraser.”

“Feyther says no! He wants to see the Domine, particular.”

“Then I’ll waste no time seeking Jamie. I’ll go 225 mysel’ to the manse, and I’ll be back as quick as possible. Keep a brave heart, Mither. There’s only you, till I get back.”

Happily she found the Domine more than halfway on his road to Ruleson’s. He said he had had a feeling an hour ago, that he was wanted there, and he was angry with himself for not obeying the word given him. Then he took Christine’s hand, and they went hurriedly and in silence to the sick man.

“My friend! My dear friend!” he said as he clasped Ruleson’s hot hand and listened to his labored breathing, “I am going as fast as I can for Fraser. This is a trouble beyond my skill, and we want you well for the Easter school exercises. The bairns willna be happy missing you. So I’ll go quick as I can for Fraser.” Then turning to Margot, he said, “Where is Faith Anderson? I thought she was with you.”

“She is, but she went to the village to see some o’ her auld friends. She said she would be back by nine o’clock.”

“And Jamie? He could go wi’ me.”

“Faith took Jamie wi’ her.”

Then he went away, and Margot and Christine stood helplessly beside the suffering man. It grew dark, and no one came, and Christine felt as if she was in some dreadful dream, and could not awaken herself. They expected Norman about seven, but something detained him, and it was after nine when Faith and Jamie were heard on the hill. They were 226 laughing and talking noisily, and Christine ran to meet, and to silence them. The sick man was growing rapidly worse, and there was no sign of the Domine and the doctor. Indeed it was near midnight when they arrived, and by this time Ruleson was unconscious.

Those who know anything of pneumonia will understand the hard, cruel fight that a man in the perfect health and strength of James Ruleson made for his life. Every step of the disease was contested, and it was only when his wonderful resistance gave out, and his strength failed him, that the doctor and the Domine lost hope. At length, one sunny afternoon, the Domine drew up the window shade, and let the light fall on the still, white face for a minute. Christine was at his side, and he turned to her, and said, “I am going back to the manse for the Blessed Cup of Remembrance. Get the table and bread ready, and tell your mother it is the last time! She must try and eat it with him.”

Christine looked at him with her soul in her eyes. She understood all he meant and she merely bowed her head and turned to the dying man. He lay as still as a cradled child. The struggle was over. He had given it up. It was peace at last. Where was James Ruleson at that hour? The Domine had said, “Do not disturb him. We know not what now is passing in his soul. Let him learn in peace whatever God wishes him to learn, in this pause between one life and another.”

Margot was on her bed in another room. Christine knelt down at her side, and said gently, “Mither, the great, wonderful hour has come. The Domine has gane for The Cup. With your ain dear hands you will spread the cloth, and cut the bread, for your last eating wi’ him. And, Mither, you won’t cry out, and weep, as those do who have nae hope o’ meeting again. You will mak’ yoursel’ do as the daughters o’ God do, who call Him ‘Feyther’! You’ll be strong in the Lord, Mither, and bid Feyther ‘good-by,’ like those who are sure they will meet to part no more.”

And Margot whispered, “I was brought low, and He helped me.”

A few hours later, in this simple cottage bedroom, the miracle of Love’s last supper in the upper chamber at Jerusalem, was remembered. With her own hands Margot covered a little table at her husband’s bedside with her finest and whitest linen. She cut the bread into the significant morsels, and when the Domine came, he placed them solemnly on the silver plate of the consecrated service, and poured wine into the holy vessel of The Communion. All was then ready, and they sat down to wait for that lightening which so often comes when the struggle is over and the end near.

They waited long. Ruleson’s deep sleep lasted for hours, and the Domine began to hope it might be that life-giving sleep which often introduces the apparently dying to a new lease of life.

He awoke after midnight, with the word “Margot” on his lips, and Margot slipped her hand into his, and kissed him.

“We are going to have supper with the Lord Christ. Will you join us, Ruleson?”

“Ay, will—I—gladly!”

After the simple rite Ruleson was quite happy. He said a few words privately to the Domine, asked for his grandson, and told him to be a good man, and a minister of God, and promised if it was in God’s will he would watch o’er him, and then blessed and sent him away.

“I might hae another struggle at the last. I dinna want him to see it.”

“The struggle is over, James,” answered the Domine. “Be still, and wait for the salvation of the Lord.”

And for some hours, even until the day broke, and the shadows began to flee away, that dying room was in a strange peace. Margot and Christine sat almost motionless, watching their loved one’s face growing more and more calm and content, and the Domine stood or sat at the foot of the bed, and all was intensely still.

“Great things are passing in the soul now,” he said to the women. “It is contemplating the past. It is judging itself. It is bearing witness to the righteousness and mercy of its Maker. Pray that it may come from this great assize justified through Christ.” Soon after, he added “The tide has 229 turned, he will go out with the tide. Stand near him now, and sing softly with me his last human prayer:

Once the dying man opened his eyes, once he smiled, but ere the last line was finished, James Ruleson had

Time waits neither for the living nor the dead, and when a month had come and gone, Margot and Christine had accepted, in some measure, their inevitable condition. Ruleson had left his small affairs beyond all dispute. His cottage was bequeathed entirely to his wife and daughter, “for all the days of their lives.” His boat was to be sold, and the proceeds given to his widow. The two hundred cash he had in the bank was also Margot’s, and the few acres of land he owned he gave to his eldest son, Norman, who had stood faithfully by his 230 side through all his good and evil days. No one was dissatisfied except Norman’s wife, who said her man, being the eldest born, had a full right to house and cash, and a’ there was, saving Margot’s lawful widow right. She said this so often that she positively convinced herself of its rightness and justice, “and some day,” she frequently added, “I will let Mistress and Miss Ruleson know the ground on which they stand.” To Norman, she was more explicit and denunciatory—and he let her talk.

It had been very positively stated in the adoption of James Ruleson, the younger, that the simple decease of his grandfather made him the adopted son of the Domine, and it was thought best to carry out this provision without delay. Margot had been seriously ill after the funeral, and she said calmly now, that she was only waiting until her change came. But life still struggled bravely within her for its promised length, and the Domine said Death would have to take her at unawares, if he succeeded yet awhile. This was the truth. The desire to live was still strong in Margot’s heart, she really wished earnestly to live out all her days.

Now, public sympathy soon wears out. The village which had gone en masse to weep at James Ruleson’s funeral, had in two weeks chosen Peter Brodie to fill his place. The women who were now busy with their spring cleaning, and their preparations for the coming herring season, could not afford to weep any longer with “thae set-up Rulesons.” 231 Neil had ignored all of them at the funeral, Margot’s sorrow they judged to be “a vera dry manifestation,” and Christine would not talk about her father’s last hours. The women generally disapproved of a grief that was so dry-eyed and silent.