Produced by Chris Curnow, Graeme Mackreth and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









 _The Queer Folk of Fife_:

 _Tales from the Kingdom_

 BY
 DAVID PRYDE, M.A., LL.D.

 AUTHOR OF "PLEASANT MEMORIES OF A BUSY LIFE"
 "THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE"
 "GREAT MEN IN EUROPEAN HISTORY," ETC.

 GLASGOW
 MORISON BROTHERS
 52 RENFIELD STREET
 1897

[Illustration]




CONTENTS.


                                               PAGE

 THE BREACH OF PROMISE,                           9

 HER DEAD SELF,                                  33

 GOD'S OWN SCHOLAR,                              52

 THE GENTLEMAN TRAMP,                            84

 THE ONE FATAL MISTAKE,                         123

 A ROMANCE OF THE HARVEST FIELD,                167

 THE BOY HERETIC,                               198

 HOW THE DEACON BECAME AN ABSTAINER,            240




INTRODUCTION.


Fifty years ago, the little burgh-town of Sandyriggs was a sleepy
place. The inhabitants led, what they themselves called, "an easy-osy
life." So little stir was there in the life of the small shopkeeper
or tradesman, that he might be said to "vegetate." He grew and
flourished where he had been born, and among his own schoolmates and
his parents' cronies, who still called him by the fond familiar name
of his boyhood, "Johnny," or "Jamie," or "Robby," as the case might
be. His place of business was part of his home; and during the day he
oscillated comfortably between the front shop and the back parlour.
There was little competition, and very little anxiety about his trade.
His customers were his friends, and he could rely implicitly on their
support. It happened, therefore, that even in what he called his
busiest time, he had many intervals of leisure during which he was at a
loss what to do.

Of a similar complexion was the life of the small farmers who abounded
in the neighbourhood. The farmer, or "gudeman," as he was called,
toiled, it is true, in the fields by the side of his own servants; but
he had little of the endless anxiety of the husbandmen of the present
time. In those halcyon days of Protection, he was the especial care
of the Lords and Commons of Great Britain and Ireland. They were his
guardian angels. What did it matter to him though the drought burned up
his turnips, and the drenching rains blackened his barley? The prices
rose at once to guard him against loss. Consequently, after his day's
"darg," and when he had exchanged his muddy boots for slippers, and
taken his "four hours" of tea and buttered scones, he could sit down,
snuff-box in hand and free from care, and take his ease by the side
of the blazing kitchen fire. Thus the peasantry, like the townsfolk,
had their intervals of leisure, during which they were open for any
entertainment that might come before them.

Now, the important question came to be, How were these intervals of
leisure to be filled up? There were no daily papers, few magazines, and
few books to satisfy their craving for knowledge. Their minds were,
therefore, obliged to feed upon the gossip of the country side; and so
it came about that the gift of story-telling was cultivated, and that
there were men and women who were recognised as the chroniclers of
the district. These were the public entertainers, and were constantly
called upon to use their gifts, especially for the delight of the
young.

Two of these chroniclers, a couple of the name of Steedman, I chanced
to know. Better samples of "auld-farrant Scotch bodies" could not be
imagined. In no other habitat than a quaint burgh like Sandyriggs
could they have grown up. For many years they had "gathered gear" in
a grocer's "shoppie," and had then retired on a competence. They now
lived in a cottage, crooked, grey, and time-worn like themselves.
A favourite niece waited upon them, for they preferred, after the
patriarchal fashion, to be served by their own kith and kin, and not
by the _frem'd_. Their religion, too, was of the olden type. They were
Original Seceders, would not enter an Established Church, travelled
miles to attend a Dissenting Chapel, believed every iota of the Bible
and the Confession of Faith, kept the Sabbath strictly, abhorred
novels as "parcels o' lees," and looked upon food that had not been
consecrated by a long grace as absolute poison. Yet their religion,
straight-laced though it might be called, did for them what more
fashionable religions sometimes fail to do for their adherents. It made
them far more cheerful, and far more appreciative of the blessings of
life. The snow of winter was on their head, but the warmth of summer
was in their heart. A brighter, _cantier_, and cosier pair could not
be seen. They delighted in all their surroundings: their work, their
religious exercises, their pipe of tobacco, and their nightly glass
of toddy. They were particularly fond of recalling the scenes and
incidents of the Past, and as I was an appreciative listener, I was
always a welcome guest, and in fact was invited to drop in upon them as
often as I could.

As I write, the old couple are before me, one on each side of the
hearth--he, in a brown suit with a cloth cap covering his grey hair,
and with a most intelligent countenance--she, a tidy little body, with
clean-cut features and with coloured ribbons in her cap--he, recalling
with unction some bygone event--she, interpolating occasionally to add
some little detail to complete the narrative--and both radiant with
pleasure, as if the light of other days were warming their hearts and
brightening their faces.

"What a blessing," he would say, "is a good memory--one of the most
precious gifts of God."

After the fashion of old people, they often repeated the stories which
they had told me on former occasions; but I did not object, as I was
thus enabled to realise them more thoroughly.

Some of the scenes and incidents which I acquired in this way, I now
proceed to give as truthfully and clearly as I can.




THE BREACH OF PROMISE.


After a long dearth of news, an event happened to revive the interest
of the gossips of Sandyriggs. That snug, substantial villa, Townhead
Lodge, which stood within a garden, large and sloping to the south, had
got at last a tenant, a Mr Callendar, whose family consisted of a wife,
a son, and two daughters. And what was most interesting, there was a
mystery about them all! Where they had come from, what was the source
of their income, and why they kept themselves apart, no one knew.

The father drove a gig of his own and was often from home. The mother
was a recluse, and rarely ventured beyond her own walls. But the
one who attracted the most notice was the elder daughter, who was
frequently seen in the streets of the town attended by her brother.
She was a mere girl of sixteen or seventeen, but she was exceedingly
beautiful. Regarding her special charms, I never could learn much,
except that she had a straight and lissome figure, dark hair, clear
blue eyes, and a modest and winning expression, and above all that she
had a sort of glamour about her which bewitched everyone who looked at
her. The family altogether seemed so distinguished, and at the same so
mysterious, that the gossips of the town were all agog to know more
about them. But how was this knowledge to be got? The newcomers were
evidently bent on keeping themselves aloof, and having as little to do
as possible with the natives. There was difficulty even in approaching
them.

The one who overcame this difficulty was the late minister's sister,
Miss MacGuffog, or, as she was familiarly called, "Miss Phemie."
During the lifetime of her brother, who was a bachelor, she had taken
a motherly interest in all the parishioners, and went out and in among
them like a blood relation. After her brother's death, she kept up
the practice. Uncharitable people sneered at her as a busybody; but
they might have spared their sneers. They might have known that a
busybody is not necessarily bad. It was not selfish curiosity, but
kindly interest that was her motive. She was not a scandalmonger, but
a sympathetic friend. Having a high idea of everything connected with
her brother's parish, she was prepared to find good everywhere, and
generally found it. As a matter of course, it had been her custom to
call upon strangers in order to give them a hearty welcome. In this
way she came to know all that was to be known about the Callendars;
and as she held it to be selfish and unneighbourly to keep anything to
herself, she freely communicated her information to the town gossips
who met over afternoon tea.

The information which she had gathered was as follows:--Mr Callendar
was a partner in a firm of English merchants who did a large business
all over the kingdom, and he had come to Scotland to establish a
connection in Fife. Mrs Callendar was somewhat of an invalid, and
passed the most of her time in reading. The elder daughter, Phoebe, was
evidently the pride of her life. "Isn't she handsome and graceful," the
mother had said as she fondly watched her going out of the room, "and
would she not look at home in the highest mansion in the land?" It was
evident that they expected her to make a great marriage.

Meanwhile Miss Callendar's transcendent loveliness was seriously
affecting the male population of the village. What was afterwards
called "the Callendar fever" broke out among the bachelors, both
old and young. And during their fits of delirium they behaved most
absurdly. One began laboriously to train a moustache; another shaved
off his beard to show the fine lines of his face; another allowed his
hair to grow till it fell in ringlets on his shoulders; while gouty
Major Mustard (half-pay) dyed the tuft on his chin, and, looking into
his mirror, said, "Begad! I don't think that she can refuse an officer
of the British Army."

But the one who had the epidemic in the most aggravated form was
Charles Raeburn, the town lawyer, and the laird of the small estate
of Cowslip Brae. Charles was nothing if not poetical; and his ravings
about Miss Callendar took the form of quotations from his favourite
bards. He compared her to Spenser's Una, to Shakespeare's Portia
drawing suitors from the four quarters of the world, to Virgil's Venus
descending upon earth to fascinate mankind. One day (oh, ecstasy!)
she came into his office to make some inquiries for the information
of her father; but (oh, horror!) he lost his head, and gave the
information in such an incoherent manner that she had some difficulty
in understanding him. He wished to appear to her as a man of genius;
but he had conducted himself like an idiot. All that he could do
after this, was to wander round her house on moonlight nights, like a
silly moth (as someone said) fluttering round a wax candle, or like a
forlorn planet (as he himself said) circling round a central luminary.
At length, his cousin, Dr Raeburn, thought to bring him to his senses
by rating him soundly and telling him plainly that he was "carrying
on like a lunatic." And, to the doctor's utter astonishment, Charles
agreed with him.

"Yes," said the poor fool, "you are quite right. I _am_ a lunatic--a
monomaniac. I'm haunted by one idea, one image. It appears in my
dreams. It fills my waking hours. Position, friends, relations, are
dross compared with her. I would rather have her than the largest
estate, than a whole county, than a continent, than a bright new planet
all to myself."

But it was in the church on Sunday where the hopeless infatuation
of the young men of the town was noticed. During the whole of the
service, their eyes were fixed upon this young girl. Her pew was the
pulpit, and she herself was both the preacher and the sermon. And one
Sunday a strange phenomenon happened. The church, which was dingy and
dark even at midsummer, appeared to be lighted up in some mysterious
way. How came this to pass? On the previous Sunday, one of the many
rivals, in order to attract the eyes of his goddess, had appeared in
white waistcoat and white necktie; and all the others had lost no time
in following suit.

How did Miss Callendar conduct herself under all this idolatry? Most
modestly. When she appeared on the streets with her little brother by
her side, she saluted everybody with a good-natured smile. She smiled
on Major Mustard, and set his well-worn heart palpitating. She also
smiled on Peter Samuel the mercer's apprentice, when coming into the
shop unexpectedly she asked to see some gloves; and when Peter shook
all over while he was showing her the gloves, and answered confusedly,
she smiled still more sweetly.

 "Bright as the sun her eyes all gazers strike,
 And like the sun they shine on all alike."

One Sunday there appeared in the church a stranger, like a being from
another sphere. That he was an aristocrat was evident. He had an
elegant figure, clean-cut features, and easy manners; and, as Peter
Samuel remarked, "was dressed up to the nines, and looked as if he
had come out of a bandbox." In fact, he was a regular London-made
exquisite, "a dandy," "a swell." Nor was there any mistake about the
object of his visit. All during the service his eyes were fixed on
Phoebe Callendar, the village beauty. That evening, too, in the Orchard
Lane he was seen walking with her. Her little brother, indeed, was
there. But the exquisite, with that ease which high society gives, and
which local beaux can never acquire, was looking into her face and
talking, while she blushed and held down her head. In a few days she
disappeared. Had she eloped? Sandyriggs was in a ferment.

At last Miss Phemie MacGuffog solved the mystery. Miss Callendar's
young lover was the heir to a dukedom. Her parents, alarmed at the
intimacy, and thoroughly disapproving of it, had sent her to a
boarding-school in England; and she was never seen again in Sandyriggs.
In a few months the family gave up their house and departed southwards.

The one who was most affected by Miss Callendar's departure was
Charles Raeburn. He grew melancholy, lost his appetite and his sleep,
and wandered about like a ghost. He was like the traveller, when the
moon, which has lightened and beautified his path over hill and dale,
suddenly goes down and leaves him to stumble on in the dark. In a
short time he vanished; and when months elapsed without bringing any
intelligence regarding him, his neighbours gave him up for lost.

A few years passed, and the inhabitants had almost forgotten the
Callendars, when they were startled by a short paragraph in the county
newspaper, to the effect that Miss Phoebe Callendar was about to bring
an action for breach of promise of marriage against the Duke of----.
Here was an interesting subject to talk about! A breach of promise
against a duke by a former inhabitant of Sandyriggs, a girl whom they
all knew! The whole district was in a flutter of excitement. When the
trial came on in London, the editor of the _County Chronicle_ employed
a special correspondent to give a report of it; and when the newspaper
containing the account of the trial arrived, it was devoured with
breathless interest, and handed about from house to house.

After describing the appearance of the Court, and naming the famous
barristers and attorneys employed on both sides, the reporter went on
to say that the plaintiff, seated in a prominent place beside her legal
advisers, was "the cynosure of every eye," and her exquisite beauty,
and modest but melancholy expression, captivated at once not only the
ordinary onlookers, but even the gentlemen of the jury themselves.

"The Attorney-General stated her case with all that romantic and
touching eloquence for which he is famous. 'The plaintiff,' he said,
'was a young lady of the greatest personal attractions. When first she
drew the attention of the defendant, she was living in retirement at
the small town of Sandyriggs in Fife. She was a mere girl, attending
to her lessons under the watchful care of her mother, and thinking
of nothing but her daily duties and her innocent amusements. She
was, indeed, the life of her parents' hearts, the idol of her young
companions, and the delight and pride of the whole village. But this
golden age was not to last long; into this innocent paradise the
serpent was soon to find his way. The defendant, then the Honourable
Algernon Colenutt, an Oxford student, happened to be spending his
vacation at a mansion in the neighbourhood. He heard of this charming
young creature--this beauty of Sandyriggs, as she was called,--and he
resolved to see her. It was no mere idle curiosity. He was one of those
golden youths who think that everything is made for their amusement,
that women especially are but toys that may be played with for a time,
and then cast aside for ever.'

"'On a particular Sunday this gay Lothario attended the Sandyriggs
church. His presence there was noticed by most of the congregation; and
it was particularly remarked that his eyes were upon Miss Callendar
during the whole service, and that, in fact, he was completely
spellbound. Then in the evening he was seen talking to her in a lane
near her own house. He had waylaid her, and it was then, it seems,
that he gained her affections. By such a lover--young, handsome,
aristocratic, elegant in dress and manners, polished in speech and
adroit in flattery--was it surprising that the simple country maiden
was won? Ere they parted she plighted her troth to him; and, proud
of her conquest, the poor girl lost no time in making her mother her
confidante.'

"'Now, Gentlemen of the Jury, you will very likely be told by my
learned brother, the counsel for the defence, that Miss Callendar's
parents were artful schemers, using every device to entrap an unwary
nobleman. But what did they do as soon as they heard of this courtship?
They immediately sent their daughter away to a boarding-school in
England, and afterwards to France, to be out of the way of this
aristocratic wooer. They were too sensible not to see that such a
connection would be unequal, and likely to prove dangerous to the
happiness of both parties. But their precautions were unavailing. The
defendant was not to be denied. He contrived to find out where his
beloved was, and to continue the correspondence; and after he had
succeeded to the dukedom, and after the Callendars had settled down in
England, at Woodhurst, about sixty miles from his ducal castle, his
attentions became more assiduous. He visited her at her father's house,
and sent many letters,--some of which I now produce,--and all of which
are full of the warmest protestations and the most endearing terms of
affection. At length the wedding was fixed for July, and Miss Callendar
and her mother set themselves to make all the necessary preparations.
Up to this time, there had not been the slightest hitch, the slightest
misunderstanding, and the happiness of the young couple seemed to be
assured. But ere the appointed day arrived, what was the consternation
of the Callendars to read in the newspaper the announcement that the
Duke of ---- had been married to Miss Fortescue Devlin. At first they
could not believe the statement; but after inquiry they found that it
was only too true. And, Gentlemen of the Jury, I can only leave you
to imagine what a disastrous effect this sudden perfidy has had on my
client. Her loving heart has been broken, and her fair young life has
been for ever blighted.'

"'I believe that my learned brother is to take up the bold and
desperate position that these facts are not true, and that the written
correspondence is a forgery. What! a young, timid, and unsophisticated
girl sitting down deliberately to forge, not one letter, but a whole
bundle of letters, and doing it so accurately that she has deceived
those who are best acquainted with the defendant's handwriting! Why,
Gentlemen, the idea is preposterous, it is inconceivable, it is wholly
and absolutely ridiculous!' (Derisive laughter, which was immediately
suppressed.)

"The Attorney-General then proceeded to call witnesses in order to
prove his statements. The sister of the plaintiff told that she had
seen the defendant several times at her father's house, and in the
company of her sister, and mentioned one occasion particularly,
the 20th of May, which she had good cause to remember, because it
was the fair day at the neighbouring village of Woodhurst, and the
defendant presented her with a sovereign as a fairing. The mother gave
evidence as to the receiving of the defendant's letters, and about
her daughter's letters in reply being posted. An old clergyman, who
had been the defendant's tutor, swore that the handwriting of the
letters was that of his former pupil. These witnesses were severely
cross-examined, but their evidence on the whole remained unshaken.

"Then Mr Ridley, the counsel for the Duke, arose. He was famous as a
defender of abandoned criminals, and generally as a cunning handler
of the most desperate cases. It was no uncommon thing for him to
bully witnesses, and browbeat even the judge himself. Everybody,
therefore, expected strong statements from him, but few were prepared
for the merciless terms which he now used. Standing up, and looking
round with a confident, triumphant air, he began his speech. 'The
Attorney-General,' he said, 'in referring to the ground which was to
be taken up for the defence, had scouted the idea of such a young and
delicate creature perpetrating forgery. But my learned friend ought
to know that in the history of crime there have been young girls as
delicate and as refined as the plaintiff, who have been guilty of
this heinous offence. I have only to refer to the cases of Elizabeth
Canning and Mary Glen. In spite, therefore, of what the learned
Attorney-General has said, I now assert, and am prepared to prove, that
the plaintiff, guileless and modest as she looks, has perpetrated one
of the most daring and elaborate forgeries in the whole of our criminal
history.'

"At this assertion, uttered in a slow, distinct, and severe tone, Miss
Callendar burst into tears, and was so completely overcome that she
had to leave the Court. Cries of 'Shame, shame,' were hurled at the
head of the counsel. But he, nothing abashed, looked round defiantly,
and repeated the phrase with greater incisiveness; and went on in the
same remorseless way to maintain that his client had scarcely ever seen
Miss Callendar, had scarcely ever spoken to her, had scarcely ever
written to her, and had certainly never made any promise of marriage.
The audience glanced occasionally at the Attorney-General to see what
effect this flat denial of all his assertions would have upon him; but
he remained quite calm, just as if nothing unusual had been said.

"Mr Ridley then proceeded to examine his witnesses in the same
peremptory style; and ever as he drew from them some important bit of
evidence, he gave a triumphant look at the jury, as much as to say,
'What do you think of that? Wasn't what I told you true?' One was made
to confess that the defendant had never seen Miss Callendar since his
accession to the title; another, that the letters which had been read
swarmed with ridiculous errors as to matter of fact; and another,
that the handwriting was totally unlike that of the defendant.
These witnesses were cross-examined, but took care not to contradict
themselves. At all this, Miss Callendar's partisans, of whom there
were many amongst the audience, were puzzled and even confounded;
but an audible whisper, 'they are all relatives, and have got up the
story,' restored their confidence. It was evident, too, that the
Attorney-General felt that something was wrong; because he turned round
to talk with the agent. But the audience was again perplexed by what
followed.

"An innkeeper from Welldon, fifty miles from Woodhurst, was put into
the box. In answer to examination, he said, 'that he knew the Duke
of ----; that on the 20th of May, the day of Woodhurst Fair, and the
day when he was said to have been at the house of the plaintiff, the
Duke arrived in a post-chaise on his way to Market Bruton; that there
could be no mistake about this, for here were the receipts for the post
horses.' And these receipts were handed to the jury to examine.

"But the most startling bit of evidence was yet to come. A young
lady entered the witness-box, kissed the Book, and was subjected to
the following questioning:--(_Q._) You are Miss Ironside? (_A._)
Yes. (_Q._) You live at Woodhurst? (_A._) I do. (_Q._) You know the
plaintiff? (_A._) I do. (_Q._) You remember a ball taking place at
Lyndcaster? (_A._) I do. (_Q._) What was the date? (_A._) Last year, in
the month of April. (_Q._) Who went with you to the ball? (_A._) Miss
Phoebe Callendar. (_Q._) How was she dressed? (_A._) In white, with
one red rose in her hair. (_Q._) Was there any person that she wished
particularly to see at the ball? (_A._) The Duke of ----. (_Q._) How
did you know that? (_A._) She told me. (_Q._) Look at that letter. Do
you know the handwriting? (_A._) Yes. (_Q._) Whose is it? (_A._) Miss
Callendar's. (_Q._) You are sure? (_A._) Quite sure. Then Mr Ridley,
turning to the jury, said he would read the letter, which was as
follows:--

 "'_April 18._

 "'MY DEAR LORD DUKE,--I hope that you will excuse a stranger giving
 you a bit of information which may be for your advantage. You are, I
 understand, going to the public ball at Lyndcaster. Well, you will see
 there a young lady to whom you lost your heart some years ago, and
 who has remained constant to you ever since. She is more graceful and
 beautiful than ever, and fit to be the bride of a prince. You will
 recognise her at once, for she will be dressed in white, with a red
 rose stuck in her raven hair.--I am, my dear Lord Duke, your sincere
 well-wisher.

 C'

"This letter fell upon the audience like a bombshell, and created the
greatest excitement and consternation. But it was evident from the
whispers of 'got up,' and 'bribed by the relations,' that the audience
had not even yet given up Miss Callendar. And they were very much
relieved when they saw the Attorney-General rise. He was evidently
going to put a stop to this wholesale slander and forgery. Alas,
however, for their hopes! Instead of hearing him expose the evidence
that was being given, they heard him make an admission that has very
seldom been made in a court of law. In a perfectly calm voice and
manner he said that this letter had come upon them as a surprise, that
they had neither the time nor the means of throwing any light upon it,
and that, therefore, with the concurrence of his learned friends, the
attorneys for the plaintiff, he now begged leave to withdraw from the
contest. Under these circumstances the plaintiff would be non-suited.
Accordingly the case was dismissed; the letter was impounded in order
that Miss Callendar might be indicted for conspiracy; and the audience
dispersed amid murmurs of astonishment. But it was noted that while
the elder members of the crowd muttered their detestation of Miss
Callendar's shameless forgery, the young men were louder than ever in
their admiration."

"What a fascinating girl she must be," said one, "to be able to take in
the sharpest attorneys and the most learned counsel at the bar! what a
clever little witch!"

"By Jove," cried another, in a strong Irish accent, "she's too good for
a duke's wife. She ought to be a queen. She _is_ a queen, the queen of
love and beauty, and should be classed with Helen of Troy, Cleopatra,
and Mary Queen of Scots; and, bedad, it's meself that should loike to
be Paris or Antony or Bothwell."

Next morning a note appeared in one of the London newspapers stating
that Miss Callendar had been apprehended on a charge of forgery; but it
was not true. She had vanished, and no one knew where she was.

Imagine the excitement now in Sandyriggs after this report had been
read! The town became a fermenting vat of scandal. Whispers swarmed
as fast as gnats in August, and, like gnats, they flew abroad and
buzzed in the ears of the public. The case was discussed at every
shop-counter, at every tea-table, at every street corner, in every
public-house, on every turnip field. People who had never spoken to
each other before, exclaimed as they passed each other, "Isn't this
a dreadful affair?" And it was astonishing to find that everyone had
foreseen, nay, had hinted such a catastrophe. So many people pose as
true prophets after the fact!

Even Miss Phemie MacGuffog was forced to forego her usual charitable
views, and to confess that the poor unfortunate girl had been ruined by
her training. Every circumstance, she said, was against her. Her father
was a worldly man, engrossed with money-making, and seldom at home. Her
mother, a silly woman, was abandoned to romance reading, and neglected
her everyday duties, and lived in a world of unreality. The poor girl
herself got no solid education. She had no need, her mother told her,
to be clever or accomplished. She was lovely, which was far better,
and would undoubtedly make a grand match and be a titled lady. To look
handsome, and graceful, and fascinating, therefore, was all that she
required to do. And the despatching of her to a boarding-school, and
then to the Continent, in order to escape her aristocratic admirer,
was a mere device. She was sent to a boarding establishment near Oxford
because _he_ was a student there, and she afterwards went to France to
continue her education because _he_ had gone there. And Miss Phemie was
told that the education which she received at both these places was of
the flimsiest kind, being limited to the singing of one or two songs,
the hammering out on the piano of one or two classical pieces, and
the copying of one or two drawings. The most of the pupils' time and
attention was devoted to talking about fine dresses, equipages, balls,
and aristocratic admirers. "In fact," concluded Miss Phemie, "they were
evidently taught to look upon the world, not as a sphere of duty and
labour, but as a big _cookie shine_."

The worthy people of Sandyriggs were still discussing this strange
catastrophe, when a new surprise claimed their notice. Intelligence
came regarding the long-lost Charles Raeburn. His cousin, the doctor,
received a letter from him, bearing the postmark of a town in Spain,
and empowering him to sell Cowslip Brae and transmit the price. Before
the gossips had ceased to puzzle their brains over this extraordinary
sacrifice, another letter arrived and explained the whole mystery. In
the frankest and most straight-forward language, Charles Raeburn told
his cousin the following romantic tale:--

"I felt that I could not remain in Sandyriggs after the object of my
adoration had gone. So I followed her to Oxford and to France, and back
again to England, and was present at the trial. From my professional
experience I very soon saw how judgment was likely to go, and what a
terrible fate was hanging over the head of the unfortunate girl. So,
when stung by Ridley's merciless language, she left the Court abruptly,
I followed her, and in presence of her mother told her that the verdict
was almost certain to be against her, and that, if it were so, she
would be apprehended for forgery. While she stood aghast and dumb at
this intelligence, I offered my assistance, and they accepted it. I
went with them at once to their hotel, paid their bill, packed their
luggage, and had everything ready for flight. As soon as the result
which I had anticipated was announced, we were off, and by next morning
were on the Continent. I took rooms for them in this town, and a
lodging for myself not far off, and here we remained till we could see
what ought to be done.

"One morning, Miss Callendar sent to say that she wanted to see me.
When I went to her, she told me with tears in her lovely eyes that her
mother must go back to her husband in England, but that she herself
must remain abroad; and what could she do to earn her bread? Would I,
the only friend she now had, advise her? What could I do but offer, as
her husband, to protect and cherish her for the rest of her life. She
started back in horror, declared that she was a criminal, a felon, a
forger who ought to be in prison, and utterly unworthy to be the wife
of an honest man, and that she would not bring disgrace on one whom she
esteemed so much, whom--and here she gave way and cried most bitterly.
Then there flashed through my brain and heart Spenser's exquisite
lines:--

 "'Nought is there under heav'n's wide hollownesse
 That moves more deare compassion of mind
 Than beautie brought t' unworthy wretchednesse
 Through envy's snares, or fortune's freaks unkind.
 I, whether lately through her brightnesse blind,
 Or through alleageance and fast fealtie,
 Which I do owe unto all womankind,
 Feele my hart perst with so great agony,
 When such I see, that all for pity I could die.'

"These were the very feelings that were thrilling through me. I lost
control of myself. Dropping down on my knees and seizing her hand, I
poured out my whole soul. What I said I cannot recall; but at last
she reluctantly consented to marry me, on condition that I would do
my very best to teach her to be a good woman and a dutiful wife. Poor
broken-hearted darling, she was more sinned against than sinning. The
persons really to blame were her mercenary father and her novel-reading
mother, who neglected her education, and that hollow-hearted aristocrat
who trifled with her innocence. And most touching it is to see how
humble and yet how loving she is, and how her face is still 'combating
with tears and smiles.' If she is not to be forgiven, there can be no
such thing as forgiveness on earth. I am sure that I have done what is
right. Away from her, I would have been in outer darkness. Beside her,
I am in Paradise."




HER DEAD SELF.


The narrative which I am about to give was a prime favourite at the
winter firesides of the parish. Its chief incident is so extraordinary,
that it has often been scouted as an improbability. But it is literally
true, as may be ascertained by those who will take the trouble to
investigate the chronicles of the period.

In the early years of the present century, the principal baker
in Sandyriggs was Alister Gow. He had one son, Donald, and five
daughters. The four elder girls, Flora, Ellen, Marjory, and Nora, were
good-looking, with bright complexions and red cheeks; the youngest,
Mysie, was plain, with irregular features and dingy colour. The four
soon found husbands, thriving tradesmen in the place, who gave them
what was called "a good setting down"; but no one came to court Mysie,
and she remained at home to attend to the comfort of her parents, and
specially to take charge of the shop.

"And when are you gaun aff, Mysie," said old Wull Spears, the most
impudent man in the parish, "when are you gaun to be knocked doon to
the highest bidder?"

"Oh!" said Mysie, in the bright manner peculiar to her, "I'm no in the
market; there's nae demand for gudes like me."

"I wadna wonder," continued Wull, "that ye're gaun to be an auld maid."

"And what for no?" replied Mysie. "Maids, like Scotch whisky, improve
by growin' auld."

The years rolled by and brought changes. While Mysie's married sisters,
harassed by the ceaseless worries of housekeeping and child-rearing,
became more and more careworn, Mysie herself, able and willing for
all her duties, grew cantier and cantier every day. While they began
to lose their good looks, she began to lose her plainness. The truth
is, that she was, though probably she did not know it, a practical
philosopher; and in a business-like manner she weighed the advantages
and disadvantages of her lot.

"What have I kept," she said to herself, "by remaining single? Good
health, good spirits, home comforts, congenial employment, pleasant
friends and neighbours. And what have I lost? A husband! And what is a
husband? A pig in a poke, a lottery ticket that may take a prize but is
far more likely to get a blank. If I'm not happy now, I never deserve
to be."

So she resolved to keep a contented mind, to dwell on the blessings
she had, and not on those which she had not, to make the most of her
life, and to find something good in everything. She was cheerful
under all circumstances, and had a smile and a kind word for all her
fellow-creatures. As the old people expressed it, "she was everybody's
body." However dull and cheerless the weather might be in the streets
of the town, there was always sunshine in the baker's shop at the
corner of Water Lane. And this genial, kindly disposition soon began
to tell upon her own appearance. It actually cleared her complexion,
brightened her eyes, and made her look (as an old woman remarked)
"halesome, wicelike, and bonny." She became a walking proof of the
truth of the proverb that "a kindly disposition is the best cosmetic."
And thus it happened, that not only old people and children were
attracted by her, but even wooers; and among them came (wonderful to
relate) the dandy draper, the woman-killer, the gay Lothario of the
town.

This was Bob Dallas. The worship of his mother and sisters had
convinced him that he was an Adonis; and the bright smiles of the
village maidens had confirmed this belief. "A' the lasses," his sisters
would remark to a friend, "are in love wi' oor Bob;" and his mother,
in her strong idiomatic Scotch, would add--"Toots, ye ken, they'll no
lie aff 'im." Accordingly, he wore on his countenance a constant smirk
of satisfaction, and he entered a company as if to the tune, "See
the Conquering Hero comes." He sought female society to captivate,
not to sue, to receive admiration, not to give it. A pretty girl was
a plaything to be taken up for a short time, and then changed for
something else. Some people called this conduct cruelty; but he thought
it kindness. A smile from him, he believed, was a favour which every
woman would prize.

It was this notorious flirt that now fixed his eye upon Mysie. She
was different from the pink-and-white damsels with whom he had been
accustomed to trifle; but it was this very difference that fascinated
him. He began to "show her attention" at every opportunity, to walk
home with her from church, and to go frequently to her shop in the
evening. At first, Mysie was surprised and not a little amused. She
joked with him, telling him that if he was often seen with her his
many admirers would hate her, and, what would be more dreadful, his
reputation as a judge of female beauty would be gone. And when, one
evening after the shop was closed, he actually went the length of
asking her to be his wife, she laughed outright in his face, and told
him that he didn't know his own mind, that he would tire of her plain
features in a fortnight, and that she could never be any more to him
than a sincere well-wisher.

But when, like a spoilt child unaccustomed to be balked, he sulked and
mooned about the streets with a pale and miserable face, and at the end
of a few weeks sent her a frenzied letter, vowing that if he could not
win her he would drown himself in the loch, she relented. She was too
charitable to believe that he was not in dead earnest, and what could
she do but ask him to call upon her? And when, dropping on his knees,
he shed tears and vowed that she was the only one he had ever loved,
the only one he would ever love, she yielded and promised to be his
wife.

Mysie was now happier than ever. Though she had been quite content to
remain single, she was delighted to have gained the exclusive devotion
of a man. Though well able by herself to fight the battle of life, she
felt that her happiness would be made more sure by having constantly
by her side one whom she could call her own, her other self. There was
also a special _éclat_ in having won the prize which so many had in
vain competed for.

"My certie," said Mrs Patullo, the minister's wife, when she looked in
at the shop, along with her husband and her son Tom, to congratulate
her, "my certie! it's something to have killed the Lady-killer."

"Yes! Mysie," said the minister, "you have caught and tamed the roving
zebra of the desert, who has hitherto been thought untamable."

"Ay," added Master Tom, who had contracted the abominable habit of
punning, "and you are now going to lead him to the _halter_."

Mysie set about preparing for her marriage in a business-like way.
Very little time was spent in billing and cooing. An early day was
fixed for the ceremony. A small house was taken, and suitable furniture
ordered. And that she might have her trousseau ready in time, she
called in her cousin, Bessie Gayley, to assist her. Bessie was a
good-looking, bright damsel, ready with her tongue, with her wits,
and with her hands,--up to anything, equal to any emergency. She made
herself generally useful and agreeable, helped in the house and in the
shop, and when Mysie was specially occupied of an evening, entertained
Bob with her chit-chat.

It was just two days before the date fixed for the wedding. Mysie had
closed the shop, and was sitting in the back parlour. She was alone,
for her father and mother were in the kitchen, and Bessie and Bob had
gone out on some errand of their own. She felt rather depressed,--a
state which was very unusual with her, and which she could not account
for. In a short time she heard Bob and Bessie come in. Then there
occurred a few awful moments which she never forgot for the rest of
her life, and which made her heart throb. First, there was an earnest
whispering in the passage, then a strange silence, and at last the door
opened. She rose instinctively to her feet, for she saw by their faces
that some calamity had happened.

"What is it?" she exclaimed. "Why don't you tell me?"

Bessie looked at Bob as if urging him to speak, and Bob, blushing and
stammering, said, "I'm very sorry, Mysie; but I can't help it. I like
you very much, but I don't feel towards you as a husband should do. The
fact is that Bessie and I have discovered that we were made for each
other."

Mysie stared at them for a moment, thinking that it might possibly be
a joke; but their guilty looks showed that it was a stern reality.
Clutching the back of her chair, and mustering all her natural strength
of character, she said, in a voice preternaturally calm:

"So, Mr Dallas, you have found out that you can't give me the affection
of a husband! Well, I'll manage to do without it; and at any rate I'm
glad that you have told me in time. As for you, you serpent in the form
of a woman, I'll leave you to the punishment of your own conscience.
And if you have not got such an article, as seems very likely, it will
be punishment enough to be tethered for life to that fickle fool that
stands beside you." So saying, she passed out of the room, leaving the
pair standing with guilt-stricken countenances.

It is well known that the lower animals often attack and even torment
one of their own kind when he is sick or wounded. A good deal of this
bestial habit still lingers among men. When distress falls upon us,
our friends often aggravate that distress. They do not know, perhaps,
that they are doing it, but still they do it. Had Mysie been left to
herself, her own good sense and courage would have buoyed her up,
and enabled her to trample her sorrow under foot. But when she went
abroad, people would not allow her to forget that sorrow. Those who
were her friends condoled with her. Those who were not her friends
stared at her. She felt that the town was in a buzz about her affairs.
And at home the tormenting process was even worse. Her mother bemoaned
the slight that had fallen on the family. Her brother breathed forth
threatenings against the features and limbs of the culprit. Her father
talked incessantly about raising an action for breach of promise. In
vain she told her mother and brother that they would best keep up the
family honour, not by bewailings and threatenings, but by looking as
if they thought the rupture of the engagement a blessed release. In
vain she told her father that legal proceedings were not to be thought
of, and that while they might be a punishment to Dallas, they would
be a far greater punishment to herself. Morning, noon, and night, the
worrying went on.

At length her highly-strung nervous system, which had buoyed her up
above all her other troubles, fairly broke down. She lost the power
of sleeping. She lost her appetite. A strange nausea took possession
of her, and everything grew distasteful, and life itself became
an intolerable burden. From having been the embodiment of happy
good-nature, she changed into a woe-begone hypochondriac. And people
unknowingly aggravated her disease by expressing astonishment at her
altered appearance, by telling her that she looked very ill, and by
bursting forth afresh into recriminations against the man that had
jilted her. Then there came a morning when her room was found empty,
and a note upon the dressing-table told her parents that she could bear
the atmosphere of Sandyriggs no longer, and that she was off to a place
where no one knew her, and where she would have perfect peace.

Blank consternation fell upon the family. When they recovered a little,
the brother swore that he would go and smash Dallas, the author of all
their woe; and the mother's impulse was to run abroad and get sympathy
and advice from her neighbours. But the father, with far more tact and
knowledge of the world, insisted that the first thing to be done at all
hazards, was to prevent any scandal. They must not of their own accord
say anything about the matter, and if any question should be asked,
they must answer that she had gone to a friend's for a complete rest.
Meanwhile they must try to find her.

This was no easy task. The very fact that they could not talk about
it prevented them from getting any assistance from the outside world.
For two or three days the brother, Donald, under pretence of paying
ceremonious calls, made the round of all their intimate friends and
relatives in the neighbouring farm towns and villages; but every night
he returned worn-out, and with a despairing shake of the head intimated
that he had got no trace of the lost one.

Then there flashed into the father's mind the thought that she would
likely be in Edinburgh; and he wondered that it had never occurred to
him before. Why, a large town was the very place where a person, sick
of being stared at and worried by inquisitive neighbours, would find
rest; and they had a cousin there in whose house she would very likely
get a lodging. Accordingly, the father and son set out at once, crossed
the Firth in the ferry-boat from Pettycur to Leith, and then walked up
Leith Walk to Edinburgh. They went to the cousin's address in Broughton
Street, but found that she had moved at the last term, and none of the
neighbours could tell where she had gone. Wearied out and disheartened,
they put up at a hotel at Greenside, where they both passed an anxious
and a restless night.

Next morning, for want of a better plan, they resolved to look for
Mysie in the thoroughfares, the father taking the New Town and the
brother taking the Old Town. The unhappy old man spent most of the day
in wandering up and down the streets, looking in vain amid the throng
of strange and unsympathetic faces for those familiar kindly eyes that
had been the light of his home. Jaded and perplexed, he had returned
to his hotel in the early afternoon, when the landlord, whom he had
taken into his confidence the night before, laid the advertisement
sheet of a newspaper before him, and pointed to a paragraph headed
"Found Drowned." He glanced rapidly over it, and to his horror saw that
it was a description of his lost daughter. There could be no mistake.
The age, the complexion, the features, the hair, all corresponded.

Like one stunned by a heavy blow on the head, the old man sat still
for a moment. Then, driven by a feeling made up of hope and fear, he
hurried to the police office in the High Street, all unconscious of the
traffic that rumbled and buzzed around him. In a short time he found
himself in the death-chamber, in presence of a prostrate and shrouded
form, lying so terribly still and quiet; and in another second the
facecloth was removed, and his worst fears were realised. Yes! in the
stiff waxen mask he recognised that countenance which had so lately
been the joy of everyone who looked upon it. He stood gazing at it like
a man in a trance, till his pent-up feelings found vent in tears. Then
it was that there occurred a most extraordinary circumstance--what
would be deemed incredible, were it not vouched for by the chroniclers
of the time. The door opened, and, in company with his son, there
appeared the very woman whose fate he was bewailing and whose dead form
he was gazing upon. She came forward, and her face took on a look of
intense surprise at what she saw.

"Father!" she exclaimed, "what's wrang wi' ye? And what's this? mercy!
what's this? can it be me? No! and yet it's awfu' like, but, no! no!
Father, that's no' me! this is me." And she took both his hands and
kissed him, and in this way convinced him that she was his own daughter.

And who was this dead woman that was Mysie's double? The question was
never answered. She went to a pauper's grave unclaimed by anyone.

And how had Mysie chanced to arrive just at the critical moment? This
was explained by the brother. On returning to the hotel, Donald had
seen the advertisement, and had surmised where his father had gone.
Hurrying up the North Bridge, he saw his sister, whom he had been
picturing as a corpse lying at the police office, coming to meet him
in her usual dress and manner. For an instant he felt like one in a
dream. Could it really be she? His next thought was that she had been
in some way brought back to life, and was hurrying down to relieve
their fears; and when he heard that she had never been in the police
office, he told her about the advertisement, and the two together made
all haste to see their father.

Mysie stood for some time gazing at the dead face, and feeling for that
poor young creature, who was so like her, a sort of kinship. And as
she gazed, she read herself a severe lesson. What was her own trouble,
she thought, contrasted with the terrible fate that had befallen this
unknown one? A small trouble indeed! To be cast off by a man who had
proved himself unworthy of her! Not a trouble at all, but a blessed
relief! And as these thoughts passed through her mind, her spirit rose
with a sudden impulse and threw off the incubus of melancholy that had
so long weighed it down; and she came away, leaving, as it were, her
dead self behind her. And when, after staying for a month with her
cousin, till the sensation caused by "the wonderful case of mistaken
identity" subsided, she returned home and resumed her duties, she had
recovered her health and good spirits. Taking her place in the shop,
she devoted herself to the helping of her parents and the serving of
their customers. And when any of the more inveterate gossips referred
to her late painful experiences, she would stop them short with a
good-natured smile, and the remark--"that's an auld sang noo, and it's
no' worth the mindin'." Everybody was delighted to see that she was her
old self again.

"Why," said old Mrs Raeburn, the doctor's mother, "the toon wasna like
itsel withoot ye."

One day the Rev. Mr Patullo, with his wife and son, called in, to
welcome her on her return. "You see," said the minister, "I could not
want you, Mysie. You are my best specimen of a cheerful practical
Christian. You are as good as a sermon."

"My certie," said Mrs Patullo, "far more interesting than the most of
sermons."

"Though rather _floury_," added Tom, pointing to her hands.

But the best proof that Mysie's good-natured equanimity was restored,
was her treatment of her faithless lover, Bob Dallas. His scandalous
treatment of her had brought him into disgrace. Many of his friends
had cut his acquaintance. Even his betrothed, Bessie Gayley, ashamed
of herself and ashamed of him, had refused in the end to marry him. He
was now completely humiliated, and when he met Mysie in the street soon
after her return, he could not look her in the face. But Mysie was too
good-natured and sensible to keep up any ill-feeling towards this weak
creature. So, the next time that she saw him she said, "Good morning";
and by and by she got into the habit of stopping to have a chat with
him. At the same time, she took care to keep his familiarity within
proper bounds. When, encouraged by her frankness and deluded by his own
conceit, he imagined that she was still in love with him, and actually
had the infatuation to refer to past times, she caught him up at once.

"Mr Dallas! remember we are friends, nothing more. And as a friend let
me give you this advice: Don't think of marrying in this country. One
wife would not be enough for you. Go out to the Salt Lake City, and
there, as soon as you are tired of one spouse, you will be able to take
another. Or perhaps, you as well as myself are doomed to remain single.
I am too ugly to be married; you are too good-looking. It would be
selfish in anyone to monopolise a man who gives so much pleasure to all
the girls in the place."

At the end of many years, Bob Dallas and Mysie Gow were respectively an
old bachelor and an old maid.

Bob winced keenly under the marring finger of Time, and, by means of
wig, paint, powder, and a jaunty manner, tried to hide its ravages and
to make the people believe that he was still young. He did not convince
the people; but it is said that, sometimes at least, he managed to
convince himself. On one occasion, while talking about his infant
nephew, he said, "he's a fine little fellow," and running his fingers
through his luxuriant artificial locks, he added, "with a head of hair
as thick and as black as my own." Consequently he was seen at every
gay gathering, bearing himself like an Adonis, and paying assiduous
attention to the young ladies; and when they, fooling him to the top of
his bent, gathered round him and bandied compliments with him, he put
on a youthful air and silently congratulated himself that he was still
"Bob Dallas, the Invincible."

"An auld donnert eediot," said the indignant Mrs Chatteris, the
town-clerk's widow, "deckin' himsel up like an antic for the lasses to
giggle at."

"You're too hard upon him," said her son Joe. "He's more useful than
that. He's an old battered figurehead, used by the girls as a butt for
practising their arrows on."

Mysie, on the other hand, received the first touches of age in the most
cheerful spirit, and wore her grey hair like a becoming ornament, and
made her wrinkles shine with good humour; and, as her years grew fewer,
she tried more and more to fill them, with grateful feelings towards
her Maker and kind words and deeds towards her fellow-creatures.




GOD'S OWN SCHOLAR.


Many years ago a new class of preachers started suddenly up in the
country. They were called the sensational school, and were not unlike
a certain section of the clergy in the present day. Their motto seemed
to be: "Catch the public, by dignified means if you can, but by all
means catch the public." Their rules for doing this were these: "Choose
as the subject of your sermon some prevalent vice; denounce it in
the plainest and strongest language; threaten those who practise it,
or even encourage it, with all the misery of this world and all the
eternal woes of the next; draw your illustrations hot from ordinary
life; if they are vulgar or grotesque, and excite a titter, never mind;
one great end is gained if by any means they arouse the interest of the
audience."

The most promising member of this school was the Rev. Jeremiah
MacGuffog, the new parish minister at Sandyriggs. He took the most
solemn view of his office. He was placed there, he felt, as an
ambassador of the Most High to denounce the iniquities that were
lifting their heads on every side. It was no time for smooth words.
Like the martyred prophets and reformers of old, he must boldly face
the transgressors, tell them of their sins in the most direct language,
and warn them of the terrible doom that awaits them.

While he was a student in Glasgow, he had often heard that the most
productive root of immorality in the rural districts was the Bothy
System. Everyone seemed to condemn it, and not one word had been said
in its defence. It was clearly his duty, therefore, to strike it down
without delay. Accordingly, one Sunday not long after his settlement,
he wound up his afternoon sermon with a most merciless attack upon the
farmers.

"The farmers," he said, "are a most respectable class of men, and I am
deeply grieved to be compelled to say anything to wound their feelings;
but I am here to tell them that they are responsible for what I call
_the running sore_, which is draining the life-blood of morality and
religion in the rural districts. I refer to the Bothy System. You,
my brethren, are really treating your fellow-men like your cattle.
You lodge them in a dirty and uncomfortable outhouse, and leave them
there to corrupt each other. Did I say that you treated them _like_
your cattle? I should have said _worse_ than your cattle. For you do
not prepare food for them, you do not tie them up, you do not lock
them in and prevent them from roaming abroad at night and falling into
mischief. I am sorry that I am obliged to use strong language, but in
the faithful discharge of my duty I am called upon to say that these
bothies are nurseries of the infernal pit, and that you who keep them
up are, though you may not know it, really serving the devil."

It would be impossible to describe the volcano of feeling which this
onslaught roused within the souls of the farming population. They could
scarcely keep their seats till the service was over; then, when they
went out of church and took their way homewards in the grey winter
dusk, the turmoil within them was almost too strong for expression;
and for a time they could only vent it in such explosive epithets,
as "nurseries o' the infernal pit!" "servants o' the deevil!"
"ill-tongued cratur!" "empty-headed puppy!" "set him up!" "my certie!"
But by the time they reached the foot of the Long Dykes, where the road
divided into three, a group of them, both men and women, stood still to
compare notes.

"Sic a desecration o' the poopit!" said Mrs Dowie of Seggie Den;
"instead o' preachin' the gospel, misca'in honest folk."

"Eh, woman!" exclaimed Mrs Caw of Blawearie, "ye may say that. Him to
turn up his nose at bothies, that was brocht up, they tell me, in a
one-roomed hoose in the wynds o' Glesky. My word, it doesna set a soo
to wear a saddle."

"Low-born smaik," said Mrs Proud of the Hill, "to scandaleese his
betters!"

"I dinna ken," said Tam Bluff of Cuddiesknowes, "what they teach them
at college, but it's evidently no' mainners."

"Settin' servants against their maisters," said Stables, the horse
doctor, a Tory of the old school.

"What could ye expect," asked Ure, the innkeeper at Blawearie Yetts,
"from a teetotaller? Did ye hear hoo he blackguarded onybody that had
onything to dae wi' makin' or sellin' an honest drap o' drink. Haith!
it's my opinion that when the Maister comes to the warld a second
time, they'll steek in His face the door o' His ain kirk, because He
ance turned water into wine."

Then Manson of the Hole, who had been standing by, red with rage,
now began to splutter forth his resentment. He was a cantankerous
old bachelor, greedy, miserly, and wealthy. If any bothy in the
neighbourhood deserved to be tabooed, it was his. That was the reason
for his feeling the most aggrieved. "By the Lord Hairy," he said, "I'll
astonish the dirty cratur. I'll hae a ring in his nose before he's a
week aulder. I'll ceet him before the Presbytery, and if that wunna
dae, before the Synod and the General Assembly; and if I canna get
Justice there, I'll gang to the Law. Don't ye think I'm richt, Gilbert
Strang?"

The man who was thus addressed, and who now came up, was evidently
somewhat inferior in station to the rest of the group. In fact, at
first sight he looked shabby. His hat was weather-stained, his clothes
were threadbare and even darned in some places, and his boots were
rough and clumsy. But his well-developed figure, his clean-cut and
healthy features, and his big blue eyes, gave him, in spite of his
mean apparel, a look of superiority. Nay, the neat patches on his coat
seemed, in some odd way, to be badges of respectability. He was the
son of a small laird; but his father had recently died, a heartbroken
bankrupt; the property had been sold; he had been left the sole support
of his widowed mother, and had been obliged to hire himself out as an
ordinary ploughman; and it was understood that he was now pinching
himself to save money, in order, if possible, to redeem the little
family inheritance.

Gilbert Strang, in fact, was one of those hardy human plants that can
grow and flourish mentally and morally in any soil. He had been but a
few years under the village teacher. The school in which he had learnt
most was the world, where the lessons are undoubtedly very difficult,
but, if once mastered, are most salutary. In the few books which he
had, in the weekly sermons to which he listened, in the ever-varying
shows of earth and sky, and in the rustic gatherings and merrymakings,
he got abundant food both for mind and heart. Then, during the long
quiet days when he was guiding the plough in the meadow, he found a
favourite opportunity for thinking over what he had seen and read, and
for forming his notions of men and things. In this way, he had made
up his mind on most of the subjects that crop up in rural life, and
was able to express his views, not only in the broad vernacular, but
also, when occasion called, in good English. Altogether, he was a fair
specimen of a man of Nature's own training, or what pious people used
to call "one of God Almighty's own scholars."

"Don't you think I wad be richt, Gilbert Strang, to ceet him before the
Presbytery, and if I canna get redress there to try the Law?"

"Ye wad be just playin' into his haunds, Mr Manson."

"In what way, Gilbert?"

"Ye wad mak him staund oot before the public as a martyr, and that's
what a' thae kind want to be. What I would advise wad be, to gie him
rope."

"What dae ye mean, Gilbert?"

"He kens the bothies only by hearsay; and he has spoken a lot o'
nonsense aboot them. Let him alane. He'll gang deeper and deeper
into the mess. Then he'll find himsel in a habble and be obleeged to
apologeese."

"Apologeese!" cried Manson, "catch a minister apologeese! Dod man!
they're never wrang. At the time o' the Reformation, they jist shifted
the doctrine o' infallibility from the Pope's shouthers on to their
ain; and now, instead o' ane, we hae thousands o' Popes."

"That may be," replied Strang, "only ca' canny. Look before ye loup.
Mind the proverb, 'Haste maks waste.'"

"Dod that's true," replied Manson. "But eh man! I wad gie a gude roond
sum to see the gabbie body obleeged to tak back and swallow a' the
nonsense he's been talkin'."

"Weel!" said Gilbert, "ye'll soon see it."

Two days after this conversation on the road, winter weather had
come, in all its severity. It was seven o'clock at night. Outside the
farm-house of Pitlour, the cold round moon looked down upon snow-clad
roofs and stacks, icicles hanging from the eaves, the pump in the
barnyard sheathed in straw, and the ploughs hard bound in the meadow
by the frost. But inside in the bothy, which was attached to the
house, all was bright and warm. A fire made of wood and coals blazed
in the chimney; an old-fashioned oil lamp called a cruisie, hung from
the mantelpiece; and the combined light of these two fell upon three
well-fed, well-conditioned, rustic faces. On one side of the chimney
was Gilbert Strang, deeply interested in the weekly newspaper; on the
other side was his fellow-ploughman, Sandy Downie, laboriously scraping
out of his fiddle the tune of "Auld Lang Syne"; and in front of the
blaze was Jim Lochty, the cattle boy, with a copy of Burns in his
hand, crooning over the words of a familiar song. In the background,
two bedsteads made of rough wood, but with white pillows and sheets,
looked snug and comfortable. The occupants were interrupted by a knock
at the door, and who should walk in but the Rev. Jeremiah MacGuffog. He
apologised for what might be called "a surprise visit." But he said he
held the opinion that the minister was the friend of everyone in the
parish, and that he should be able to drop in upon his parishioners
unceremoniously at any time, and take them as he found them. Strang
said that they were glad to see him, and asked him to take a seat.

Sitting down and scanning the place carefully, the minister said: "You
heard from my sermon on Sabbath that I am deeply interested in the
bothy question; and I want to be thoroughly acquainted with it."

Strang smiled and said to himself: "Jeddart Justice. He condemned and
executed us on Sunday, and now he is going to try us."

"I must confess," said the minister, "that I am surprised to see your
place look so tidy and comfortable. You heard, I suppose, that I was
coming."

"No," said Strang. "The good wife, Mrs Wedderspoon, looks upon this as
part of her own house, and is just as particular about it as she is
about the rooms where her two sons sleep. No place could be cleaner or
more comfortable."

"But your food?" asked the minister. "Is it not rather coarse?"

"Well, sir!" replied Strang, "it would be coarse to the like of you.
But for hard working, healthy, country folk, out in the open air,
could anything be better than well-boiled porridge and sweet milk for
breakfast and supper, and kail and meat and potatoes for dinner? And
looking at us, you would say that our food agrees with us."

"Then," said the minister, after a thoughtful pause, "I am sorry to see
that you have no means of improving your mind. You seem to have no
books."

"Oh yes," said Strang, opening the door of a cupboard, "we have a few.
Look! here are Brown's 'Dictionary of the Bible,' 'Shakespeare,' some
of Sir Walter Scott's works; and Jim has 'Burns' in his hand. Anyone
who masters all these is better educated than most people."

"I'm surprised," remarked the minister gravely, "that you read 'Burns.'
He has some very objectionable passages."

"He's a mixture of good and bad," replied Strang, "just like every
other author. If we read no author that is not absolutely pure, we
shall read none at all. He's a poor creature that can't pick out the
good and throw away the bad."

"I suppose," remarked the minister, "that there is a good deal of
whisky consumed here sometimes?"

"For months," said Strang, "we never taste it."

"When you see," said the minister, "so many of your fellow-creatures
abuse it, why not set them a good example and abstain from it
altogether?"

"Well, sir," replied Strang, "I've thought of that, and I have also
thought that if I were to abstain from everything that is abused, I
would soon, like the Irishman's horse, come to the last straw and die
of starvation."

"Of course," said the minister, "you have none of the salutary
influences of a home?"

"Oh yes, sir," answered Strang, "we go down to the kitchen every
night, and have a crack and snuff with the goodman, a gossip with the
goodwife, and a game at 'catch the ten' with the sons, and finish up
with family worship. To all intents and purposes we are members of the
family."

"I am told," said the minister, "that there is a good deal of loose
talk in bothies, and that one bad man often corrupts the whole lot."

"I fear, sir," replied Strang, "that that's the fault, not of bothies,
but of human nature itself. In almost every company objectionable
persons will be found. They are to be met with in the most select
society, and even, I am told, in the rooms of divinity students. You'll
correct me if I am wrong. There was Mr Joram's son of Kilbaigie, a
divinity student, rusticated last year for being tipsy and uproarious
at a gathering in his own lodgings."

Then after a little, Mr MacGuffog said--"this bothy of yours seems to
be an exception. Is it not?"

"No," said Strang, "all in this neighbourhood are very much alike."

"Then I'm afraid," said the minister, looking very uncomfortable, "I've
done the farmers injustice."

"Indeed you have, sir," replied Strang earnestly, "and they feel it
very keenly. The country folk are talking of leaving your church in a
body. 'Nurseries of hell' and 'servants of the devil' are uncommonly
strong terms."

"But such terms," said the minister, "if I am rightly informed, must
apply to the system as it exists elsewhere."

"Not so far as I am aware," said Strang. "Besides, your remarks
referred to this neighbourhood."

Then after a long pause the minister said in a tone of great
embarrassment, "What am I to do?"

"Well, sir," replied Strang, "I think you know better than I do. But
what seems to me the only straight-forward plan is this: if you have
been wrong, confess it frankly. If you have done injustice to the
people, apologise."

"Well," said the minister, "I shall first visit the other bothies in
the parish, and I shall be guided by what I see there." Then after a
pause he said--"But how do you account for the great outcry that has
been raised against bothies?"

"Partly in this way, sir," said Strang. "There are some ministers (you
will excuse me for saying it) that are like our sporting lairds. They
must have the excitement of the chase. If they start a heresy case,
that's their highest game and gives them their best sport. But not
always lighting upon that, they have no difficulty in finding what they
consider some social evil. Then they give the view halloo, and are
after it in full cry through thick and thin."

"Ah!" said the minister, rising, "you are hard upon us poor clergy; but
there may be a little truth in what you say. Good night." And away he
went.

Next Sunday morning there was a great gathering of country folk at the
church. They were discussing the rumour, that the minister was going to
apologise. Some believed it, while others thought that it was too good
to be true. Among the latter was old Manson.

"Apologeese," he sneered, "no, no. A black coat never surrenders. When
he has been steekit in by the bethal, he can say what he likes, and no'
ane daur utter a cheep. Na, na, the poopit has been ower lang the seat
o' an oracle. It's no' gaun to become the stule o' repentance."

But old Manson was wrong. Towards the end of the sermon, which was on
the text, "Bear ye one another's burdens," the minister came to a dead
pause. There was a terrible stillness all over the church. Every ear
was on the alert to catch what was coming, and nervous people held down
their heads. Then the minister, looking ghastly pale, and speaking with
slow deliberation, said:

"Brethren, my great desire is to find out what your burdens are, and
to help you to bear them; but last Sabbath I must admit that I failed.
I had always heard that the Bothy System was one of the curses of
this country; and I had never heard a word said in its defence. Very
naturally, in calling upon the people of this neighbourhood to put away
the evil thing from among them, I used very strong language. Brethren,
I have since discovered that, as far as this parish is concerned, I was
wrong; and I now apologise to the farming people in particular and
the congregation in general. May this be a warning to us all--to you
as well as me--not to be too hasty in forming judgments regarding our
fellow-creatures."

Here was an event altogether unprecedented! No one had ever heard of
a minister confessing from the pulpit that he had made a mistake. It
was the result of the purest Christian candour; but had it proceeded
from policy it would have been a master-stroke. With one sentence the
minister turned the hearts of the people from the fiercest indignation
right round to an enthusiastic love. The women-folk especially were
loud in his praises.

"Oh!" they exclaimed, "wasn't it like a real Christian to own that
he was wrang; and didn't he look rale bonny when he was daein' it?"
And they all agreed that it was Gilbert Strang, who by his wonderful
cleverness had opened the minister's eyes, and made him see that it was
his duty to confess.

On the Monday afterwards, Gilbert was ploughing the Five-Acre Lea. To
one fond of rustic associations it was a pleasant picture; the pair
of horses sleek and well-fed, bending their heads over their strong
chests, lifting their legs leisurely and together, and pulling the
plough slowly through the stiff loam; the knife-like coulter evenly
cutting a narrow strip of the green turf; the shining share turning it
over and forming another long ridge of fresh earth; the man holding
steadily the plough-tails and looking contented and happy; and over
all, the sombre sky of a winter afternoon gradually darkening towards
the dusk. As he was turning the plough at the headrig, he heard himself
hailed in a cheery voice. He looked round, and there was Manson of the
Hole, with his face in a broad grin of delight.

Shaking the ploughman's hand, and then slapping him vehemently on the
shoulder, he roared out, "Eh, man, ye're an awfu' billy. This is an age
o' novelties, and ye've brocht aboot ane o' the greatest o' them a'.
A minister standin' in the poopit and confessin' to his folk that he
had been wrang! Wha ever heard the like? It's an event in the history
o' the kirk. And the man that had the head and the tongue to manage a'
this--here he is, wastin' himsel on wark that the stupidest clod-happer
could dae. By the Lord Hairy! it's no' richt! You should hae been a
minister yersel, settin' them a lesson o' straightforwardness; and as
sure as I am a livin' sinner they require it. Man! I'll tell ye what
I'll dae. I'm no' a rich man, but I'll lend ye twa hunder pounds to
gang to the college; and ye can pay it back whenever it suits ye. Ye
needna hurry."

Strang was taken aback; and for about a minute was silent, fascinated
evidently by the prospect which had thus suddenly been called up before
him. At last he said:

"Mr Manson! dae ye really mean that? It's awfu' generous; and I'm
half inclined to tak yer offer. But no, the kirk is no' my trade; the
harness wadna sit easy. Nor yet the schule; my nerves wadna stand a'
the tear and wear that's required to stir up a' kinds o' young brains.
Besides, I canna gie up an open air country life. It has nearly a' the
advantages I care aboot. We get the great natural medicines--fresh air,
sunlight, pure water, perfect quiet, and sound sleep. We hae the best
food; for what could be mair nourishin' than milk, eggs, and oatmeal,
all fresh and unadulterated? And we hae the best opportunities (if we
only hae the gumption to tak them) of improvin' oor minds, for we live
in the workshop o' nature, and see the coontless wonders which she is
producin' a' the year roond."

"But dae ye no' think it richt," asked Manson, "to raise yersel as sae
mony hae dune, to a higher position in society?"

"Weel," replied Strang slowly, "I'm no' jist sure aboot that. It seems
to me a kind o' selfishness. Should we no' think o' raisin' others? We
owe a duty to oorsels, nae doot, but also to those wha hae produced us
and brocht us up. That's the true way in which the masses are to be
raised--not by being patronised by their superiors, but by being led
onwards and upwards by men of their own class. Not that I think I could
ever lead them; but I could assist them that are really able to lead
them."

"Weel," said Manson, going away, "my offer is still afore ye, whenever
ye like to tak it."

Year after year passed away, and Gilbert Strang continued most
religiously to save every penny that he could. When his hoardings
amounted to a handsome sum, he looked for some way of laying them
out at interest. Now, there was in Mr MacGuffog's congregation a Mr
Melville, a lawyer and banker of unquestionable respectability, a
prominent elder in the kirk, and the brother of a celebrated D.D. To
many of the church members he had become the guide, philosopher, and
friend. Besides giving them his advice, he took charge of their spare
cash and got an investment for it. To this gentleman Strang had no
hesitation in committing his hard-earned money, with the injunction,
that the interest when it fell due was to be added to the principal,
and the aggregate sum in this way allowed to accumulate. At the end of
five years, his affairs had prospered so well that he saw a prospect of
buying back his inheritance. He would borrow a sum from Manson, giving
him in return a bond upon the property; and that sum added to his
savings would make up the purchase money. He had got Manson's hearty
consent, he had instructed Mr Melville to realise his investments, and
he had written to his mother to tell her the joyful tidings, and to say
that he would be over at her house on Saturday evening to discuss the
whole matter.

It was a beautiful day at the end of June, and Strang was busy among
the haymakers in the Bog. The occasion was important; and all the
inmates of the farm--master and servants, old and young, men and women,
and even the dogs--were engaged. Amidst a perpetual ripple of gossip,
joke, and laughter, they merrily turned over the tanned grass, put
it up in cocks (or, as it was called in that district, _coles_), and
carefully raking the cleared space, made the field look tidy and fresh.
The sight of the abundant and well-conditioned crop; the delightful
scent that arose from it; the twitter of the swallows that wheeled
around; and above all the glorious weather, exhilarated every soul. And
when the cart, driven by Jim Lochty and containing the dinner, appeared
at the gate of the field, they laughed aloud in their joy; for what
can be more delightful to a hungry human creature than the prospect of
being seated on a heap of fragrant hay with a large _bap_ in one hand
and a tankard of nut-brown ale in the other. But what was the matter
with Jim? He was all excitement. He had evidently something startling
to tell; and, like your ordinary bearer of sensational news, even when
it is bad, he had a sort of grim pleasure in delivering it. Before he
came up he cried out:--

"Gilbert Strang, yer banker, Mr Melville, has cut his throat and has
left a letter to say that he has made awa wi' a' the folks' siller."

Strang was stunned, and for some time could do nothing but stare at
Jim, wondering if he were telling the truth.

At last he said: "I don't believe it. Mr Melville o' a' folk! Somebody
has been hoaxing ye."

"Na," said Jim, "it's perfectly true. It was the polisman that tellt
me; and he had seen him quite stiff and had read the letter. A' the
folk were talkin' aboot it. Look! there's Mr Proud o' the Hill passin'.
Gang and speir at him."

Mr Proud had stopped his gig and was beckoning to Strang; and when
Strang went over to him, it was only to hear a confirmation of the
terrible report. But that was not all. Misfortune seems to take a
savage delight not only in knocking her victim down, but in trampling
upon him after he is down. Mr Proud had another sad calamity to tell,
namely, that Mr Manson had been found that morning dead in bed.

Here was the end of all Strang's labour. This double loss dispelled
at once the dream which had lighted up all his future--the hope of
regaining the inheritance of his ancestors, that white two-storeyed
house, with the sunny garden in front, and the snug farm buildings
behind, on whose walls the history of the family seemed to be written,
and where the associations of his own happy boyhood, like the bright
and fresh dewdrops of a summer morning, hung upon every bush and tree.
A cloud of despondency fell upon him; and, seen through it, the sunny
landscape and the merry faces of the haymakers seemed incongruous and
almost unbearable.

His spirit, however, was too robust to be long weighed down. Towards
evening he threw off his load, and asked himself if he had, on the
whole, any good reason for complaining? He had, indeed, lost the
opportunity of realising a happiness which was chiefly made up of
sentiment; but, on the other hand, what blessings were still spared
to him? Health, strength, congenial employment, wholesome food, sound
sleep, fresh air, the glories of the universe, appreciative friends,
and a kind Providence. He who could mope and mourn in the face of all
these advantages was not a man at all, but a cowardly cur.

Then the thought of his mother arose in his mind. How would she bear
it? Beneath the double blow of her husband's bankruptcy and death,
the poor body's courage had given way. Thoroughly demoralised, she
considered herself a victim, and expected restitution, not only from
her friends and the public at large, but even from Providence. She had,
therefore, staked her whole happiness upon the recovery of the pleasant
steading and fields at Sunnybrae. And now that the recovery was
impossible, most bitter would be her disappointment, and endless would
be her grumbling against society at large and even against Providence.

Strang's mother lived at Cauldale, a solitary place four miles north
of Pitlour. It stood far apart from other dwellings, on the side of an
uncultivated hill. It had once been a row of thatched cottages; but
with the exception of the one at the east end, they had been allowed to
fall into decay, and now stood roofless and empty. The hearths which
had once been lit up by warm household fires, and the still warmer
smiles of family affection, were now covered with rubbish and overgrown
with weeds. In the one which was still habitable, Mrs Strang had been
allowed by the Laird to take up her abode; and by the aid of her son
and some kind friends she had managed to get the means of making a
scanty living. A cow grazing on the braes, a pig fed on the refuse
of the garden, a row of bee-hives and a flock of poultry, gave her a
supply of milk, butter, cheese, pork, honey, and eggs--part of which
she devoted to her own use, but the most of which she carried into the
nearest town and sold for hard cash. She even utilised the crops that
grew beyond the range of cultivation. In early summer she culled the
young nettles to make _kail_. In autumn she gathered the brambleberries
to make jam for her afternoon tea; and a bed of wormwood growing on the
hillside in front of her house supplied her with all the medicine she
ever took.

On the Saturday evening when she expected her son's visit, she was
seated with her knitting on a chair in front of her cottage. She was in
high spirits, and anticipated with great pleasure the discussing with
Gilbert all the details of taking possession of Sunnybrae. Soon she saw
him in the distance coming striding through the pasture land. Still
working at her stocking, she went down the face of the hill to meet
him. But when he drew near, instead of that jubilant smile which she
had expected to see on his face, there was a look of depression.

"Gilbert," she exclaimed, "what's wrang? Something has happened. Ye
canna hide it from yer mither. Tell me at ance."

He told her; and with a cry of lamentation she dropped on the ground
and sat there, wringing her hands and bemoaning her fate: "what hae
I dune, what hae I dune, to be afflickit in this way--blow after
blow--blow after blow--and after slavin' and starvin' and savin'. But
that man (what's his name?) canna hae swallowed the siller. He maun
hae spent it on some folk. They should be socht oot and made to pay it
back."

Strang thought it best not to answer his mother, but to allow her to
give vent to her feelings. Then raising her gently up, taking her by
the arm, and telling her that she must come and give him a cup of tea,
as he was ready to faint, he led her into her cottage. It was a poor
place, but the care which had been taken to make it comfortable in
honour of his coming touched his heart. A clear fire was burning behind
the two iron bars that served for a grate. The cracked hearthstone and
rough earthen floor had been swept and whitened. The most was made of
the scanty bits of furniture, the wreck of her former household; and
everything was clean and in its proper place. A snowy cloth covered
the frail round table; the marriage china was arranged in order; his
favourite brambleberry jam was in a glass dish; his favourite buttered
toast simmered before the fire; and the only armchair in the house was
placed for him in his favourite chimney-corner.

Wiping her eyes occasionally, and moaning "Oh dear," she poured out a
cup of tea for him; but refused to take any herself, and sat rocking
herself to and fro. Then came another outburst, "Why did ye ever trust
that man? I'm sure I tellt ye weel aboot 'im."

"Mother, mother," he said in a deprecating tone, "hoo can ye say so? Ye
never did."

"That I did," she moaned out. "But ye never listen to what I say. Nae
wonder ye forget."

Strang saw that reasoning would do no good; and so he sat silent
while she continued to give vent to her feelings. And to his great
relief, a knock came to the door, and a gentleman, well-dressed and
well-mannered, entered.

"Mr Strang, I presume," he said. "I must beg your pardon for
intruding. I called at Pitlour, and they sent me on here."

Catching fresh alarm, and seeing in this visit a continuation of the
coil of troubles in which they had got involved, the mother cried out,
"Oh sir! what are ye gaun to dae wi' 'im?"

The gentleman, with a kindly smile, said, "There's nothing to cause
alarm; quite the reverse. I am Mr Kemp, Mr Manson's lawyer."

And then in a calm manner, as if it was the sort of thing that occurred
every day, he told that Mr Manson had left his money and other
belongings to Gilbert Strang.

Mrs Strang burst into a rapture of delight: "Eh, dae ye hear that! It's
an answer to my prayers. I aye said that Providence wad mak up to us
what He had made us suffer."

But Strang himself was strangely silent. At length he said, "I don't
see how I can take it, sir."

"No' tak it!" screamed his mother. "Are ye mad?"

"No, mother!" said Strang, quietly, "this money should have been given
to Mr Manson's relatives."

"He has got no relatives," said Mr Kemp, "and he expressly says that he
leaves it to you as the man whom he most respects, and who will "guide
the money best"; and if you don't take it, why, it must go to the
Queen; and in the ocean of her wealth it will be a mere drop, and will
do good to nobody."

"Dae ye hear that!" said the mother. "The Queen indeed; set her up!
She's got ower muckle already. She would tak everything."

"Then," said Gilbert, "if I maun tak it, I canna spend it on mysel.
I'll pay my father's debts, and wipe off the family disgrace."

"Gilbert Strang!" said his mother, "are ye mad? Sir! ye'll no' allow
him to dae this. The money wasna left for this."

"Mother," he said, quietly, "my father's memory is ane o' oor dearest
possessions. There's a blot on it, the blot o' bankruptcy. I want to
rub that aff, so that you and me may hae nae cause to blush when his
name is mentioned."

Utterly foiled, the poor woman collapsed, saying in a tone of
resignation, "Weel, weel, gang yer ain gait, and leave me here to
slave, and starve, and dee. Ye'll maybe wipe yer faither's debts aff
yer conscience, but ye'll sune hae yer mither's death in their place."

Gilbert now rose to go back with Mr Kemp. His mother refused to shake
hands with him; but he clapped her on the back, and said, "Courage,
mother! there may be some siller left, after payin' a' the debts, to
buy Sunnybrae yet."

When they were outside, Mr Kemp said, "if you carry out this Quixotic
plan of yours, you'll have nothing left."

"I can't help that," returned Strang; "I must do what's right."

Strang lost no time in carrying out his resolve. Ere a few weeks had
passed, his father's creditors, very much to their astonishment, were
paid the full amount of what was owing them, along with interest. On
the next Sunday morning, as he put on his old and faithful Sunday
clothes, he felt a satisfaction which he had never experienced before.
The stain on his father's memory--a memory otherwise bright--was
removed, and he almost felt that his deceased parent was near, smiling
approval of what had been done.

His appearance among the loungers at the church door created quite
a stir. Every eye was upon him. The farmers and their wives pressed
forward to shake him cordially by the hand. They said nothing, for
their limited vocabulary contained no form of words suitable for such
an extraordinary occasion; but their looks expressed their feelings.
Though they would not very likely, if placed in his circumstances, have
done what he had done; yet they could not help admiring him. As he
stood before them in his well-worn attire, he looked like a hero of the
antique type; and the patches on his coat appeared more than ever like
badges of honour.

Meanwhile his mother, on the lonely slopes of Cauldale, moped and
grumbled. She felt herself a poor, forlorn wretch, deserted not only
by her son but by Providence also; and she took a morbid pleasure
in thinking that no one had ever been so ill used as she. But one
afternoon, as she sat at her solitary "four-hours," her son burst
in, with every feature beaming. She was then quite prepared for the
good news that he brought. The creditors were so delighted with his
unexpected conduct, that they had met and agreed to return to him half
the money. With that, and the remainder of Manson's legacy, he had
bought back Sunnybrae.

"So by next Martinmas," he said, "ye'll be in yer ain auld house,
mither."

Bright glowed the ben-end, or parlour, of Sunnybrae on the evening of
the 12th November. Bright, also, were the occupants, Gilbert Strang
and his mother. They had come in on the forenoon of the 11th, and had
been hard at work "pittin' things to richts." Mrs Strang had complained
bitterly about the state in which everything had been left; but she
had at last arranged things so that they could now sit down with some
degree of comfort.

"Looking round," she said, "on a' the auld things in their auld places,
I feel as if I had been dreamin' aboot livin' in a strange country, and
that I had waukened up to find mysel at hame. There is only ae great
want,--the presence o' yer faither. But I canna help thinkin' that he
is here in spirit, and shares in our joy. And oh, Gilbert! glad he maun
be that a' his debts are paid, and that naebody can say that they hae
lost onything by him. You were richt, and I was wrang."




THE GENTLEMAN TRAMP.


John Fairgrieve, better known as Hillend, the name of his farm, had
been born with a strong appetite for knowledge. Had his education
been attended to in his youth, he would very likely have been a
great reader. But as he had never got into the way of using books
with facility, he was driven to seek his mental food in the actual
world around him; and this he did with the greatest assiduity. In
plain language, he was a notorious newsmonger, a collector of all the
"clashes" of the neighbourhood. In bright summer weather, before the
hay harvest came on, and when "there was naething pushin'," it was his
delight to stand at his farm gate, under the large plane tree, with his
snuff-box in his hand, and exchange news with all the passers-by. It
did not matter who they were. The farmer in his gig, the ploughman on
his cart, the baker driving his van, the beggarwife with her brats and
her wallets, were all obliged to "stand and deliver." In fact, Hillend
was a sort of informal turnpike man, levying mental toll on the king's
highway.

Very like him in this inveterate love for tittle-tattle were his two
sisters, Lizzie and Grizzie, who kept house for him. They were seldom
seen separate. They hunted in couples. And their prey was generally
some country laddie that came into the farmyard for milk or butter.
They took complete possession of the unlucky urchin. He had no more
chance of escape than a gooseberry which has fallen before two greedy
hens. The one examined him, and then the other cross-examined him,
or (to use the old Scotch phraseology) the one speired and the other
back-speired, until the poor child was turned inside out, or, as
Geordie Faw, the cattleman, expressed it, "fairly flypeit."

It was eight o'clock on a wild October night. Outside, in the farmyard,
were darkness and a fierce gale that rattled at the windows and howled
at the chimney tops, and swirled round the stacks and into every hole
and corner. Inside, in the farm kitchen, were light and warmth and
bright dishes on the walls, and still brighter faces grouped round
the blazing fire. With the exception of Collie the dog and Mottie the
cat, all were busy in their own different ways. Miss Lizzie was at the
churn, and Miss Grizzie at the spinning-wheel. Willie Foster and Pate
Mackie, the two ploughmen, were playing at draughts, or, as they called
it, "the dam-brod." Geordie Faw was cobbling his shoes. The itinerant
tailor, John Glen, seated cross-legged on a chair, was mending the
farmer's coat. And Hillend himself, what was he doing? Occupying the
place of honour at the left side of the fire, and, with the usual
snuff-box in his hand, he was keeping up the conversation, or, in other
words, "ca'in the crack." As the corn and the potatoes were safely
gathered in, he was in capital spirits, and bent upon making both
himself and the others happy.

You would have thought that there was very little entertainment to be
got in that quiet homely scene; but you would have been mistaken. First
of all, there was Glen, the tailor, with a tongue as sharp and slick as
his own shears, and with odds and ends of scandal as many and varied as
his own clippings. Then in came Sandy Livingstone, fresh from a visit
to the smithy, and bursting with all the "clavers" of the parish--who
was dead, who was going to be married, who had _failed_, who had been
fou last July fair, who had been up before the Session, how Grangemire
Mary had got her leave, and Geordie Clephane had lost his watch at
Kirkcaldy market. And while they were still enjoying these tit-bits,
and rolling them like sweet morsels under their tongue, who should
appear but a mysterious stranger, foot-sore and tired with travel. All
grew quiet to look at him. This was no ordinary tramp.

His clothes were fashionably cut, though threadbare and soiled; and
his features and hands were thin and delicate, though tanned by the
weather. The company were prepared to hear that he had once seen better
days; but they broke into a murmur of astonishment when he told them
that he had been an Oxford man and a man about town, and that he had
tramped all the way from London. "An Oxford swell!" "A London man!"
"Tramped all the way!" Hillend's face glowed with the anticipation of
hearing a wonderful story, and in his excitement he took four or five
_snuffs_ consecutively. Miss Lizzie and Miss Grizzie stopped their
work, rose to their feet, drew near to the stranger, devouring him
with their eyes, and eager to "speir and back-speir." They, indeed,
set him down to a supper of bread and cheese and milk; but they began
at the same time to question him about himself and his adventures.
However, he said that if they would kindly wait till he had refreshed
and strengthened himself with the meal they had placed before him,
he would give them a full and true account of his strange career.
They were therefore obliged, meanwhile, to satisfy their curiosity by
watching him while he stowed away the viands with wonderful celerity.
At length his ravenous appetite was appeased; and, wiping his mouth
with his coat sleeve, and begging pardon for doing so, and giving as an
excuse that he hadn't a pocket-handkerchief, he began the story of his
adventures. In after days it was often repeated, first by himself and
then by others, so that I am able to give it for the most part in his
own words.

"My father was rich, but I am almost ashamed to confess that he did not
make his money in a very nice way. He was, you see, a pawnbroker in
the High Street of Edinburgh. When I was a boy I used often to be in
the shop on a Saturday night, and, upon my soul, I used to pity the
poor quivering wretches that came in, raising money on their furniture,
their very bed, and even the family Bible. I have seen a poor woman,
half-stripped herself, take off the clothes from a puny child in her
arms, and pawn them. All kinds of scenes went on, haggling and arguing,
and cursing and swearing. The words of one customer, especially, I can
never forget. He was a broken-down author, puffy and shaky. He was
angry because he had not got enough upon his silver watch.

"'You cursed old Jew,' he said to my father, 'I'll tell you what you
are. You're a wrecker. You wait for those who are cast ashore by the
waves of misfortune, and rob them of the remnants of their property.'

"'No, no,' said my father, 'I accommodate them with money to keep them
alive, and in return take only the things they can spare.'

"My father himself did not like the trade, for he gave it up, and went
to live in a villa at Eskbank. He continued, however, to lend money in
private; but it was on a large scale. Young gentlemen, regular swells,
used to call at the house and be closeted with him, and had difficulty
in coming to an agreement. I heard one say as he was leaving, 'one
hundred per cent. is tremendous.' 'So is the risk,' was all my father's
answer.

"My mother was of an easy-going disposition, had no head for figures,
and left the management of all money matters to her husband. Her whole
care was devoted to me, her only child. I was the apple of her eye.
Dear old mother! how I wish that I had appreciated her more!

"As we sat at the fire on a winter evening, she would say, 'Ben! my
lad, we must give you the best education. I would like to see you a
gentleman before I die.'

"'Nonsense!' my father would say, 'I'll not waste any money upon Latin
and Greek, and rubbish of that kind. The training I got will be good
enough for him.'

"However, to our great astonishment, he came round to mother's view.
You see, he intended that I should carry on the money-lending business,
and he thought that if I were sent to a high-class school, I would form
a wide connection among young aristocratic spendthrifts, which would be
of great service to me. So the question came to be discussed, 'to what
school should I be sent?' and to settle this question our next door
neighbour assisted us.

"This man was Captain Beaumont, but was popularly called 'the Earl.' He
was, as he told everybody, 'a real gentleman that had taken a thousand
years to be produced, not a shoddy one that can be turned out nowadays
in a few weeks.' He was tall, grey, and scraggy, with a backbone as
stiff as a walking-stick, and with a head that was uncommonly small,
but that was 'large enough,' as our minister remarked, 'for all
the ideas he had got to put into it.' His house was, like himself,
cheerless but pretentious. He called it Dunmore, which, you must know,
was the name of the castle where his ancestors had lived, heaven
knows how long ago. He had a doited old serving-man, who was dressed
in the family livery, and waited at table, and served the thin broth
and scraggy mutton on the family silver. There was also above the
dining-room mantelpiece his genealogical tree, with many branches and
leaves, and each leaf had on it the name of one of his forefathers,
and on the topmost leaf was written his own name, 'Reginald Algernon
Beaumont, the present earl.'

"For some time the Earl was very haughty towards us, throwing us a
word occasionally, just as he would throw it to a neighbour's dog.
But by and by he made an excuse for calling on us; and in a few weeks
he came in regularly every night to have a game of draughts at our
fireside. 'His hungry nose,' my father said, 'had scented the havannas
and the Glenlivet.' In the first part of the evening he was silent and
grumpy, as if he looked down upon our society, and was half angry with
himself for being in it. But when the whisky and cigars were placed
on the table, he brightened up and grew pleasant and sociable, and
would talk for hours about his ancestors, and would tell that he was
the lineal descendant of Reginald de Beaumont, who came into Scotland
in the reign of David the First, and that he was, therefore, the Earl
of Abernethy; and then he would blackguard the House of Lords for not
acknowledging his title, and would call them 'Brummagem peers, mostly
made out of lucky lawyers, brewers, and cotton-spinners.' On one of
these occasions, my mother took courage to talk about me, saying that
she wished to make me a gentleman, and asked his advice as to what
should be done. He was startled, and, screwing up his nose, said:--

"My dear Madam, you can't make your son a gentleman. You can't put blue
blood into his veins and give him a pedigree a thousand years long.
But you may give him a gentlemanly education, and make him as good a
gentleman as ninety-nine out of every hundred who assume the name. Send
him to a high-class English school and then to Oxford. There he will
get up the classics, the only branch worthy of a gentleman.'

"So by the Earl's advice I was sent to Vere de Vere College, in
Yorkshire: Principal, the Rev. Augustus Caesar, LL.D. The doctor, as he
was called, received me in a very friendly manner. So did the pupils,
after their own way; rather a rollicking kind of way, however. They
were healthy, riotous, and as full of mischief as monkeys. Surrounding
me, staring at me, and pulling me about, they plied me with all sorts
of questions--what was my governor? had he lots of tin? was Scotland
such a wild place? how did I feel in trousers? had I brought my kilt
with me? Then they began 'to make me at home,' as they called it. One
borrowed a sixpence from me; another, learning that I could not box,
showed me the way and gave me a bloody nose; and all of them joined in
crying out, that, as a new boy, I must pay my footing and stand them a
jolly spread of pies and tarts and rum-shrub.

"For the first few days I had rather a lively time. As I was a new boy,
they thought it only right to practise all their tricks upon me, such
as putting a bunch of thistles in my bed, filling my boots with hot
water, and putting cobbler's wax upon my seat, which held me fast when
the doctor called me to get up. They also exercised their ingenuity in
inventing nick-names for me, and I was addressed as 'Scotty,' 'Haggis,'
'Jew,' and 'Balls' (for they had ferreted out that my father had been a
pawnbroker). But at length Lord Gulpington, who was the trump card of
the college, being the heir to a marquisate, claimed me as his fag, and
would allow no one to torment me except himself. He slept in the same
room with me, and generally awoke me in the morning by throwing his
slipper at my head. Then I got up, and, after dressing hurriedly, went
down for his boots and his hot water. During the day I did anything
that he required, and at night I often had to smuggle in 'grub and
lush,' as he called it. We got on well together. I was quite delighted
to be connected in any way with a lord; and after a while he said that
next to his bull dog, Griffin, which he kept at the butcher's in the
village, he liked me best of any creature about the place.

"As far as the body was concerned, the pupils got on very well. They
had capital appetites, which they constantly attended to; and they were
not content with the abundance that was placed before them, but they
were constantly devouring apples, oranges, hardbake, and ginger-beer.
Most hearty were they also in taking physical exercise. They played
cricket and football, and talked about them incessantly, as if they had
been the chief end of man; and they ran at hounds and hares as if they
had been hunting a fortune, and not a dirty little boy with a bag of
paper scraps.

"The physical training, indeed, was splendid, but I can't say as much
for the mental training. With the exception of a little Greek, the
thing that we always seemed to be grinding at was Latin. Our grammar
book was in Latin. Our reading book was in Latin. The very grace said
at table was in Latin. I tried to fix Latin in my head, but it came out
again as fast as I put it in. They endeavoured to improve my memory
by giving me several hundred verses to commit, but that only made me
worse. In despair, one day I told the doctor that I would never be able
to learn Latin. He told me that I must learn it, if I wished to be
educated. I then had the presumption to ask him what was the use of it.

"'Oh,' he said, 'it is the best instrument for training the faculties.
Besides, it is the "open sesame" into good society.'

"Had I been the only backward pupil, I might have thought that the
fault lay in my stupidity. But with the exception of two or three, the
other pupils were nearly as bad as myself, and detested their lessons.
If a knowledge of Latin was to be the 'open sesame' into good society,
I'm afraid they would never get in.

"At the end of four years my course at school was finished; and before
proceeding to Oxford I spent a few weeks at home. One evening my
father, in his business-like way, asked me to make up an account of
the items I had got in return for the money he had laid out,--in other
words, to tell him distinctly how much I had learnt.

"Afraid to go into details, I said, 'Well, at least, I've learnt the
ways and manners of a gentleman.'

"'Ah,' replied my father, 'to be sure, that's worth all the book
knowledge. You'll be better able to do business with gentlemen.'

"In this way I had staved off an ugly question; but in my own room,
before going to bed that night, I ran over in my mind what I had learnt
and what I had not learnt at school. I had learnt to play cricket and
football, to run, to leap, to box, to smoke, to drink beer, and make
bets. I had _not_ learnt to write a good hand, to spell correctly, to
count correctly, and to know something of the history and geography of
my native country.

"My mother came to have some notion of the true state of matters. She
had asked me to write to the minister, inviting him to our house on
a certain night to meet some friends, and unfortunately I had spelt
_meet_ with an _a_. The minister was a great humorist, and this was an
occasion for a joke which he could not neglect. Consequently, he called
next morning, with my letter in his hand, to ask what kind of meat he
would bring--beef, or mutton, or pork. My mother, when she understood
the mistake, felt it keenly. So, one evening at the fireside, while the
Earl and my father were having their game of draughts, she said:

"'Well, Ben, I hope you will get on at Oxford, and correct all your
deficiencies, and come out a perfect scholar.'

"'My dear madam,' said the Earl, 'if any place can make him a scholar
Oxford is that place. It has got all the means; it has the most money,
the best teachers, and the greatest reputation.'

"My mother, however, although she knew it not, was cruelly deceived.
To men who were in love with learning, Oxford gave every facility for
maturing their scholarship. But to those who had no such love she could
do nothing. Into this latter class I was unfortunate enough to fall.
Lord Gulpington was there before me, and introduced me to his set,
which consisted of the sons of the aristocratic and the wealthy. These
youths, though passing through the curriculum of the University, were
students merely in name. They did almost everything but study. Bless
you! how could you expect them to do otherwise? What charms could they
find in musty, out-of-date Latin and Greek works? They were young,
healthy, spirited, and rich; and the bright and breathing world lay
around them. Everything within them and without them called upon them
to enjoy themselves. They, indeed, went through the farce of attending
chapel in the morning, and lectures in the forenoon. But everyone,
their teachers as well as themselves, knew it to be a farce. As soon as
they went back to their rooms, they tossed their gowns aside, donned
their sporting habiliments, and were off to the river, or the road,
or the hunting-field, or the racecourse. Then back they came in the
evening with a keen relish for other kinds of enjoyment. They feasted,
they caroused, they gamboled, they sang jovial glees and choruses, and
in fact rattled on as if life were to be a perpetual feast, without
any such thing as duty, or trial, or suffering. In all these frolics
I mingled. The jolly fellows, though they knew my origin, and called
me by no other name than 'Balls,' were free and easy with me, played
practical jokes upon me, borrowed my money, smoked my cigars, drank my
wine, and even used my rooms for their parties.

"But all things come to an end; and the time arrived when the most of
these devotees of pleasure had to lay aside their frivolities, and, in
order to please the old folks at home, had to go in for their degree,
or, as they called it, 'their smalls.' Many of them were, as it is
called, 'plucked,' and no wonder! Their feathers were not home-grown,
but were borrowed plumes stuck on with infinite labour and skill by
tutors, and, therefore, came off easily. On me they would not even
stick, and so I could not go up for the degree, and had not even the
honour of being plucked.

"My poor parents were spared the chagrin of seeing the failure of their
efforts to make me a gentleman. Before my Oxford career was finished,
they died, both in the same week, the victims of the terrible Asiatic
cholera, during its first visit to this country in 1832. As I now
came into a considerable fortune, I saw no necessity for adopting a
profession, or doing any useful work. To enjoy myself was, I thought,
to be my only business; and the proper place for enjoyment was London,
the centre of all that is pleasant and grand. So, as soon as I had
wound up affairs in Edinburgh, I hastened to the metropolis.

"I put up at the Golden Cross, and proceeded, as it is called, 'to do
the sights of London.' I visited picture galleries, museums, theatres,
concert rooms, until I was tired out and disgusted. Then came on the
most terrible feeling I ever experienced, a feeling which you busy and
healthy people never had. _I did not know what to do._ I did not care
to stroll about the streets, for the everlasting din and endless throng
grew intolerable. I could not sit all day in the coffee-room of the
hotel, staring at everyone that entered, and pretending to read the
newspaper. When I got up in the morning, it seemed as if I would never
manage to get through the day. Time was my great enemy. It loaded the
present, and blocked up the future. How was I to kill it? To do this I
would have been inclined to try almost anything. I now understood how
men committed suicide through sheer weariness. I also felt the truth of
the saying that idleness is the cause of nearly every crime, and that
the idle man does not wait to be tempted, but of his own accord tempts
the devil. My devil soon appeared.

"I had noticed among the inmates of the hotel a middle-aged, stout, and
grey-headed gentleman, whom the waiters addressed as Colonel. He seemed
to me to be round and oily with health, good nature, and jollity. One
day, when he appeared to be idle, he sat down and had a talk with me.
Without telling me much about himself, except that he been an officer
in the Spanish service, he managed to extract from me a good deal about
myself; and when he heard me complain about feeling dull, he at once
placed his services at my disposal.

"'London dull!' he said, 'why, it's a paradise, a garden full of
flowers, and I, like a bee, or rather a bumble-bee, have visited all of
them.'

"And certainly no idle man could have a pleasanter companion than the
Colonel. He was stimulating and enlivening, like the morning sunshine.
His animal spirits and relish for life never flagged, and he was always
ready, when the occasion turned up, to joke, to laugh, to eat, or to
drink. Every day he had some novelty to offer. 'Now,' he would say,
'I'll give you a treat that you never had before;' and then he would
drive me to a racecourse or some other resort of fashion, or he would
take me to some famous old chop-house in the recesses of the city, or
some new and gorgeous hotel in one of the fashionable thoroughfares;
and, while we sat down to what he called, 'a nice little dinner,' he
would introduce some new dish, or some new blend of whisky, or some
new brand of wine; and while we discussed it he would smack his lips,
rub his hands, and look at me as much as to say, 'Did I not tell you
so?' His enjoyment of the pleasures of the great city never seemed to
fail. The only thing, in fact, that ever failed with him was money. He
sometimes had no change, or had forgotten his purse; but I was only
too glad to pay his expenses in return for his company. I could not do
without him. He had made life like a dream, a little feverish perhaps,
but exceedingly pleasant.

"One night after the theatre, he took me to a house in the Haymarket,
where, he said, we could sup cosily together. As soon as we had
entered, to his great surprise, he found two old friends who had just
arrived from the Continent. They were middle-aged, fashionably dressed,
and well-mannered, and were introduced to me as Captain Spurr and
Count Lago. At my invitation they joined us in a private room, where
we supped on lobster and champagne, and all grew as sociable and as
pleasant as you like. A game of whist was proposed, and the Colonel and
I played against the other two for small stakes. We had astonishing
luck, and won game after game; and at the end of several hours, rose
the winners of a considerable sum of money. Of course, we continued
the practice of meeting and playing there, and night after night the
same results happened. The Colonel and I always won. Such a thing had
never been known before. They all attributed it to me; and even the
landlord and the waiters complimented me, and wondered that I did not
back my luck sufficiently. This was pleasant so far; but I did not like
the idea of winning so much money, and feared that we might completely
clean out our opponents, and I frankly told the Colonel my feelings on
the matter, and suggested that we should stop.

"'Stop!' he exclaimed, 'we can't stop; we must give them their revenge.
Oh, don't be afraid that you'll beggar them; they have plenty of the
needful.'

"So on we drove in our career of victory, until our winnings amounted
to a large sum. Then fortune changed, and, strange to say, went on as
steadily against us as it had done for us, until our opponents had not
only regained all they had lost, but had won some of our money.

"While on our way home that night I said to the Colonel--'As our
opponents have recouped themselves, we must now stop.'

"'Hang it!' said the Colonel, 'not just yet if you please. I can't
afford to lose any money if you can. Let us adopt this method. We are
so much money out of pocket. On our first game to-night, let us stake
the double of that. If we lose, let us double it again; and let us go
on doing this; and whenever the luck turns, and, hang it! you know, it
must turn very soon, we shall, at one go, have won all our money back,
and then we can cry quits.'

"This seemed a dangerous plan, but I felt that we must follow it. So
on we went, night after night losing our games, and always piling up
the money, till the stake had become something tremendous, and I became
almost mad with excitement. To provide funds, I kept selling out my
investments and lodging the money in a London bank; and to keep up my
nerve I drank champagne incessantly--and then the crash came!

"I woke up one day with a head a mass of pain, a mouth as dry as a
lime-kiln, and a confused memory of exciting scenes, to find myself in
a bed in our nightly resort. On summoning the waiter, I learnt from
him that I had been very tipsy, and that the Colonel and his friends
had had some difficulty in managing me, and getting me to bed. I lost
no time in going to the Golden Cross Hotel to see the Colonel, but to
my horror I was told that the Colonel had left that morning with all
his luggage. I understood now the hellish plot which had been devised
for my ruin; but I thanked God that I had still ten thousand pounds
in the bank. I hurried to the bank to make sure; but there I was met
with the intelligence that a gentleman, that morning, had presented my
cheque for the whole amount, and that all my money had been paid to
him. I asked to see the cheque, thinking that it must have been forged;
but no, there was my undoubted signature! I had been drugged, and while
in a stupor made to sign my name; and my whole fortune was gone. The
Colonel, who, it seems, was notorious as a most accomplished blackleg,
was advertised for, but was never caught.

"I had now to give up my rooms in the hotel, and all my refined habits,
take lodgings in a street near Drury Lane, and seek for some way of
earning my bread. Surely, I thought, I can't starve: in this immense
community there must be many thousands of vacant situations. But I did
not take into account, that for every single vacancy there must be at
least ten applicants. And I very soon found that the education which I
had got at school and at the university, and which had cost so much,
was practically useless. In fact, it was now the great stumbling-block
in my way. It had not fitted me for the higher situations, for I could
not even spell correctly; and it had _un_fitted me for the lower
situations, for no one would engage an Oxford scholar for a menial
office. I could not even compete with the ragged street boys in running
on an errand, holding a horse, or sweeping a crossing. Their education,
picked up amid the mud and jostle of the streets, had been far more
practical and effective than mine. Instead, therefore, of living by
my labour, I was obliged to subsist by pawning my valuables, and bit
after bit of my finery, like the plumes of a moulting peacock, dropped
from me, till I was left almost bare. Then I was obliged to give up my
lodgings, and go out on the streets.

"I was now an outcast in London. It seemed strange that in the midst
of so many thousand houses, I should be without a corner to lay my
head in,--that in the midst of millions of people I should not have a
single one to help me, or take an interest in me. Such was my condition
on a night of August last. I had a few shillings in my pocket, but as
I did not see any way by which I could earn money, it was necessary
to be rigidly economical. I applied for a night's shelter at a cheap
lodging-house in the Borough, but it was so crowded with shabby, dirty,
and noisy lodgers that I turned sick, and was obliged to leave. I then
tried the casual ward in one of the infirmaries, but it was even more
disgusting. Quite at a loss to know what to do, I wandered aimlessly up
and down till I found myself on London Bridge, when the steeples were
pealing out the hour of midnight. Footsore and weary, I threw myself
down on the hard stone seat in one of the recesses; but shortly, a
poor, slouching tatterdemalion squatted down beside me, actually laying
his unkempt head upon my legs. In disgust, I started up, and crawled
away into the city. Hour after hour I dragged my weary limbs along the
solitary, interminable streets, looking for some covered doorway where
I might lay me down and sleep. Twice I had found a suitable spot;
but before I could take possession of it, a policeman's lantern was
seen approaching, and I was obliged to move on. When morning began to
break I found myself close to Regent's Park, and the soft green sward
appeared a temptation which I could not resist. Climbing the fence with
some difficulty, I made for a large beech tree, and pillowing my head
on one of its extended roots, and stretching out my legs on the soft
delightful grass, I fell at once into a deep slumber.

"After several hours of absolute unconsciousness, I had a dream, and
thought I was back again in Scotland, in our garden at Eskbank, and
heard somebody calling to me. I gradually came to myself, and opened my
eyes; and there was a working-man standing over me, and, in an accent
unmistakably Scotch, calling me by name, and asking why I was there. I
cannot describe the gush of delight that ran through me when I heard
the kindly tones of my native land, and realised that here at least was
a man who took an interest in me. Raising myself up, I asked him how he
came to know me? He told me that he belonged to Eskbank, that he used
to know me by sight, that he was on his way to his work in Regent Park
Gardens, and that he was astonished to see me lying like an outcast
there. What could I do but tell him my sad story? He said that it might
be a long time before I could get any suitable berth in London, and
that my best plan would be to go home at once, and that he would lend
me five shillings--all that he had on him--to help me on my way. My
heart bounded with delight at the suggestion, and I wondered that I
had never thought of it before. So, taking his offered loan, and along
with it his address, and promising to repay him as soon as I was able,
I shook hands with my humble friend, and set off at once to prepare for
my journey. Not having enough money to pay the fare either by coach
or boat, I resolved to go on foot, and hoped that by taking every
precaution, I would not find it too much for me, and that I might be
able to get some odd jobs by the road, which would assist my expenses.
So I packed up all my effects in a napkin, and bravely set my face to
the north.

"When, from the top of Highgate, I had taken my last look of the smoky
wilderness called London, and when I turned to go forward through
the rich autumn landscape, I felt really happy. After my bitter
experience of the endless rows of brick houses, and the everlasting
stone pavement, I enjoyed the long lines of leafy trees and hedges, and
the soft, fragrant wayside grass. The very thought that every step was
taking me nearer home was a delight in itself. That the distance was
four hundred miles did not seem to matter much. Our school's sports,
especially that of hounds and hare, had taught me to hold in, and not
expend all my resources at once. So I moved along at a steady, regular
pace, taking care not to strain my muscles. When my feet grew hot, I
refreshed them by walking into a brook. When faintness came on, I did
not seek the ale-house; but I bought a penny loaf, and sitting down by
a wayside well, found that plain bread and water were both palatable
and invigorating. For dessert, I sometimes had a young Swedish turnip,
which I found more sweet and juicy than any pine-apple I ever tasted.
At night, as the weather continued remarkably dry and warm, I preferred
the open air to the tramp's lodging-house; and under the newly-cut corn
sheaves, or in the recess of a haystack, I slept soundly till I was
wakened by the rising sun.

"With all my economy, however, my little stock of money melted fast
away; and I soon saw that if I wished to be saved from the degradation
of begging I must earn something. I therefore hit upon a plan which I
thought would be sure to get me some employment. This was to call upon
the clergymen through whose parishes I passed, to tell them frankly
the cause of my degradation, and to ask them in the name of Christian
charity to allow me to do some work for them, by which I could earn a
meal or a small sum of money. But, unfortunately, this patent plan of
mine failed. Without exception, the parish priests listened to my story
with an incredulous look, shook their heads, and shut their doors in my
face. At length I ventured to ask one why he disbelieved me?

"'My good man,' he said, 'I can't help it. I have been so often taken
in by people like you. The more plausible your story is, the more
likely it is to be false.'

"'You look upon poverty, then,' said I, 'as a crime?'

"'No,' he replied, 'not exactly, but as one of the marks of a criminal.
I may be wrong, but I can't help it.'

"I saw, too, that my fellow-tramps had the same opinion about me. One
evening, at a sudden turn of the road, I found myself face to face
with one of a most villainous type. There was no mistaking him. He was
a real London-made rough, spawned in the gutter, bred in the slums,
moulded in the jostle of the streets, with plunder in his look and
blasphemy on his tongue.

"Planting himself right before me, and devouring me with his rat-like
eyes, he croaked out, 'Well, my bloomin' cove! what lay are you on?'

"I told him that I was a gentleman who had been unfortunate in London,
and was now on my way back to my native country.

"'Oh! a gent are you?' he said, with a sneer; 'then, by ----, fork out
like a gent;' and he seized me by the coat collar.

"And now, for the first time, I found I had been taught at school
something that was useful. Throwing off his hand, I leapt back, and put
myself in a boxing attitude; and, as he made a furious assault upon me,
I parried his blows, and letting go my left straight from the shoulder,
landed on his jaw a crashing blow which sent him to the grass; and
there he lay half-stunned, and looking like a heap of filthy clothes.
I asked him if he would have any more, and getting nothing but a
terrible imprecation in reply, I left him, and went on my way.

"By this time I had passed Newark, and I was in a sorry plight. I was
without shoes and without a waistcoat, and my hat was crushed and
battered out of all shape. With bleeding feet and empty stomach, I was
limping along painfully, when I came to a farmer superintending his
reapers near the roadside. Touching my forehead, I asked him if he
could not give a starving man a job by which he could earn a bite of
bread.

"'No lad,' he said, 'but if ye had coomed when the taters were young I
could have given you a job. I might have employed you as a scarecrow.'

"Thereupon all the workers laughed, especially the women, who sent up
a loud skirl of delight. So I had to crawl on, foot-sore, and also
heart-sore at the cruelty of my fellow-creatures.

"But relief was at hand. I had not gone far, when, turning a corner of
the road, I came upon a strange sight: a fat little man, with a red
coat, and a red face, both discoloured by the weather, sitting at the
edge of a wood, eating his dinner, with his little dog in front of
him, and his properties--a Punch and Judy show, a big drum, and Pandean
pipes--indistinctly seen in the foliage behind him. He was eating bread
and cheese, which he cut with a clasp-knife, and Toby was eyeing him
greedily, ready to snap his occasional bit. Everything about the man
was so hearty, and so suggestive of sunshine and country roads, that he
seemed to warm up the landscape.

"As soon as he caught sight of me he called out, 'Hallo, mate! you seem
done up. Come and peck a bit. Sit down.' And he handed me a big hunk of
bread and another of cheese, looking on beamingly when I devoured it;
and when at length I could eat no more, he produced a flask.

"'Here is some of the right sort; take a good swig of it; it will oil
your digestion works. Man! it does me good to see you enjoy your grub.
I feel as if I were eating a second dinner. Now for your yarn.' Then he
lit his pipe and smoked while I gave an account of myself.

"'Ah,' he said, knocking out the ashes, 'my case is not altogether
unlike yours. I, too, got a good education, or what was intended to be
a good education. But I could never settle in any place. By nature
I was a rolling stone, or rather a rolling ball of fat; and Fortune,
mistaking me for a football, began to kick me about, and has been
playing with me ever since. But thanks to my fat, I always fall soft
and always rebound. Ha! ha!' and he laughed till his face puckered up
and showed his eyes like two small steel beads.

"While he was talking, I had taken up the Pandean pipes, and I now
played a tune on them.

"'Ah!' he said, 'can you work that?'

"'Yes,' I replied; 'when I was a boy in Edinburgh, there was nothing I
so much delighted in as a Punch and Judy performance. I used to loiter
for hours at the foot of the Mound, and see it repeated again and
again; and coming upon a set of Pandean pipes in my father's pawnshop,
I used to practise upon them.'

"'Why,' said Joe Greener (for, as I learnt afterwards, this was his
name), 'you're the very man I want. Aint it lucky? To tell you the
truth, I'm in a bit of a fix. My pal bolted two days ago with all the
swag. A good riddance at the price.' (And here Joe abandoned himself
to his peculiar snigger. He seemed to laugh all his trouble away, and
blow it off as if with a gust of merriment.)

"'I have written,' he continued, 'for an old partner in London, but he
can't come for some weeks. Meanwhile you'll do for a substitute. I'll
soon coach you up in the business. All that you have got to do is to
play the overture before the drama begins, and while it is going on to
collect the money and keep the imps of children from pulling aside the
baize and peeping in. The terms are six bob a week and your grub; and
I'll advance something at once to rig you out.'

"The bargain was struck; and that evening, in the inn yard of the
neighbouring village, we had several rehearsals, and I felt that I
would manage to get through my part fairly well.

"Behold me now, an Oxford man, and formerly the chum of lords and
swells, degraded into a Punch and Judy assistant. It was a bustling
life. We were out in the road in all weathers, performing at fairs, and
in the evenings in small towns and villages. In fact, wherever we saw
groups of people hanging about on the outlook for amusement, we set
up our stage. Once we were hired to amuse the boys at my old school,
Vere de Vere College. I cannot describe the feelings with which, in my
new character, I entered the well-known scenes. My uppermost feeling
was the fear lest I should be identified as a former scholar. But, to
my infinite relief, I saw that all the pupils and the servants were
strangers. The doctor, indeed, stared at me for a moment as if he
recognised me; but he turned away, muttering 'No, no, impossible!' He
could not believe that anyone who had had the unspeakable advantage
of being taught by him could possibly have fallen so low. His conceit
saved me.

"This vagrant life had its drudgery and its difficulties; but there
were certain things about it that I liked very much: the quiet country
roads, the resting on the green grass under hawthorn hedges, the
palatable dinners of bread and cheese and cider at rustic inns, and the
merry faces that clustered round us when that abandoned rascal Punch
began to play his pranks. But, at the end of a few weeks, Joe Greener's
former pal arrived from London, and my occupation was gone. So, bidding
a hearty farewell to my merry benefactor, I turned my face northwards
again, and partly by walking and partly by coaching, I have come thus
far.

"When I arrived at your gate to-night, and listened to the
well-remembered sound of the wind in the big plane tree, the past came
back upon me, and I felt as if I were a boy again, and as if my strange
experiences at Oxford and London were but the medley of a dream."

"Bless me," cried Miss Grizzie, "did you ever live here?" and she and
her sister were on their feet scrutinising the face of the stranger.

"Yes," he said quietly; "I once lived in this very house, and I can
give you a proof of it. Look at the back of the fireplace there, on
the left-hand side, and you will see the letters B.L. cut in a stone."
They all crowded round the fire to look; and, surely enough, they
detected the initials, badly formed and rather indistinct, but still
recognisable.

Then Miss Lizzie, turning round and looking intently at the stranger,
called out, "Are you Ben Levy? Eh! I thocht that there was something
about yer face that I should ken. Ah! I mind ye weel--a bit laddie,
comin' ower here in yer vakens, and introducin' yersel as oor coosin,
and steyin' for three or four weeks."

"But yer faither," said Miss Grizzie, "was a gentleman, I thocht. I
never heard o' him bein' a pawnbroker."

"No," said Ben, "he had retired by that time from the three balls, and
wished them to be forgotten."

Hillend, now putting his hand on the shoulder of the stranger, said,
"Oh man! is this you? Man, I'm fain to see ye. I mind ye weel--an
auld-farrant loon, dour at the readin', writin', and coontin', but
ready with yer haunds, and in the thick of everything--howin',
shearin', and threshin',--and wi' an awfu' wark wi' bease. An' have ye
really been through a' thae ups and doons: and what are ye gaun to dae
noo?"

"Well," said Ben, "that's just what I want to tell you. You see I have
had my chances--all the advantages which a man could have--education,
society, money. I could not use them, and they nearly did for me. They
have been a curse to me. I don't want them again. It is evident that
my proper sphere is a humble lot in the country. I shall be content if
anybody allows me to work in the fields, and gives me in return bed
and board and a suit of clothes once a year. A man who has frequently
supped on a turnip and slept under a hedge, will look upon a cog of
oatmeal porridge and a bunch of straw in the barn as real luxuries."

Hillend's eyes glistened. "Well," he thought, "here's something new at
a farmer's fireside, a man that has gaen up and doon the hale ladder o'
Fortune, and kens a' the changes o' Life. What a companion he will be
for the long winter nichts! A' the tales o' the Borders in one livin'
edition! A well that can always be pumped, and will never gang dry! I
think we must ask him to stey for a week or twa at least."

He gave a significant glance at his sisters, and they returned it. Then
he said--"Ye micht stey on here for a wee till ye can look aroond ye.
It happens that Jamie Doo, oor orra man, has just left. Ye can tak his
place, and pit oot your haund to ony job that's wanted; and ye'se get a
bed in the bothy, and your share o' the parritch and kail that's gaun
in the kitchen."

Weeks, months, and even years passed, and Ben Levy still remained at
the farm. The truth is that they could not do without him. He was the
factotum of Hillend, and also of the two sisters. During the day, if
any stress of work arose, he was the man to push it through; and in
the evening, if any visitors dropt in, he was the man to entertain them
with his startling experiences.

One remark he always made at the end of his story. "It's strange that a
few weeks experience of country labour in my boyhood should have been
more useful to me than all my school and university education. It has
enabled me to earn my bread. I believe it's because my heart was in it.

 "'The heart's aye the part aye
 That maks us richt or wrang.'"




THE ONE FATAL MISTAKE.


In my boyhood I was familiar with a thin emaciated man, that used to be
seen in the streets of Sandyriggs. Consumption had wasted his body, and
utterly quenched his spirit. Wan and dumb, he moved among the healthy
faces of the town folk like a ghost; and it was a painful sight to see
him crawl up the outside stair that led to his solitary room above the
butcher's shop. People called him "a blighted being" and "a living
wreck," and associated his name with a tragedy which had long been the
talk of the county. Yet, twenty years before, he began his career under
the most favourable auspices.

When Malcolm Blair entered the University of St Andrews, he might have
been considered a favourite of Fortune. He was the only son and the
pride of his father, a prosperous farmer. His body was healthy and
handsome, and his mind agile and enthusiastic. He had a keen relish,
not only for material blessings, but for knowledge of every kind. It
was as pleasant to him to study as to take a bracing morning walk.
Without any difficulty he drank in classics, mathematics, literature,
and science. In all the college competitions he easily took the first
place, and at the end of every session came out the first man of his
year.

At the same time, his learning did not make him moody and unsocial. He
put it (to use a homely phrase) "into a good skin." It was thoroughly
digested, became part of his being, promoted his general health,
and fed his buoyant spirits. When the time came for tossing aside
his books, mirth danced in his eyes and rioted in his laugh. His
motto seemed to be "Taste life's glad moments." At all the students'
recreations--the social gatherings on the Friday night, the Saturday
excursions into the country, the jolly junketings at Guardbridge and at
Leuchars--he was the life of the company. He could sing, recite, tell
stories, make a speech or "screamer," as it was called, and give the
most ludicrous imitation of the different professors.

"Blair," said one of his friends, "is irrepressible. How does he keep
up that vivid tone, both of body and mind? One would imagine that
his food was ambrosia and his drink was nectar; and the air which he
breathed was laughing-gas."

Altogether Blair was a youth full of promise, and apparently destined
for a popular and successful career.

But it was this highly-strung excitable temperament that brought him
into danger. The time came, towards the end of his Arts curriculum at
St Andrews, when "the young man's fancy lightly turned to thoughts
of love." If he had been privileged to mix in cultured family life,
his fancy might have settled on a suitable object. But in St Andrews,
where the distinctions of caste are strongly defined, the students are
unfortunately placed. They are regarded as being beneath the upper or
professional class; and they consider themselves as above the under
or trading class. They are, therefore, shut out from family life, and
are left to herd together in their lodgings. And thus it came to pass
that Malcolm Blair's fancy was unable to find a resting-place till it
settled on his landlady's daughter.

Grace Bourhill, daughter of Mrs Bourhill, lodging-house keeper in
College Street, had no special charms beyond a fresh complexion and a
pair of bright eyes. But she was ambitious, and tried all her little
fascinations on Mr Blair. When she brought in his meals, she was always
tidy as Hebe herself or neat-handed Phyllis. When he spoke to her, she
would blush and smile and look at him from the corner of her eyes.
When she ran against him in the lobby, she would show the prettiest
confusion, and after begging pardon, would trip away like a startled
fawn. As a matter of course, he soon saw that the girl was fond of him,
and could not help appreciating her good feeling and taste. He found
a pleasure in looking upon her and speaking to her, and when he was
singing Burns's songs, he would often call up her image to help him to
realise the poet's heroines. Yet all the while he never once thought of
her as a suitable partner for him. He considered the whole affair as an
innocent flirtation. Miserable delusion! He soon found out his mistake.

Blair's curriculum was drawing to a close. He was about to take
farewell of St Andrews' University. As he was preparing himself for
the Dissenting Ministry, his divinity studies were to be prosecuted
in Edinburgh. It was a time of great excitement among the students.
The winter, with its dull days and its hard work, had gone; and the
spring, with its bright hours and its prospect of country holidays,
had come. Song and laughter were in the air, and infected every one;
and the evenings were entirely given up to farewell merry-meetings.
One of the most important of these was the _Gaudeamus_ of the Literary
Society, held in the Cross Keys Hotel. The chair was taken by an
honorary member, a divinity student of jovial tendencies; and a galaxy
of youthful faces, all glowing with intelligence and good humour, was
grouped before him. What could be the result but an utter abandonment
to the influence of the time? The past, with all its trials, was
forgotten; the future, with its promised happiness, was taken for
granted; and the present, with its grateful pleasures, engrossed their
whole souls.

Prominent among the company was Malcolm Blair. He was, in a certain
sense, the hero of the evening. He had just completed his literary
course with the greatest distinction, having taken his degree of Master
of Arts with special commendation, and come out the first man of his
year in every branch; and he had, therefore, every reason for being
in the highest spirits. During dinner his jokes and anecdotes kept up
a constant roar. After dinner he sang songs and proposed toasts in
the most effective style. And then to crown all, he was called upon
by the voice of the whole company to give his imitation of Tammy, the
mathematical professor. Standing up, and putting on the well-known
grimaces, awkward gestures, and broad Scotch accent, he delivered a
speech on elocution, urging them all to cultivate a correct and refined
style of speaking, and to take an example from him, the speaker, who,
though born and brought up in Fife, had so thoroughly got rid of his
native peculiarities of phrase and accent, that he defied any stranger
to detect even his nationality. He sat down amid a prolonged shout of
applause; and on every side he was saluted with cries of "Health and
Imitation," and with pressing calls from dozens of his admirers to
drink with them.

Replying to these on the spur of the moment, he imbibed more than he
was aware of; and thus it happened, when the meeting broke up, that he
was in a state of the highest excitement.

This state of excitement was, indeed, very unfortunate. But another
unfortunate circumstance was fated to happen. On that particular night,
of all nights in the year, it chanced that his landlady, Mrs Bourhill,
was seized with a sort of fit; and when he reached his lodgings, he
witnessed a most distressing plight--the mother lying insensible on the
sofa, and the daughter wringing her hands and crying in despair. Alarm
and pity took possession of his heart; and after uttering a few words
of sympathy and comfort, he rushed away and brought back a doctor. The
doctor, a young man beginning practice, was solemn and taciturn. Asking
a few questions, and feeling the pulse of Mrs Bourhill, he looked very
grave, and tried one restorative after another until at length she
opened her eyes; and then, with the aid of the daughter, he led her to
her bedroom and shut the door.

Blair retired to his own room to wait the result. The minutes passed
slowly without a single sound to break the oppressive silence. At last
he heard the doctor go, and shut the outer door; but he waited in vain
for any other sound. Sick of suspense, and imagining all sorts of
evil, he crept quietly out of his room and entered the parlour; and
there he found Miss Bourhill seated on a chair, the picture of silent
misery.

"What has happened?" he asked, in a voice of alarm.

She answered by breaking down into a paroxysm of weeping.

"For God's sake, Miss Bourhill," he cried, "what has happened? Is your
mother dead?"

Then she rose, and with her hair streaming over her shoulders, and the
tears running down her cheeks, she clasped his hands, and said, "Oh,
Mr Blair! you have been so kind. But what am I to do? what _am_ I to
do? The doctor says that mother's condition is very serious, and that
another attack may be fatal, and I shall be left alone in the world
with nobody to care for me." And here she broke down again.

Now, what could this unsophisticated lad do, wrought up as he was by
various causes into a high state of excitement? What could he do but
take her hand, and pat her on the shoulder, and, in his anxiety to
soothe her, protest that he would take care of her? And other tender
promises he made which he was afterwards told about, but which he did
not remember.

Next morning he awoke with a curious, confused feeling which cannot
be described. Amid all the confusion, however, there still started up
the impression that he had said to Miss Bourhill many things which
he ought not to have said. He feared, in fact, that he had given her
the impression that he really loved her; and he resolved to lose no
time in disabusing her mind. He would represent it as an ordinary
flirtation, and would apologise most earnestly and humbly for trifling
with her feelings. He was not going to allow his future prospects to be
blighted, and he must set himself right at once, and at all hazards.
But, unfortunately, this resolute plan of his was utterly foiled by
unforeseen circumstances. No sooner had he stepped out of his bedroom
into the passage than Miss Bourhill, radiant with the consciousness of
one who was both loving and beloved, and looking really beautiful, had
thrown her arms around his neck and was embracing him; and her mother,
glowing with recovered health, came up and saluted him also.

"Mother," said the daughter, "this is my future husband."

And the mother, blessing them fervently, protested that he was the
very one whom she herself would have chosen, and congratulated him upon
his having secured such a priceless jewel.

"She canna," said she, "strum on the pianny, but she can darn stockins
and mak shirts. She'll no be able to jabber French, but she'll scrub
and cook and keep yer manse comfortable. And she's high-spirited too,
and she'll keep the members o' the congregation in their proper places.
She was jist born to be a minister's wife."

Now what could the fated Malcolm do, involved as he was in such a
witches' coil! He felt that if he didn't speak out and protest at once
he was lost; but the smiles, caresses, and blandishments that were
rained upon him, drugged and chloroformed his powers, and literally
shut his mouth; and he remained speechless and helpless. Two days
afterwards, Malcolm Blair left St Andrews an engaged man. The one fatal
mistake had been made.

During the six months of the summer vacation that Scotch students
enjoy, Malcolm Blair had been accustomed to continue his studies under
the most exhilarating circumstances. What a pleasant change it was from
the closeness and monotony of St Andrews' lecture-rooms to the airy
canopy and ever-changing glories of nature! And oh, the delight, at
daybreak, when the ploughman drove his team afield amid the thousand
melodies of morn; or at noon, when a golden haze brooded over the
pastures and cornfields, and the silence was broken only by the hum
of the bee; or in the evening, when the scent of flowers was in the
air and the coo of the cushat came from the firry woodland--oh, the
delight! to dwell upon the country scenes of the Mantuan Bard, or roll
out the winged words of Homer, or trill "the native wood-notes wild"
of the Swan of Avon. Standing on the same green earth, under the same
glorious sky, and amid the same perennial influences, he was able to
look at things from their point of view and in their spirit, and thus
virtually to realise--to make real to himself--their thoughts and
feelings regarding Nature.

But now, what a difference! He moped about the fields and hedges a
blighted being. The consciousness of his calamity, like a frosty cloud,
enveloped his imagination; and, seen through this cloud, the world
had lost its glory. And before he had been a week at home there came
from his betrothed a letter which brought the blush to his cheek.
With unsteady pen and bad spelling, the poor girl had laboured to
express her affection, but, alas! had only betrayed her meagre and
undeveloped mind. As he read this epistle at breakfast, his mother was
watching him; and he knew that she was wondering who his illiterate
correspondent could be; and to give her no more ground for suspicion,
he was mean enough to bribe Marjory, the servant, to bring his letters
in future directly to himself, and not to lay them on the breakfast
table.

One day, however, when he was superintending (or "grieving," as it was
called) the haymakers, an idea struck across his brain, and instantly
changed his whole mood, and filled his heart with delight. Grace, he
thought, was uneducated just now, but was it necessary that she should
remain so? She was naturally bright and clever, and without doubt would
be eager to learn. Why should she not have the opportunity? He would
earn some money by going out as a tutor, and with this money he would
send her to a first-class boarding-school, where she would learn the
accomplishments, manners, and graces; and thus she would become a young
lady of whom anyone in his position might be proud. A fond dream which
might so easily be realised!

But when, in his next letter, he had propounded his plan to Grace, she,
instead of accepting it gratefully, rejected it with the utmost scorn.
She had some difficulty in expressing her love, but none in giving vent
to her indignation. So (she wrote) he was ashamed of her because she
could not jabber a few French phrases, and hammer on the piano; and he
wanted her to go to one of those boarding-schools, where nothing but
what was bad could be learned. She would not go to one of these dens
of wickedness; but as he was ashamed of her, she would poison herself,
and her murder would lie at his door. Thus ended Blair's first and last
attempt to educate his betrothed.

Three years had passed without altering the state of matters. His
parents had come to know of his engagement, and he saw, by their looks,
how deeply disappointed and chagrined they were. He had frequently
visited Grace; and although he could not help being pleased with
her affectionate greeting, yet her frequent vulgar remarks, and her
mother's coarse style of joking, stung him to the quick. And now there
happened a change of circumstances which stirred up within him a
strange mixture of vexation and delight. The letters of Miss Bourhill
came to be short and far between. He suspected that there was some new
attraction engrossing her; and he asked a confidential friend in St
Andrews to ascertain if this was so. His suspicion was correct. She was
frequently seen with a divinity student, by name Harker, good-looking
after a sort, but notoriously self-indulgent and even loose in his
principles. In fact, his very name at the University seemed redolent
of dissipation; and his presence among innocent young girls would have
been deemed absolutely blighting. He would have looked like an obscene
raven among a troop of snowy doves. This man was now Mrs Bourhill's
lodger, and it was evident that Miss Grace was trying her charms upon
him. The reason of this double-dealing was equally clear. As a student
of the Established Church, he had the prospect of a better manse, and a
larger and surer stipend, than Blair would ever possess.

This revelation threw Blair into a fever of excitement; and various
feelings within him struggled for the mastery: Indignation at being
jilted for such a worthless rival; shame at having been inveigled into
tying himself to such a mercenary flirt; determination to do his utmost
to free himself; and exultation at the prospect of being able to do so.
Under the influence of this whirlpool of emotion he set out to walk to
St Andrews, and was carried along at a great pace, scarcely noticing
the objects that he passed, and making little of the long distance. As
he drew near to the ancient city, there came into his view two figures
that instantly revived his flagging feelings--Harker and Miss Bourhill
returning from a walk on the links. Keeping well behind them, he dogged
their footsteps, and watched with a fiendish gratification how they
talked, looked into each other's faces and laughed, until they reached
College Street and disappeared in Mrs Bourhill's house. Then he entered
without much ceremony, received the surprise and the salutation of the
two women, who were in the lobby, with a cold and stern manner, said
that he wished to speak with Grace alone, and following her into the
parlour, locked the door to keep the mother out.

Malcolm lost no time in giving vent to his feelings. He told her the
reports that had reached him; he exposed the deplorable character
of Harker; he demanded that she should break off all correspondence
with this man whose touch was an insult to a woman; and he wound up by
saying that she must, on the spot, and once for all, choose between him
and this new admirer. He spoke with great vehemence and determination,
and expected to see her completely overwhelmed with shame and confusion.

But what was his astonishment to find that this uneducated girl, with
nothing but her animal cunning, was more than a match for all his
culture, and was prepared to defend her conduct out and out. With the
air and smile of one who was dealing with a testy and unreasonable
child, she proceeded to argue the matter with him. Did he really mean
to blame her, because she spoke to her mother's lodger, and because
she allowed him, when he met her in the street, to walk home with her?
And did he really wish her to promise not to speak to Mr Harker? They
could not afford to turn him away, and as long as he remained in their
rooms they could not insult him. Then, waxing righteously indignant,
she demanded why he employed sneaks to tell tales of her, and why he
came raging and locking the door as if he were going to murder her. The
fact was, that he was ashamed of her, and wanted to pick a quarrel, and
to get an excuse for throwing her off. But, thank God! although she was
a poor girl, she was not without friends. Her uncle, the solicitor in
Edinburgh, would see that she was not wronged. And having said all this
calmly, she unlocked the door and went out.

After a rest and slight repast at the Star Hotel, Malcolm returned home
full of the gloomiest thoughts. This wretched girl had come out in her
true character--cunning, unscrupulous, heartless. While she claimed the
liberty of throwing him off, he was not to have the liberty of throwing
her off. That reference to her uncle, the solicitor, showed that the
terrors of the law would be employed, if necessary, to keep him to his
bargain. It was a gloomy future that was opening up before him; and for
several days he wandered aimlessly about, the most melancholy of men.

But Nature takes care that a healthy young soul shall not droop for
long. Like a downtrodden daisy, it revives under the influence of
sunshine and shower, and opens its heart to the brightness of Spring.
When weeks had passed without bringing a letter from Miss Bourhill, he
became sanguine, nay, even confident. Her new flirtation was evidently
prospering. Harker would soon be licensed; and, as he was glib and
clever enough, he would soon get a church and marry her; and then,
oh! what an ominous cloud would be lifted from his life! He would
then be a free man! And so a miraculous change now came over him.
His youth seemed to be restored; and he began to look with a new and
fresh interest on all the old familiar scenes. His mother noticed the
transformation, and knew the cause; and, as she said to her husband,
"Now that the boy was himself again, the farmyard and the fields seemed
brighter and pleasanter."

But unfortunately this exultation was premature. One evening towards
the end of March, as he sat in the parlour reading the county paper,
his eyes fell upon a paragraph which struck him like an electric shock.
He tried hard to fancy that the narrative might not be true after all;
but the details were given in such a circumstantial and confident
manner, that he was compelled in the end to believe them. They were as
follows:--

"SAD DEATH OF A STUDENT.

 "On the afternoon of Friday last, two divinity students, Harker and
 Johnstone, set out from St Andrews for a walk in the country. As they
 passed through Strathkinness, they stopped for refreshment at a small
 inn. After a time they seemed to have grown reckless, and to have
 set in for serious drinking; and in rapid succession they ordered
 tumbler after tumbler of whisky toddy; and when the landlord, becoming
 alarmed, refused to supply them with any more, they left and went
 to another public-house, where they had several glasses of brandy.
 When they started to go home, they were both unsteady, especially
 Johnstone. Some of the villagers saw them staggering down the street,
 and overheard Harker abusing his companion for being drunk. Next
 morning, Johnstone was found lying dead by the roadside near Denbrae,
 between Strathkinness and St Andrews; and when Harker, who had arrived
 at his lodgings late on the previous night, was asked what had become
 of his companion, he grew confused, and could only say that he could
 not get him to come along, and had been obliged to leave him. On
 Monday, the Senatus Academicus summoned Harker before them, and, after
 due deliberation, passed upon him the extreme sentence of expulsion.
 This is a severe punishment, blighting as it does his whole future
 career: but a still more terrible punishment must be the reflection,
 that he took a poor unsophisticated youth into a public-house,
 deliberately set to work to make him tipsy, and then in the end left
 him to perish by the wayside."

As Blair read this passage, he fell back again into the Slough of
Despond, and all the delight of life vanished once more. He knew that
the siren, whom he now loathed and had hoped to get rid of, would fall
back upon him and again cling to him; and, just as he had foreboded, in
a few days came the well-known hateful scrawl, appealing in a vulgar
manner to his affections. What, she went on to say, had come over him?
Had he fallen in love with some milkmaid and forgotten his poor little
Gracie. She had been breaking her heart, waiting for a letter from him;
and all the neighbours had been noticing that she had fallen away from
her clothes. Was not that a dreadful scrape Harker had got into? She
was not surprised at it, knowing what a bad character he was. Though
she had been obliged to be civil to him, she had always hated him.
Thank goodness she would now get rid of his attentions! With a whole
lot of kisses, and waiting for a letter from him, she was his own Grace.

After reading this, he gnashed his teeth with vexation and disgust,
tore the letter to pieces, and threw it in the fire. He did not answer
it; and he vowed that from that time he would treat her with the silent
contempt she deserved.

At the end of another year, Blair was licensed to preach, and became
what is called a _probationer_. He had looked forward to this as the
great epoch of his life, the turning-point of his career, when he
was to become the accredited legate of heaven, to bear the message
of salvation to his perishing fellow-creatures. Could anyone have a
nobler work? But, unfortunately, this sacred office was hampered by
preliminary conditions which he felt to be exceedingly humiliating.
He had first to get a church; and in order to get a church, he had
to please that very uncertain thing called the popular taste. In
this perplexing task, the great stores of learning which he had been
piling up for so many years gave him little or no assistance. He sat
down doggedly and constructed his sermon after the most approved
conventional method. By persistent reiteration he committed it to
memory, word for word. With fluttering heart and trembling knees he
went up to the pulpit on Sunday and began to give it off. During this
unwinding process, he did not see the congregation before him; but he
was looking at the image of his manuscript; and his mind's eye was
running over line after line and page after page. It was a recitation
exercise, and not a living speech coming warm from the heart of the
speaker and going direct to the heart of the hearers. And all the
while, he did not feel that he was pleading with his fellow-creatures
to accept the Word of God. He felt that he was really begging them to
notice how ably he was treating the subject, how effectively he was
delivering it, and what a promising young creature he was. He was, in
fact, a sort of itinerant theological hawker, hawking his spiritual
wares from town to town.

And as time went on, he found himself beaten in the bid for popularity
by fellow-students who were far inferior to him in ability and
scholarship. Sim, who could not for the life of him construe a Latin
sentence, and Macfarlane Macdonald, who was never known to have a
single idea in his head on any subject whatever, found no difficulty
in tickling the ear of the many-headed beast, and became ordained
ministers while he continued to wander about, an uncalled probationer.
It soon became evident that Malcolm Blair, the most distinguished
student of his time, was in danger of becoming "a stickit minister."

But this universe is constructed on the grand principle of
compensation. Providence seldom inflicts a wound without supplying a
soothing plaster. That want of success, which lands us in poverty and
hardship, scares away our false friends. Miss Grace Bourhill thought
herself too good to be a stickit minister's wife; and while Blair's
fate hung in the balance, ceased altogether to correspond with him; and
at length, to his infinite relief, he heard that she was married to a
cousin of her own, a prosperous brewer in St Andrews. Freedom at last!
and brought about in an unexpected way! He now gloried exceedingly
in his failure as a preacher. What was the want of manse and stipend
compared with the escape from that incubus which had pressed the very
spirit out of him! The world now lay bright before him, and he was
free to go his own way by himself. As the church did not want him, he
would adopt some other calling; and he was actually preparing himself
to undertake either literary or scholastic work, when he received an
invitation to engage in one of the most striking enterprises of the day.

Those that knew Fife more than fifty years ago must remember Miss
Singleton, who worked such wonders in the way of evangelising the
mining village of Coaltown. She belonged to that strongly-marked
and combative class of female social reformers; and certainly she
was one of the best specimens of the class. She was not, like some
of her sisterhood, conceited, arrogant, and masculine. Though she
was strong-minded, she was also strong-hearted. If she was bold and
aggressive, it was in urging the claims of the oppressed, and not in
exhibiting her own cleverness. Her plan for raising the sunken masses
was direct and drastic. "Get rid," she said to the missionary, "of all
that priestly parade and formality which have concealed so long the
true living face of religion. Return to Christ's sublimely simple plan,
which is founded on the two everlasting facts of the Fatherhood of God
and the Brotherhood of man. Imitate Him as far as the circumstances
of the time will allow. Go down among the lapsed masses, not with
man-millinery, patronising airs, and doles of blankets and soup, but
with wisdom in your head and real love in your heart. Live amongst
them, become one of themselves, and help them in their difficulties and
sorrows." Such was the method which Miss Singleton herself had carried
out; and the results were said to be marvellous.

This was the lady who now wrote to Malcolm Blair. "She had listened
to his preaching," she said, "and had heard of him from some other
friends, and she thought that he might be able to assist her in her
labours. She could not give him very much in the form of money, but he
might be able to find some of his reward in the work itself. Should he
think favourably of this proposal, would he kindly call upon her?"

After considering this matter long and carefully, Blair came to the
conclusion that he could not do better than wait upon Miss Singleton.
And when he had once seen her and talked with her, he could not refuse
her offer. Miss Singleton's whole personality was like a pleasing
revelation to him. Instead of the bold-featured, masculine-looking
woman that he expected to see, he beheld a gentle and beautiful young
lady, the secret of whose power lay in her feminine tact and sympathy.
And when he saw her moving about among the poor, she seemed to him
the very embodiment of the spirit of Christianity. Wherever there was
sickness or sorrow--that was her chosen abode. There was comfort in
the sound of her voice; there was healing in her very touch. Her smile
was the highest reward, and her look of painful disapproval was the
heaviest punishment. In her presence the coarsest miner felt ashamed
of his conduct, and silently vowed to give up swearing and drinking.

Like the rest of those who came under Miss Singleton's influence, Blair
soon caught her enthusiasm. He threw himself heart and soul into the
work of evangelising Coaltown, visiting the houses of the poor miners,
talking with them in a brotherly way, listening to their troubles
and ailments, and helping them to help themselves. There were many
experiences which filled his senses with disgust, and even sickened
his very soul. But there were also many surprising results which amply
atoned for all his pain. What sight could be more pleasing than to see
a ragged and red-faced drunkard gradually being transformed into a
well-clad and intelligent man; and what sound could be more delightful
than to hear the thanks of a wife and children for a husband and father
reclaimed, and a home made happy?

But the most gratifying circumstance was a change in his own nature,
which may seem almost miraculous, but which has happened to others,
and which can easily be explained. This new evangelising work actually
remedied the defects of his theological training; and "the Back
Raw" of Coaltown became a school of eloquence, and did for him what
the University and Divinity Hall had been unable to do. The intimate
knowledge which he there acquired of human nature filled his heart
with a fuller sympathy; and this fuller sympathy let loose his power
of utterance. Out of the abundance of his heart his mouth spoke. He
was so eager to supply comfort and guidance that he gave no thought
to his language, and his language came readily of its own accord.
In preparing his Sunday discourses, there was no longer any need of
slavishly writing them down and committing every word. All he had to do
was to think out the subject, to arrange the details, and to trust to
the inspiration of the moment for the language. The consequence was,
that he drew large audiences, that his fame as a preacher soon spread
abroad, and that, when he least expected such a thing, he received a
call from a large dissenting congregation in the town of Easterton.

Though this call gratified him exceedingly for several reasons, and
chiefly because it vindicated his character as a preacher, and took him
out of the black list of stickit ministers, yet he hesitated before he
accepted it. He found himself bound to Coaltown by a feeling almost
stronger than life itself. In spite of its dismalness and poverty,
it had become to him an enchanted ground. There was a presence which
brightened the landscape; there was a voice which diffused a holy calm
through the air; and this presence and this voice belonged to Miss
Singleton. She was the daybreak that had arisen upon his night of
despondency, and had filled the world with light and melody; and to
part from her was to go back into darkness again. And when he spoke
about his dilemma to herself, he found that she was just as much
affected as he was. With tears in her eyes, she confessed that she
would miss him very much.

However, just when he was on the point of asking why they should part,
and why they should not continue to work together as husband and
wife, she rallied both herself and him to a sense of duty. This call,
she said, had brought a great opportunity of applying the system to
the degraded classes of a large town, which might never occur again.
It was an epoch in his life: it might be an epoch in the history of
Christianity. He must, therefore, throw all other considerations aside,
and accept it. Meanwhile at least, they must deny themselves all other
pleasures. Self-denial was necessary to their spiritual life. It was
the manna which kept them alive in this wilderness of a world.

Malcolm Blair, accordingly, had no other alternative than to accept
the call; and at the end of a few weeks had to tear himself away from
Coaltown. His only consolation (and it was a great one, filling his
soul with the highest hopes) was that Miss Singleton had shown that she
was most tenderly attached to him.

The 27th of April was set apart for his ordination by the Presbytery in
the dissenting church of Easterton. It was a day that was doomed to be
memorable to him for ever. At the beginning of the ceremony he was in a
melancholy mood. He had been overworking himself, had fainted more than
once, and felt weak and nervous. As he sat under the pulpit, looking
out upon the crowded pews, he saw nothing in the faces of his new
congregation save staring curiosity; and away to the right was a dark
countenance full of settled hate. He knew who it was. It was the Rev.
Ewan Murdoch, who had been his fellow-student at St Andrews, and had
been known as "Dark Murdoch," and who had been one of the unsuccessful
candidates for the pulpit of the present congregation.

"If I have a mortal enemy," said the new minister to himself, "there
he sits, one of those wretched beings who look upon the success of a
fellow-creature as an unpardonable injury."

Towards the conclusion of the service, however, Malcolm passed into a
better mood. The preacher's sermon on the text, "Fellow-workers with
God," spoke words of encouragement that went to his heart. The first
line of the concluding psalm was, "Unto the upright light doth rise,"
and no sooner was it read than an outburst of sunshine flooded the
building. Then, when the congregation in a long line passed before him
to give him the right hand of fellowship, there was warmth in every
smile and in every grip. And amongst them, what should he see but the
face of Miss Singleton! He was so delighted that he compared her to an
angel bringing with her the atmosphere of heaven.

"Miss Smeaton and I," said she, "came this morning. We must make some
calls in the town, and then we shall drop in at the manse to have a cup
of tea and a long chat."

He left the church full of hope and happiness. As he walked up the
High Street, it was with a springy step, so that the gossips standing
on the stairheads remarked what a pleasant-looking, active man he was.
And when he entered the manse garden at Highfield, he thought that
he had never seen a more charming place. The house stood on a site
commanding an extensive view of the Firth of Forth, with the castle and
spires of Edinburgh distinct against the horizon; and the garden in
front, with its green gooseberry bushes and apple trees, sloped towards
the sunny south. There, too, in the doorway of his new abode, stood his
mother, now in widow's weeds, who had brought herself and her furniture
to make a home for him. Truly he thought, "the lines had fallen to him
in pleasant places." And after a comfortable lunch, they had a long
confidential talk, in which he told about Miss Singleton's intended
visit, and gave a glowing account of Miss Singleton herself, and hinted
that he intended to ask her to be his wife.

"Then, oh! happiness," he said, "for us three to live in this paradise
together! What a blessed helper she will be in my work, and what a kind
housekeeper and guardian you will make! It is a prospect almost too
good for this world."

They were still talking when the servant came in to say that two ladies
were in the drawing-room wishing to see the minister. Malcolm started
up, radiant with joy.

"Bring them in here," he cried. "Now, mother, you will see my dearest
friend, and, I hope, my future wife."

But, horror of horrors! who should be announced and ushered in but Mrs
and Miss Bourhill, the mother and daughter who had been such familiar
figures in his nightmare of the past. As the terrible significance
of this reappearance dawned upon him, it seemed to strike him to the
heart, and he fell back in a swoon.

When he recovered consciousness, he found himself propped up in an
easy chair, and saw four women standing round him in a state of silent
excitement. Miss Singleton, pale and pensive, was gazing intently
at him; the two Bourhills were staring at Miss Singleton with an
expression of indignant surprise; and his mother, full of keenest
anxiety, divided her attention between him and the others.

Miss Singleton broke the silence by saying--"I must go. We strangers
had better leave the invalid to quiet and the care of his mother."

"Thank you, my dear lady," said his mother, "for that sensible remark."

"But," said Miss Bourhill, "that remark does not apply to me, his
betrothed."

"Nor to me," added Mrs Bourhill, "his mother-in-law to be."

"Dear me," said Mrs Blair to Miss Bourhill, "you are married, you know.
We saw it in the papers."

"A mistake," replied Miss Bourhill, "a cousin of the same name, not me."

"But," pleaded Mrs Blair, "the engagement fell to the ground. The
correspondence stopped years ago."

"Malcolm's fault," replied Miss Bourhill quietly. "I wrote last."

"A promise," added Mrs Bourhill, "can't be broken but by the consent of
both parties. A bargain's a bargain."

These replies, curt and remorseless, sounded in the young minister's
ears like his death-knell, and he lay back in his chair and closed his
eyes in mute agony.

But Malcolm Blair, enfeebled though he was, was too brave to be
crushed at once. In a few days his mind had regained its strength,
and was calmly looking the difficulty in the face. He had, he saw,
just two alternatives. One was to hold himself bound by his blindfold
engagement, to marry Miss Bourhill, and so to blight his whole future
career: the other was to break his promise and bravely take the
consequences--a law suit, a public exposure of all his private affairs,
the payment of heavy damages, and the resignation of the position to
which he had just been appointed. The latter course was the one which
he was inclined to take. But before definitely deciding, he wrote to
Miss Singleton stating his resolution, and giving his reasons for it.
The engagement between him and Miss Bourhill, he argued, was made in a
moment of excitement, and when they were both young and thoughtless.
Any affection they might have had for each other was a mere fancy, and
very soon vanished. By a tacit agreement they ceased to write to each
other, and for years there had been no correspondence between them.
To go through the solemn and binding rite of marriage under these
circumstances would be to lay the crime of perjury upon their souls.
This argument seemed to Malcolm to be so unanswerable, that he felt
sure of the approval of Miss Singleton.

Great, therefore, was his surprise when he received a letter from
her expressing her deep regret that she could not approve of his
resolution. The exchange of the heart's affection, she said, between
a man and a woman was a serious and solemn engagement. It was often a
matter of life and death. Not only the happiness of the individuals
themselves, but the welfare of society might depend upon it. It was
really as binding as the marriage vow itself. No cooling of affection,
no temporary estrangement, nothing but infidelity could be a reason
for setting it aside. And as for his future happiness, he should not
despair. By the use of tender and assiduous sympathy he had succeeded
in rekindling healthy affection in many a degraded soul. Why should the
influence which had been so effectual in the slums of Coaltown fail at
his own fireside. Let him keep his promise like an honourable man and a
Christian. Let him do the right, and trust in God for the result.

When Malcolm Blair was reading this letter, he felt like a criminal
receiving sentence of death. Had anyone else than Miss Singleton
offered this opinion, he would have spurned it. But she was his
guardian angel, one who, in his belief, had never erred, and could
never err. Besides, if he did what she considered a dishonourable
action, he would forfeit her approval; and that was all the world to
him. He therefore felt himself bound to follow her advice, although
he broke his heart in doing it. He even forced himself to take up her
sanguine view of the future, and hoped that by kind and sympathetic
treatment, he would succeed in making Grace Bourhill into a useful
minister's wife.

Four years have elapsed--four momentous years. Mr and Mrs Blair are
seated at breakfast. He is wan and wasted, and stoops over his cup and
plate as he drinks his weak tea and eats his thin toast. She is stout,
red, and restless-eyed. A pervading air of discomfort is given to the
room by the dirty discoloured tablecloth, the disarranged furniture,
and the careless dress of the two occupants. The following is the
conversation which passes between them.

"There!" says she, tossing to her husband a letter which she has just
opened and glanced over, "there's Goodsir's, the grocer's account."

"Good heavens!" replied he, staring at it and turning pale.

"Don't swear."

"Sixty-four pounds seventeen and eightpence! and of that, thirty pounds
odd for wine! We must really do with less wine."

"You say _we_, meaning that I have consumed most of it. You grudge me
the glass of port which the doctor ordered."

"My dear! have I not often pressed you to take it?"

"You forget the wine you give away to your paupers."

"I can't see my poor sick fellow-creatures perishing without sharing
with them the best that I have."

"You smuggled two bottles away last night in your greatcoat pocket."

"Yes, and if I can save poor widow Slight to her young family, and
Robbie Stark to his distracted parents, my reward will be great."

"You forget, too, the bottles which you sent to your mother. She is the
greatest pauper of them all. She wanted to live here to sorn upon us;
but I soon sent her to the right about."

"My dear, is it kind, is it Christian-like to use such language?"

"You never send any to _my_ mother."

"Your mother is strong. Besides, you forget the yearly allowance that I
pay to her."

"If I do forget it, it's not for want of it being cast up to me. Why
don't you ask for a rise of stipend?"

"My dear, I could not, through sheer shame, do such a thing. My poor
people are severely taxed already to make up my salary. There's Sandy
Slack, with ten shillings a week and six children, giving one shilling
a month toward my maintenance. Upon my word, I'm ashamed to look the
poor man in the face."

"Why don't you look out for a better situation?"

"No, no, no! I could not go about like a hireling, offering myself to
the highest bidder. I would forfeit my own self-respect as well as the
respect of every one in my congregation."

"Much respect they have for you when they insult your wife as they do."

"No, no, not insult."

"You know they do. I'm sure (_shedding tears_) when I came here I tried
to do my duty as a minister's wife. I went among the poor and gave them
the benefit of my advice. And what was my reward? That man, Kinnell,
because I found fault with him for giving his children tea instead of
porridge, turned me to the door, and I became the laughing-stock of the
whole congregation."

"Unfortunately, your zeal carried you away. In dealing with these
people we must come down to their level, and look at things from their
point of view."

"Come down to their level, indeed! I should be sorry to do so. And
then the big folk of your congregation! You can't say that I did not
come down to their level. And what did I bring upon myself? One day at
afternoon tea at Lady Brockie's, I heard her friends, Mrs Soutar and
Mrs Stables, call her Sarah, and I followed suit. You should have seen
her face. She was never the same afterwards; and now she never invites
me along with you. I'm not good enough for your grand friends."

"My dear, we all receive slights. You should be like those who have
given themselves up to mission work. They look upon such slights as
part of the cross they have to bear."

"I know what you mean. You were about to say I should be like your
precious Miss Singleton. You are constantly casting her up."

"My dear! I never mentioned her name."

"That makes it all the more suspicious. You are constantly thinking of
her. Don't deny it. I tell you I _know_ it; and I know your ongoings
with her at Coaltown. Mr Murdoch told me. And I know that on the day of
your ordination you were waiting for her, in the manse here, to propose
to her, when I dropped in, in time to spoil the sport. Ha! ha! you
wonder how I found that out. Your mother let the cat out of the bag.
And you got a letter from her this morning. I detected the handwriting.
If there's nothing wrong, why do you hide it?"

"I did not hide it. I was just going to show it to you. There it is.
Read it."

"What? coming here to-day at eleven (_starting to her feet_); she
sha'n't come here. Not so long as _I_'m here. I'll tell the servant not
to let her in."

"I will certainly countermand that order."

"Then I'll go to the door myself and slam it in her face."

"And I will certainly take means to prevent you. Listen to me. I'm
speaking quite calmly. That venomous man, Murdoch, who told you about
the ongoings of Miss Singleton and myself, is a slanderer. Our whole
souls were in our mission work. Every word exchanged between us was
about it, and might have been published to the world. She comes here
to-day as a servant of God, interested in God's work, and I would be
a heartless, graceless coward if I allowed my door to be shut in her
face. Now let that be understood. Let that be understood."

Mr Blair sits waiting for a reply. His wife, however, preserves an
unusual silence, and sits staring into vacancy with a fixed look. He
does not like this, as it is so uncommon with her, and he anticipates a
stormy scene. But to his infinite surprise, when the door bell sounds,
she does not get up; and when Miss Singleton is ushered in, she rises
and shakes hands with her, and goes out of the room saying that she
will bring her a cup of tea. And then comes a scene which can never
cease to haunt his memory! He feels himself to be in a sort of trance,
seeing horrible deeds swiftly done before him, desiring to prevent
them, but utterly unable to do so. He and his visitor have scarcely
exchanged the usual inquiries regarding health, before he sees his
wife enter with a cup. He sees her give it to Miss Singleton; he sees
Miss Singleton receive it with a smile; before he can cry out to her,
"Don't drink it," he sees her take several sips; he sees her fall back
lifeless; he sees his wife throw her arms into the air with a demoniac
gesture of delight; and he sees and hears no more.

When he comes to his senses, he is conscious of the presence of several
people, and hears Sir Benjamin Brockie's voice, very much broken down
and full of tears. This hard, unsympathetic man, generally so replete
with narrow opinions, and so stubborn in maintaining them, is, by some
strong influence, quite softened. The flinty rock has been touched as
if by the prophet's rod, and the pure waters of Christian charity flow
forth.

"This excellent woman," he is saying, "has died a martyr. She had heard
of Mr Blair's unhappy married life, and she came over expressly to try
and put things right. She called upon me to see how the land lay, and
she thought that we had been lacking in sympathy towards Mrs Blair. All
that we want, she said, to regenerate mankind is enough of sympathy.
Sympathy is the great sanitary agent in the moral world. If applied
in large enough measure, it will neutralise every evil, and sweeten
the social atmosphere. She had great hopes that she would make all
right; and I believe that she would have succeeded had she not been so
suddenly cut off by the unfortunate woman whom she was trying to save.
I don't know how it was, but her own example seemed to be a mirror in
which other people saw how defective they were. For my own part, I felt
to-day, after seeing her, that I and my family, and the rest of the
congregation, had been remiss in our duty towards Mr and Mrs Blair; and
I hurried over to lose no time in atoning for my mistake."

The sight of the best and purest being whom he had ever known, murdered
before his eyes by the woman who bore his name, was never to be
forgotten by Malcolm Blair. It haunted his soul like a spectre, would
give him no rest, and wasted his strength away. For many weeks he lay
prostrate, hovering between life and death; and during his hours of
delirium, when his judgment no longer kept the door of his heart, his
feelings wandered forth at will, and those waiting at his bedside heard
him express repugnance for his wife, and call in agonising tones for a
glimpse of Julia Singleton's face. He recovered enough of strength to
be able to rise from his bed, but it was only to find himself alone
and helpless. His wife was a hopeless lunatic in a private asylum; his
aged mother, crushed by the misfortunes of her dear son, was dead; and
he felt himself called upon to resign his pleasant manse, and to retire
to the solitary lodging at Sandyriggs in which I knew him.

At first, he felt that his Divine Master had no more work for him, and
that all that remained for him was to lie down and die. But by and by
Milton's noble lines occurred to him:

                               "Who best
 Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
 Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
 They also serve who only stand and wait."

And thus he waited patiently till Death, the remover of all burdens and
the solver of all difficulties, came to his release.




A ROMANCE OF THE HARVEST FIELD.


A large field of ripe wheat surrounded by a fringe of trees; a long
line of sun-brown reapers, of all ages and of both sexes, stretching
across the whole breadth of the field, and bending to their work; the
golden shocks falling before the gleaming sickles; and over all a warm
autumnal haze.

It is a great occasion, a sort of annual festival to which people have
flocked from every quarter of the country. There are solid-looking
Highlanders in garments rough-spun, and smelling of peat reek; canny
Aberdonians asking "far is't" and "far was't"; Edinburgh wives, with
tongues so slick and sharp that (to use a vulgar phrase) they could
almost "clip a clout"; well-favoured matrons and maidens from the
cottages round about; and chubby boys and girls who glean, or (as they
call it) "gather" among the stooks, making up their gatherings into
"singles." Even the infant is there, attended by his elder sister,
and kicking his heels as he lies on a couch of sheaves. There is a
feeling of hilarity in the air. The thought of the higher wages they
are earning, the prospect of scones and ale for lunch and dinner,
the sight of the abundant harvest they are reaping, the scent of the
aromatic herbs they are treading upon, and the glorious weather, all
combine to gladden their hearts and let loose their tongues. They talk,
they laugh, and they sing. And sometimes, in the superfluity of their
spirits and strength, they take to what is called "kemping," that is to
say, each _rig_ or company or division of shearers tries to get before
the others. In other words, there is a competition as to which band
will do the most work. Strange! will workers of the present day believe
this?

High above all the clamour is heard the voice of Peg Jackson, a
broad-beamed, brawny virago, who is known by the expressive name of
"The Bummer." She is one of that class who bring themselves into notice
by virtue of a loud and glib tongue, and a bold and brazen countenance.
In her remarks she is no respecter of persons. Her satire glances at
all sorts of game, from Dave, the herd boy, up to Mr Stocks, the
master. Many of her phrases also are very graphic; and, like burrs, are
prickly and apt to stick to the persons against whom they are cast.
This self-elected oracle is engaged in disposing of some local scandal
that has been brought up for her judgment, when she catches sight of
the farmer, along with a gentleman and several ladies, entering the
field.

"Oh," exclaims Peg, "there's Stocks himsel comin' to keep us at oor
wark; and he has brocht some friens wi' him to glower at us, jist as
if we were wild beasts in a show. My certie! a bonnie sicht we'll mak,
raxin' and sweatin' like pownies in a mill."

"But wha's thae wi' him," asked Kate Corby, a girl from the Nethergate
at Sandyriggs, who, after a few days' acquaintance, had become Peg's
admirer and toady.

"Tuts, lassie, whaur hae ye been cleckit that ye dinna ken that,"
replied Peg. "That thing in a white frock, and wi' a face made o'
skim-milk cheese, is Stocks's sister, Miss Tammy (Thomasina they ca'
her when they want to speak proper). And that lanky shaver, for a'
the warld like a pair o' tangs oot for a daunder, is her sweetheart,
young Tosh o' Lammert's Mill. That little black-e'ed cratur in a red
jacket is Miss Winnie Laverock, a veesitor from East the Coast. She's
as bonnie and lively as a robin, and is briskin' up, they say, to Mr
Stocks. But, my word, she'll no nab him withoot a warstle. Dae ye see
that cummer in black, for a' the warld like a howdie craw wi' a sair
gaby? That's Magdalen Jaap, the maister's cousin, but awfu' anxious to
be the maister's wife."

Miss Winnie Laverock, whose appearance and character have thus been
touched off by the irrepressible Peg, was the daughter of the minister
of Pitlochie. Her father was a man of great accomplishments and strong
character. Winnie was all that was left of his family; and it was his
ambition to teach her everything he knew. And most amply was he repaid
for his trouble. She had a merry heart, and a keen and active mind;
took an interest in everything; and mastered every subject. Ill-natured
people, it is true, sometimes said that "if she was quick to learn, she
was also quick to show off." But, as her father remarked, why should
her intelligence be kept to herself? If she was witty, how could she
help expressing her wit? She was a real gem, and it was her nature to
sparkle even amid the dullest surroundings. If there was a ray of light
to be got under the whole horizon, she was sure to catch it and reflect
it.

As they entered the harvest field, Winnie was in high spirits and
full talk. "How delightful this is," she said. "What a glow from the
hawthorn hedges and from the ripe grain! I actually feel myself getting
warmer and brighter every minute."

"Not brighter," said Mr Stocks, "that would not be possible."

"No irony, Mr Stocks!" she replied. "But here comes Collie to welcome
us and do the honours of the field."

"Collie," said Mr Stocks, "is an important personage here. He fancies
that he is superintending the shearers."

"Superintending the universe, I should say," replied Miss Laverock,
"judging from the way he looks above and around. Controlling the laws
of gravity! In fact, he is gravity itself. But, Mr Tosh! why does he
put out his tongue, as he stands staring at you?"

"Bad manners, I suppose," said Mr Tosh.

"No," replied Miss Laverock, "he takes you for the family doctor, and
wants you to prescribe."

"Then," said Mr Tosh, "I shall prescribe a little more _bark_."

"Oh, Mr Tosh!" said Miss Laverock. "But what a delightful scene this
is! The sight of the shearers with their bright faces and strong arms,
the clatter of their sickles, and the rustle of the falling corn, have
a strange effect upon me. I feel inclined to share their work. Such is
the influence of good example."

"It's like the measles, infectious," said Mr Stocks.

"Or like the moral leaven," replied Miss Laverock, "which leaveneth
the whole lump. But I am really ashamed to stand idle before all these
industrious people. They must have a low opinion of us. Look at the
glances which that stout woman in the striped shortgown is casting
at us! She evidently pities me as a poor feckless idler, and thanks
Providence that she has got a pair of strong arms and plenty of honest
work to do."

"That's Peg Jackson," said Mr Stocks, "the randy of the parish; and I
don't think that she is much given to thank Providence for anything."

"Oh," said Miss Laverock, "I don't know. I should say that she belongs
to the sect of the muscular Christians. And she really looks a good all
round woman."

"She goes by the nickname of The Bummer," explained Mr Stocks.

"That means the Queen Bee," said Miss Laverock; "and a very appropriate
name, for she has got a fine swarm of busy bees around her. But look
at that big black man in tattered attire! What an illustration of
Shakespeare's phrase, 'looped and windowed raggedness.'"

"Yes," remarked Mr Stocks. "In one way at least he attends to
ventilation."

"But," exclaimed Mr Tosh, "what a villainous look he has! That means
murder, robbery, and all the other seven deadly sins."

"Not at all," said Miss Laverock. "These black beetle brows were very
likely handed down to him from his grandmother, along with a stocking
full of her savings. The stocking he has squandered; but he couldn't
get rid of the beetle brows."

"Yes," remarked Mr Tosh, "he has squandered the stocking, if we may
judge from the bare toes peeping out from the ventilating holes in his
shoes."

"That little man beside him," said Mr Stocks, "is his inseparable
companion, although he looks a being of a different stamp. He has not
been used to this kind of labour. His features are refined, and his
hands are white and delicate."

"Oh!" said Mr Tosh, "he's the worst of the two. He reminds me of a
portrait I once saw of Jack Sheppard--keen, rat-like eyes, and fingers
like claws itching to clutch his prey. But, look! how he is darting
glances at Miss Laverock. By Jove, Miss Laverock, you have made a
conquest! I congratulate you."

But Miss Laverock did not reply. She was dumb with amazement and
horror. The sight of that face had recalled a painful episode in her
life; and, under the coarse guise of a reaper, she had recognised
one who had formerly been very dear to her. After a few moments she
recovered so far, and tried to resume the conversation; but her spirit
and elasticity were gone. All the members of her party noticed the
sudden collapse. Mr Tosh asked if she had been hurt by the rude staring
of that man, and offered to give the fellow a wigging on the spot. And
Mr Stocks, remarking that the heat was too much for her, drew her arm
into his, and suggested that they should all return to the house.

But there was one person who did not take such a lenient view of the
incident. This was Miss Jaap. She had already expressed to her chosen
confidante, the tablemaid, her opinion of Miss Laverock.

"People," she had said, "admire what they call her brightness.
Well, forwardness is often mistaken for cleverness. I might even
use a stronger word than forwardness. I might call it by the good
old-fashioned name of impudence. And the way she ogles men, and jokes
with them, and leads them on to make idiots of themselves--it's
disreputable. That's what it is."

And now, here was an incident which seemed to justify all Miss Jaap's
suspicions, and to give her an opportunity of supplanting her rival.
Her excitement was so great that she could scarcely walk home quietly
along with the others. And when she reached the farm-house, she rushed,
bursting with confidence, to the tablemaid.

"Oh, Kirsten!" she cried, "such a scandal to happen in any respectable
community! Ye may well cry, 'What is't?' Your precious Miss Laverock
exchanging glances with a common shearer on the harvest field, and
turning deadly pale. Yes! a common dirty shearer! Some poor unfortunate
wretch with whom she has had an intrigue! That woman would intrigue
with anything in the shape of a man. You must help me to find out more
about him. He is the companion of Black Morgan. I'll expose her; and
I'll see that your poor deluded master's eyes are opened."

Talk about vivisection! There are human beings who are vivisected by
their fellow-creatures, sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously.
That day at dinner, Miss Winnie Laverock was one of these hapless
victims. The operators were Miss Thomasina Stocks and Mr Tosh; and Miss
Jaap, with her bold black eyes, was a keen and gratified spectator of
the operation.

First, Miss Stocks insisted upon leading back the conversation to
the incident in the harvest field, and again and again expressed her
astonishment at Winnie's sudden faintness. "What was it made you ill, I
wonder? Was it the heat, do you think? For, you know, you were so well
and bright a minute before."

Then Mr Tosh, in turn, after his headlong, haphazard manner, took up
the subject. He had, he said, been instituting inquiries about that
ruffian who insulted Miss Laverock and made her ill. The fellow, it
seemed, called himself Riley, for the nonce at least. Whether it was
his real name was very doubtful. Blackguards kept several names, just
as decent folks kept several changes of garments, and as soon as one
became too soiled, they put on another. Riley was the inseparable pal
of Black Morgan, who had the words "burglar" and "garrotter" written
on his countenance--yes, written in the Devil's own handwriting.
Altogether, this Riley was a bad lot; and those keen eyes and greedy
hands must have been inherited from a long line of thieves. He was
some desperate criminal in disguise. What if he should turn out to be
Crouch, the Glasgow murderer, that they were searching for everywhere?

Under this ruthless talk, poor Miss Laverock sat wincing and quivering
and answering at random. At length her host interfered for her relief;
and oh! how she thanked him inwardly from the bottom of her heart. Mr
Stocks was, what I may be allowed to call, a natural Christian--one who
had an instinctive sympathy and consideration for the sufferings of
his fellow-creatures. Without the slightest fuss he adroitly diverted
the conversation, by asking if they had heard of the last escapade of
Rory Brand, the converted shoemaker: and then he told a most ludicrous
incident,--how Rory had been at July Fair on an evangelising mission;
how, when he was returning in the gloaming, near Inverarden, he had met
a shabby old man, apparently a tramp; how he had addressed him at once
as a lost sheep, exhorting him to give up his wandering and lawless
life; how he had pressed upon him a tract entitled "Hoary Sinner,
Stop!" and how this hoary sinner had turned out to be the saintly
Dr Gowans, an ex-Moderator, and Convener of the Church's Missionary
Society. In this way the attention of the company was diverted from
Miss Laverock, and during the remainder of the dinner she was left in
comparative peace.

But after she had retired from the table to her own room, she could
not rest. She must see this infatuated young man, and ascertain the
reason of his extraordinary condition, and implore him to spare her.
The proceeding was dangerous, but at all hazards it must be done. So,
without more consideration, she put on her hat and went out.

When Miss Laverock passed through the farmyard, the shearers had
emptied their large basins of oatmeal porridge, and were lapped in that
most delicious of all luxuries--rest after a long day of hard labour.
On the heap of fragrant grass at the stable door reclined three or
four Highlanders, passing the snuff-mull, and exchanging their rather
stinted sentiments in their native Gaelic. On a seat improvised by the
laying of a plank on two upright stones, sat some pawky Aberdonians
enveloped in a small cloud of tobacco fumes. And outside on the road,
under a tree, was a group of women, mending their linen as they rested
their weary limbs on the cool green turf. On another occasion, Winnie's
quick sympathy would have enabled her to appreciate this picture of
honest well-earned content. But now, her eyes were searching right and
left for one figure; and there he was, seated on a stone opposite the
garden gate, and attended by his evil genius, Black Morgan. As she
passed him, she gave him a glance, which he understood, for he rose
and followed her; and when she had walked a short distance, she turned
round, and the two stood face to face, ready for an explanation.

But there seemed to be no chance of the poor girl escaping from her
perplexity. She had only time to ask--"Why do you come here, of all
places, to disgrace me?" and he had only time to answer--"Don't be
alarmed; I shall not disgrace you," when out from the farmyard appeared
Mr Stocks, talking with his grieve. Like one surprised in a criminal
act, Winnie turned aside abruptly into the garden gate. And there
inside the wall was Miss Jaap, who made no attempt to conceal the fact
that she had been eaves-dropping. With an air of the most righteous
indignation she said,--

"Really, Miss Laverock, for the sake of public decency, you should not
be seen talking to that man." And then she went out of the garden into
the road as if to get hold of Riley and question him.

"How dare you!" was all that poor Winnie could answer, and then escaped
hurriedly to her own room. There her vexation found vent in a tempest
of tears and bemoanings.

"Oh, why," she sobbed, "has this happened just when I was so happy,
and everything was going so well. And what will Mr Stocks think? I'm
anxious to stand well in his opinion. I have such a sincere admiration
for him. He is not a genius, but he is something far better--a
large-hearted, shrewd-minded man, who cannot fail in any of the duties
of life. And to-day, I have liked him more than ever, for the tender
and clever way he protected me from these babbling fools. And he is
really beginning to show that he likes me. Oh, it is provoking that
this hapless ne'er-do-well should turn up here of all places in the
world to spoil everything. What should I do? What should I do? Should
I run away home at once? No! that would draw more attention to the
unfortunate circumstance; and besides, the evil is already done. No!
there is another course, a very disagreeable one; but I will face
it. Why should I not? Why should I not confess the whole thing to Mr
Stocks? He will place himself in my position; and may not think a
bit the worse of me. My mind is now made up. In the morning, after
breakfast, I shall explain the whole matter to him."

In the morning, however, she did not see Mr Stocks. He had been
summoned away to meet the factor on important business, and would not
be home till the evening. Her heart sank within her; and she felt that
she would never get through the long weary hours. And her misery was
intensified by the contrast which she saw in everything around her.
There was merriment, as well as excitement, in every countenance.
It was to be the last day of harvest, and the great question was,
who was to get "the maiden," that is, the last handful of grain that
was reaped. To determine this, it is true, a well-known device was
generally practised. Some of the young men conspired, before the end
of the field was reached, to leave a shock of grain uncut and cover
it up with a stook. Then when the close came, and every ear of corn
apparently was reaped, the favoured lass was taken to the spot, the
stook was cleared away revealing the unreaped shock, she cut it and
thus secured "the maiden," and became "the Queen of the Harvest";
but this device required to be cleverly carried out in order to be
successful.

Meanwhile, Miss Laverock was passing the weary hours under a cloud of
apprehension. Some great calamity, she feared, awaited her. What shape
it was to take she could not divine, but it was in some way connected
with that unfortunate young man. And when, in the afternoon, she
walked out with Miss Stocks and Mr Tosh to see the end of the harvest,
she felt as if she were going to her doom. Accordingly, she was not
surprised, when, in approaching the Five Acre Park, they became aware
of a great hubbub. The end of the harvest had evidently been reached;
the reapers were clustering together in a noisy mob at the end of the
field; groans mingled with shouts arose in the air; and prominent in
the turmoil were seen the figures of Peg Jackson and Black Morgan.
"Now," thought Winnie, "it has come at last. My disgrace has been
discovered, and will now be held up before the world."

But on this occasion, at least, she was alarming herself needlessly.
The commotion was caused by no serious matter. Peg Jackson, it seems,
at the dinner hour had noticed three or four stalks of corn that had
been left uncut by the side of the field. She had squatted down upon
them, and had beaten them flat, and concealed them under her capacious
person; and as she was always the first to sit down and the last to
rise up, no one had seen them. She waited till the device for securing
"the maiden," which we have explained above, was carried out, and
Grace Fleming, the favoured damsel, was proclaimed "the Harvest Queen."

Then she came forward and protested that the last of the harvest was
not yet reaped; and in proof of the statement she went to the handful
of grain which she had concealed in such a grotesque way, cut it, and
held it up in triumph. Many loudly demurred; but others declared that
The Bummer was right, that she had got "the maiden," and a proposition
was made to carry her shoulder high. Peg, however, was not to be
trifled with; and when Black Morgan advanced to lay hold of her, she
gave him a cuff which sent him backwards into a stook.

This cloud of alarm melted away without doing any damage; but a more
ominous one was gathering on the horizon. That evening, the shearers
were to be entertained in the barn to a supper and a dance; and the
farmer and his friends were expected to be present at a part of the
entertainment. At eight o'clock, the ladies were in their rooms making
ready to go into the barn, when a cry arose, that Miss Stocks's
jewel-case was stolen. The last time it had been seen was at the dinner
hour of the previous day. Mr Stocks, who had just arrived from his
journey, summoned the whole household--guests, servants, and all--to
ascertain if any clue could be got to the mystery. No one could give
any definite information. Then Miss Jaap, who, it was evident to all,
was bursting with something, struck in:--

"It's that man Riley. He was hanging about the garden gate last night.
You saw him, Miss Laverock, and you were speaking to him; and, by the
by, you must have left the garden door of the house ajar, for it was
found open this morning, and that was the way by which the thief must
have got in. And what confirms his guilt is, that he has disappeared.
He wasn't at his work to-day. Do you know where he is, Miss Laverock?"

"Magdalen," said Mr Stocks sternly, "there must be no rash accusations.
What we have got to do is not to suspect, but to detect. I shall wait
till to-morrow morning, and if the matter is not cleared up by that
time, it must be put into the hands of the police. Meantime, Magdalen,
don't introduce Miss Laverock's name. She has got nothing to do with
it: depend upon that."

What Miss Laverock's feelings were during this ordeal may be imagined
but can't be described. When it was all over, the only remark that she
could make was, that she could not go to see the shearers. But Miss
Stocks, taking her aside, and kissing and coaxing her, said, "Don't
mind what that spiteful cat insinuates. It is all jealousy. Show your
contempt for her by appearing as usual, and going about as usual." And
Winnie set out with her friend to the barn.

When they reached the barn, the supper was over, and the tables and
forms were being cleared away to make room for the dance. Whether it
was owing to the solid nature of the viands, or to a scanty supply of
inspiriting beverage, I can't say, but the men and women were dull and
dumb, and the sight of their betters from the big house only tended
to make them look more sheepish and awkward. How they were to be
entertained seemed to be a great difficulty. But a remedy was at hand.

There was present an Orpheus who could animate the stocks and the
stones. This was the old, bandy-legged fiddler, Geordie Wilkie. On
ordinary occasions he was a simple clodhopper, trudging at the plough
tail, or sitting upon his muddy cart; but at a foy, a penny wedding,
or any other merrymaking, he was a potentate, a magician swaying the
crowds at will, as the moon sways the waters of the deep. On this
particular night, he was, as he himself expressed it, "in fine fettle."
No sooner did he, after a few preliminary tunings and squeakings,
strike up an old-fashioned reel, than the dead mass of humanity began
to move, and throb, and leap. The music, like electricity, had flashed
through their nerves and muscles and made them jump into life. In a
trice they had fallen into sets and were involved in the mazes of the
dance, thumping the floor with their hob-nailed shoes, cracking their
horny fingers, grinning and grimacing to their partners, "hooching,"
and wheeling nimbly about, shaking off their cares as a dog shakes off
the hail-drops, and looking as if there was to be no more worry or want
in this world, and all was to be peace and plenty for evermore.

On another occasion, Winnie, with her sunny sympathetic disposition,
would have entered thoroughly into this scene, and would have enjoyed
to the full all its escapades and humours. But now her heart was frozen
by despair, and could not feel anything like pleasure. Their bright
merriment by its contrast only made her despondency all the darker.
It seemed a mockery of her grief, and aggravated it intensely. She
looked on in agony, and was wondering where she should go and what she
should do, when she saw the unwonted sight of a policeman at the door
of the barn; and immediately afterwards a servant whispered in her ear,
"Please, Miss, you are wanted in the parlour." Then she knew that the
catastrophe was at hand, and went away to meet it.

But a strange change had come over her--a change which surprised
herself. Despair had become desperation, and she now felt herself
perfectly calm and collected. She was eager to make a full explanation
of the whole matter, and to abide the consequences. Therefore, when she
entered the parlour, and saw a policeman, with the official calmness
on his countenance, and Riley well dressed and bright, and Mr Stocks
anxious and perplexed, and Miss Jaap flushed and giving her evidence,
she was not surprised, but quietly took a seat and listened.

Miss Jaap in excited tones was telling her story--how she had seen
Riley last night about seven o'clock watching the garden gate, how
she had gone back half an hour afterwards and found him still lurking
there, and how she was sure it was he who took the jewels, and it could
be no one else. Then turning to Winnie, she said, "You know that this
is true, Miss Laverock, for you saw him and were talking to him on the
road, and came in through the garden and did not lock the door, and
that was the way he got into the house."

At this venomous speech the hearers were visibly fluttered. Mr
Stocks looked stern indignation; the policeman condescended to smile
contemptuously; and Riley, producing a box, asked Miss Jaap if that was
the stolen article.

"Ah, look there now!" cried Miss Jaap; "was I not right? He's obliged
to confess that he is the thief."

"No, Miss! there you are wrong. But," he added, after listening to
footsteps coming along the passage, "here, if I mistake not, comes the
thief."

And two policemen entered with Black Morgan in charge.

"So," growled out Morgan, regarding Riley with a murderous look, "you
hound, you split upon your pal after all your gammon! But look here,
policemen, this smaik is the real boss of the plant. He has got the
jewel-case on him."

"Right so far," replied Riley coolly; "but I took it from you in the
way of business. I am Macnab, the detective."

"The d---- you are," exclaimed Morgan.

"Whew ---- by ----, if I had known that, I would have spoilt your mug
for you. Mean! low! mean! d----d mean!"

"Come now, Morgan," said Riley, "don't be uncharitable. Every man to
his trade. Your trade is wholesale criminal. Mine is detective officer.
You prosecuted yours with unflagging enthusiasm. Allow me to do the
same. I was asked to look after you. From information received you were
thought to be the man wanted for a notorious crime. It was a difficult
job, for you were up to no end of dodges. Now, I had always been fond
of play-acting. In fact, I was once upon the boards. So I resolved
to dress up as a brother pal, and I stuck to you like a brother and
followed you here. And you must confess that I made up and performed
the part to perfection. And what's more, I have got the evidence that I
wanted. You are not Will Morgan. You know you are not. You are James
Crouch, that has been wanted so long for the Trongate murder."

This intelligence startled the little company like the shock of an
earthquake. The thought that they were in the presence of that ruthless
cut-throat, Crouch, who for so many weeks had been advertised for
and sought for all over the country, and also in the presence of
Macnab, the famous Glasgow detective, produced what journalists call
"a sensation." For several minutes they could do nothing but devour
with their eyes the criminal, who returned their stare with a scowl of
defiance. But their amazement was interrupted by the detective and the
policemen rising and preparing to leave with their charge. While doing
so, the detective glanced at Miss Laverock, and said, "I'll call here
and see you to-morrow morning."

The company in the parlour sat for some time expressing their
astonishment at this wonderful denouement. Then Winnie, noticing that
Miss Jaap still regarded her with suspicion, fairly turned on her.

"You are wondering, Miss Jaap, what connection this detective has with
me. Well! I shall tell you. This man is _not_ my husband. He is not
even my discarded lover, a statement which you were overheard making
to Kirsten the tablemaid. He is only my brother, nothing more. He was
an only son, and my father devoted his whole time to his education,
and resolved to make him a scholar. But when Eric (that's my brother's
name, and his middle name is Macnab) was ready for the University, he
refused to go. He said that he had no taste for learning, and that his
whole heart was for acting, and that he would go upon the stage. Now,
my father is passionate, imperious, and accustomed to get his own way.
Besides, if there is one calling that he considers disreputable it is
_play-acting_, as he styles it. He therefore solemnly declared that
if Eric went upon the stage, he would from that moment disinherit and
disown him. But Eric, who had inherited his father's hot and wilful
temper, declared that he would not be forced into a profession which he
hated, that he himself was the best judge of what he was best fitted
for, and that if his own father chose to throw him off, he would fend
for himself. So he went away and disappeared; and for years, up till
yesterday in fact, we have seen and heard nothing of him. Now, Miss
Jaap, was it not natural that I should be disturbed when I came
unexpectedly on my long-lost brother in the harvest field? Was it not
natural that I should blush for him, when I saw him in the garments of
a hireling reaper? And was it not natural that I should try to have
a talk with him? And was it not very cruel, Miss Jaap, when you had
only these grounds to go upon, to jump to the conclusion that I was an
abandoned girl, and actually to accuse me of aiding and abetting in
this robbery of the jewel-case? I ask you, Miss Jaap, has your conduct
not been very, very cruel?"

Miss Jaap sat silent, and only replied by a look of inveterate hatred.

But Mr Stocks, in the most earnest manner said, "If nobody else will
reply, I will, Miss Laverock. You have been used most cruelly. You
were invited to the house as a guest, and you have been treated like
a criminal. As the master of the house I humbly apologise; and as for
Miss Jaap, she ought to go down on her knees and ask your pardon for
her vile suspicions and accusations."

But this only brought Miss Jaap's hate to a climax, for she rose up in
stern silence and went out of the room.

"That woman's unamiability," said Mr Stocks, "is a most pitiable
spectacle. She was always irritable; but latterly her bad temper has
become chronic. It is a madness, a monomania, which she takes a morbid
pleasure in nursing. Almost every person is looked upon as an enemy,
and almost every act as an insult. I myself am afraid to move or to
speak lest I offend her. But I will stand it no longer. She shall go at
once. I have done with her."

"Don't, Mr Stocks, I entreat you, cast her off," said Miss Laverock.
"You are her only friend, I understand. The poor thing is more to be
pitied than blamed. Her infirmity is more physical than moral. It is
the result of biliousness, and can only be cured by medical treatment.
But I believe that I am partly to blame. My presence and my incessant
chatter have aggravated her. I know that I talk too much. Ever since I
was a child, my father has made me his companion, and has encouraged me
to give my opinion on every subject; and when in company, I am apt to
forget that other people are not so partial as he is, and I allow my
tongue to go like a bell. And poor Miss Jaap, along with others, has
suffered. My everlasting gabble must be a great nuisance."

"Well!" replied Mr Stocks, "if that's gabble, then all I have to say is
that I don't wish to hear anything better than gabble during the rest
of my life."

"There's no accounting for taste," said Winnie laughing. "But, Mr
Stocks, to speak seriously, you'll not cast that poor thing off?
Remember that you are her best friend. If you do, I shall be very
miserable, for I shall feel that I have been the cause of it. You'll
not do it, will you?"

"Well, Miss Laverock, if it's to give you pain, I will not do it."

"Now! that's like you. And you'll find that everything will now go
right. I'm going home to-morrow, and Miss Jaap will then become quiet.
This (_pointing to her jacket_) is the red rag that has made the
cow mad. When this is removed the cow will settle down to chew the
cud--yes, the cud of sweet and bitter memories."

Mr Stocks was now aghast. "Miss Laverock," he stammered, "you can't
mean it. No, no--it will never do--why, you have only been here
two days, and you came to stay a month at least. I was looking
forward--that is, _we_ were all looking forward--to a happy time, and
now"--and here the good man's feelings overpowered him, and fairly
carried him away. What he said he never could exactly remember; but
he gave her to understand that he could not do without her, and that,
deprived of her presence, life would not be worth living.

Then she, blushing very much, yet unable to repress a merry twinkle in
her eye, said that this was dreadful. It was just another proof that
she had been too long there. She was the wicked fairy that, without
meaning it, had introduced confusion into the family. She must,
however, persist in going home to-morrow. She wished to be present at
the meeting between her father and brother, and to try to reconcile
them. But (_and here she looked down and faltered in her speech_)
if her father approved, and she had no doubt he would, she would
come back; and after all the proper forms had been gone through she
would stay. She could not bear the idea of having his death upon her
conscience, or even his unhappiness--all the more so as she had always
admired and liked him, especially during her late trouble, when he had
shown her so much sympathy and good feeling. Would he agree to this
arrangement?

Of course, he was only too delighted to agree; and he was anxious
that there should be witnesses to the agreement. So he led her into
the drawing-room, where Miss Stocks and Miss Jaap were sitting, and
introduced her as his affianced bride. Miss Stocks rushed to her, and
took her in her arms; Miss Jaap bounced out of the room.

"What wonderful chemical properties I must have," said Winnie. "I
possess the power both of attraction and repulsion."

"No wonder," said Mr Stocks, "that she is ashamed to look you in the
face, after accusing you of theft."

"But," said Winnie, "I was really guilty of theft. I stole your heart;
but you punished me, for you stole mine."




THE BOY HERETIC.


The parish of Sandyriggs had been, time out of mind, noted for its
orthodoxy. In the days of the Covenant its inhabitants had suffered for
the good cause; and at the Battle of Tippermuir its most prominent men
had sealed their testimony with their blood. It had also been blessed
with a long succession of faithful ministers, both Established and
Seceding, men who had not only held the form of sound doctrine, but
also of sound words. The minister of the parish, at this time, was the
Rev. Jeremiah MacGuffog, a preacher famous all over the land for his
persistent and deadly attacks upon organs, images, printed prayers,
human hymns, private interpretations of Scripture, intemperance, and
all the other backslidings of the day. The result was, that while
heresy was breaking out in various parts of the country, it never was
known in Sandyriggs. The theological atmosphere was evidently too keen
and bracing for such a hothouse plant.

Imagine, then, the sensation when it was reported that, at last, heresy
had appeared among the rising generation. The inhabitants were struck
dumb at first; but gradually recovering themselves, they began to talk
about it. It was discussed by the men at the church door on Sunday, and
by the women over their _four hours_ tea. What could be the cause of
it, was a question frequently asked? One suggested bad education; while
another asserted that it was too much education, and boldly wished for
the return of the good old time when the young bolted their knowledge
as they bolted their monthly dose of castor oil, and never thought of
complaining that it disagreed with them.

The _fama clamosa_ became so great that it could no longer be ignored
in his pulpit messages by that faithful minister, the Rev. Mr
MacGuffog. With bated breath he told his hearers that this was only one
instance among many of the fact that the spirit of evil had rallied
his powers and was making a desperate attempt to ruin mankind. "Yet,"
he added, "this incident which has taken place in our midst is also
fraught with comfort; because it is the fulfilment of the prophecy
that children will rise up against their parents; and, taken with the
wars and rumours of wars that prevail in the world at present, it is a
sign that the glorious time is at hand when Satan shall be bound for a
thousand years."

Who was this arch heretic, this chosen emissary of Satan, at whom the
parish turned pale? Little Willie Torrance, aged seven, the son of
George Torrance, a small farmer. What were the influences under which
this heresy was developed, it is now our task to describe.

Willie was what his mother called "a fell laddie," and his father "a
fair heartbreak." Do what they liked, they could never make him behave
like other boys. His dull red hair was always in disorder; his face
seemed a favourite resting-place for dust and smut; his hands were
soiled with the stroking of rabbits and pigeons; and his corduroys were
torn and worn with the climbing of trees. A book was a thing which he
never of his own accord touched. When he should have been learning his
lessons, he was outside watching the ducklings and the chicks; and on
Sabbath evenings, when all the members of the family were questioned
on the Shorter Catechism, he mixed up the answers in the most profane
and ludicrous manner. Every effort was tried to reclaim him. His
brother and sister, who were much older than he, were most faithful
in holding up before him all his sins against cleanliness and order;
his father at intervals conscientiously applied Solomon's educative
instrument, the rod; and his mother, though longing to be kind and
sympathetic, frowned upon many of his ways. But all these measures
seemed to produce no effect. He, indeed, endured all their treatment
without a murmur or protest, and really felt at times that he was a bad
lot and would come to a bad end; but his patience was unhesitatingly
pronounced to be "dourness," and was added on to his list of crimes.

But in spite of all this, he could not have been a bad boy, for he
had some devoted friends. The moment he appeared in the farmyard, his
presence was hailed by both "the fowl and the brute." In the sound of
his voice and the touch of his hand there was that miraculous power,
sympathy, which at once won their hearts. He understood them and they
understood him. Sweep, the cat, rubbed and purred against his leg;
Rover, the dog, jumped up to kiss his face; Blaze, the bob-tailed
horse, turned round its head in its stall to neigh to him; the brown
calf put its nose over the fence to be scratched; and the pigeons
settled on him like a small cloud to eat the corn from his hand.

But Willie's greatest blessing was his staunch bosom friend, Bob
Fortune. A friend is dear at any time, but he is especially dear in our
childhood, when the heart is fresh, the conscience clean, and the world
full of untasted pleasures. Not only is he another self, doubling our
delights and lessening our troubles, but he is what Shakespeare calls
"an earth-treading star," shedding a new light on everything. Answering
exactly to this description was Bob Fortune, nine years of age, and a
neighbour farmer's son, who called in, every morning, for Willie and
accompanied him to school. He was a healthy, hearty, intelligent boy.
It seemed as if his soul were made of sunlight, which warmed every limb
and shone through every feature. He had a smile and a soft word for
every living creature; and it was only when he witnessed cruelty that
he was ever out of temper. Overflowing, too, with animal spirits and
all kinds of boyish accomplishments, he was ever ready to run, leap,
sing, whistle, and imitate all sorts of sounds. He was also clever with
his hands and with his tongue, and, therefore, well fitted to be not
only a friend but a protector to Willie.

Your ordinary boy is apt to be cruel. He is as Dickens remarks, "an
enemy to all creation." He stones cats, beats the dumb driven cattle,
robs birds' nests, and in general gets "his sport," as he calls it, at
the expense of the lower animals. Like his full-grown fellow-sportsmen,
when he wants to be happy, he says, "Let us go and kill something."
This habit is not the result, as some suppose, of the cruelty inherent
in human nature, but rather arises from sheer thoughtlessness. It never
occurs to him that the lower animals feel the same pain as we do; and,
strange as it may seem, in this age of education, sympathy towards our
fellow-creatures is not taught at school.

From this savage habit our two lads had been saved by a painful
accident. One day a pretty, bright, playful young spaniel, named
Spring, which they had just been fondling, darted before a carriage,
and was run over and killed. Willie, especially, was dreadfully
shocked, and could not get rid of the sight of the poor animal
writhing in the death throes on the hard road, looking up pitifully
into his face as if struggling to tell what it was suffering, and
venting all its agony in one long, pitiful whine. Next day he stated
to Bob that it was wrong to torment animals, "for," he said, "they
suffer jist like hiz." They both resolved that they would not be cruel
to any creature, and that they would no longer rob nests. They might
take one egg, but that would not matter, as the bird could not count
and would never miss it. Then they wondered where Spring was now; and
Bob, whose imagination was always active, declared that he was sure to
be in heaven. Good dogs, he said, must go to heaven; for their masters,
when they went there, could not be happy without them. To Willie this
reasoning was conclusive, for he could not fancy any perfect state of
happiness where there were no four-footed favourites.

Our story begins on a bright summer morning, when the two boys set
out together for school. Delightful as their walks always were,
this particular walk was to be more delightful than usual. They had
scarcely left the farm buildings and were passing a whinny knowe,
when out there came running in a great state of flutter and anger,
as if to attack them, a hen partridge. Knowing by this that her brood
was near, they searched among the furze, and found instead of young
partridges, five barn-door chickens. There they were--yellow, black,
and white--staggering on their wire-like legs, and wondering very
much at this strange world into which they had evidently just newly
come. On searching still further, they came upon a nest with the
empty shells. It was evident that the pair of partridges, having been
robbed of their own eggs, had come upon this neglected nest, had taken
possession of it, had hatched the brood and were now trying, like good
foster-parents, to bring up their adopted family.

The next object before which the boys stood was a well-grown larch at
the foot of the avenue. On it was their favourite nest, a chaffinch's,
a perfect specimen of bird-craft. They had been able to examine and
admire it by climbing a neighbouring tree and looking into it. It was
snugly and securely placed in a fork of the larch, was cosy inside with
hair, wool, and feathers, and outside was covered skilfully all over
with lichen so as to look like a bit of the tree. They had also taken
an interest in the two birds, and by feeding them every day with seed
had made them quite tame. On this morning, the boys saw that something
unusual had happened; for the hen-bird was flitting excitedly between
the ground and the nest, and the cock was singing his favourite song
with more than his usual briskness; and on climbing the neighbouring
tree, they saw that the nest was full of gaping little bills. No wonder
that the mother was busy and the father proud!

But the most exciting event was seen when they were passing along the
pathway that skirts the back of the Gibbet Wood. Out in the air above
the field, a beak-and-claw fight was going on between two birds that
were discovered to be a wood-pigeon and a sparrow-hawk. The pigeon was
having the worst of it, and its feathers were falling fast, when some
crows, happening to pass, darted upon the common foe, the hawk, and
forced it to let go its hold. The pigeon alighted on a wall to recover
itself and then disappeared, and the hawk retreated, pursued and
harassed by its black enemies.

Then without further adventures they sauntered along by the loch side
under the blue unclouded weather. Bright and sympathetic, they formed
a part of the general joy that was abroad on the earth. They carolled
with the lark, whistled with the blackbird, and sported with the
butterfly among the flowers. And in the intervals Bob, full of bright
fancies, told what he was to do when he was a man: how he was going to
be a farmer, and have a garden full of the bonniest flowers, and keep
all kinds of horses, dogs, rabbits, and birds.

But when the boys reached the village and looked down the Overgate
where the school was situated, a sudden change came over their mood.
There was a dreadful silence which struck terror into them. The school
"was in" and they would be punished for being late. With fluttering
hearts they mounted the outside stair, went through the "pend" that led
to the school building, opened the door, stood before the indignant
teacher and the expectant and by no means sympathetic scholars, took
their punishment bravely, and sat down with smarting hands to their
work.

This humble institution was about the last specimen of its class.
It was an instance of the comparative ease with which, not so long
ago, schools could be set up, and schoolmasters could be made. The
schoolmaster, Mr Sloan, had been a house-carpenter. When old age
began to steal upon him, and he found manual labour too much for his
strength, he was advised by his fellow-elders in the small sect to
which he belonged to start a school. "You've a gude haund o' write,"
they said, "and ye're no a bad coonter; and the members o' oor body
will send their bairns to ye." He took their advice, and carried it
out with the greatest ease. First of all, there was no difficulty
about getting a schoolroom. Choosing his own workshop, he cleared out
the benches and the shavings, scrubbed the earthen floor, swept down
the bare walls, put in a few plain desks and forms which he had made
with his own hand; and the thing was done. According to his idea, no
more furnishings, such as maps, globes, or pictures, were required.
Then there was just as little difficulty in converting himself into a
schoolmaster. He laid aside his working-man's clothes, wore his Sunday
best every day, bought a bit of old leather and fashioned it into
_tawse_; and lo! the transformation was complete. The house-carpenter
in one day had been changed into a teacher of youth.

Equally simple and easy was his method of education. All he required
his pupils to do, besides their writing and arithmetic, was to commit
to memory the Shorter Catechism, Proofs, and Psalms; and he rested
satisfied that these good words, when swallowed, like a blessed
medicine would purify the heart, and enlighten the head. And all that
he, the teacher, needed to do was to direct and stimulate them by means
of the tawse; for did not the wise man say that the scourge was the
great instrument to be used in the education of the young! "He that
spareth the rod hateth the child." His scholars were placed on the
plain, beaten highway, and his whole duty was to drive them forward. He
was an educational _drover_. He was never known to have given a single
explanation of any kind on any subject whatever.

On this particular day, it chanced that the work of the school bore
very hard on poor Willie Torrance. The first lesson he was called upon
to say was a question in the Shorter Catechism. "Wherein," asked the
teacher, in slow and solemn tones, "consists the sinfulness of that
estate whereinto man fell?" "The sinfulness," answered Willie, in a
lugubrious, singsong voice, "of that estate whereinto man fell"--and
then he came to a dead stop. "Go on, sir!" said the teacher, sternly.
Willie could only run over again, "The sinfulness," etc., in the
desperate hope that he would thus gain an impetus which would carry him
through the remainder of the answer; but it was all in vain. Leather
was applied smartly to the palm of his hand; but this, while it gave
a keener realisation of the _feeling_ of the sinfulness, did not
contribute at all to its _theological conception_. He was sent to his
seat in disgrace, and sentenced to be kept in during the dinner-hour to
learn his neglected task.

The reading lesson came next, and every boy and girl was called
upon in turn to read a verse. The chapter was in the Old Testament,
and consisted chiefly of a long list of jaw-twisting Hebrew names.
Easy-going teachers used to skip such a chapter,--one of them, an
irreverent Gallio, alleging as a reason, that it was "a mere hatteril
o' nick-names." But Mr Sloan, a strictly orthodox man, held that every
word and letter, nay, every jot and tittle, were "profitable for
instruction in righteousness," and would not tolerate this playing
fast and loose with the inspired record. As it was, these Jewish names
stuck in Willie's throat. In the supple jaws of old Orientals, without
doubt, they were as a sweet morsel to be rolled under the tongue; but,
in the narrow and stiff jaws of a Scotch boy, they were hard nuts which
could neither be cracked nor swallowed. A smart box on the ear was
suddenly administered, but it did not contribute to the clearing of the
head, or the loosening of the vocal organs. There was no help for the
lad. He was left in the midst of the verse, like a lamb entangled in a
thicket of brambles, and the class proceeded with the remainder of the
task.

The writing lesson followed. Willie, grasping the pen tightly between
the forefinger and thumb, dipped it in the ink; but alas! the ink
bottle was too full, and, on bringing out the pen, he let a big blot
fall upon the paper. He licked the ink up with his tongue; but a very
ugly mark was left upon the copy. And when he tried to make a stroke
he only made another blot. The master gave him a smart rap on the
knuckles with the ruler; but this only shook his hand, and flustered
him. He could not keep his fingers free from the black liquid; and, in
his desperation, he wiped them sometimes on his corduroys, sometimes on
his hair, and sometimes on his face, until he looked as if he had been
exposed to a shower of ink.

The dinner-hour now intervened, and he was locked up in the schoolroom
all alone to get up the Catechism lesson which he had been unable to
repeat. By dint of sheer hammering, he managed to fix the words, not
the meaning, in his memory. Yet all the while he was looking out on a
green hill opposite, where a boy of his acquaintance was herding a cow.
Oh! how he envied that boy! How delightful it would be if he could get
free for ever from school, and pass the long summer day in the open
air, rolling on the grass among his favourite animals!

After the dinner-hour came the most difficult task of all. A column of
figures on the slate was put before him, and he was told to add them
up. He did not know how to add; he did not know even the meaning of
the word, and no explanation was vouchsafed to him. He sat wondering
how it should be done, and feeling that his brain was becoming a mass
of confusion. Casting a stealthy glance upon his neighbour's slate, he
found that his neighbour was putting down quite easily under the column
a row of figures. He concluded that the whole thing was a puzzle, and
was only to be found out by experiment. Accordingly, he tried first one
set of figures and then another, but every time he was wrong. At last
the master, losing patience, was driven to the use of sarcasm. Seizing
the boy's ear, twisting him round, and pointing to a stucco bust which
was over the door, and which, indeed, was the sole ornament in the
school, he said, in withering tones, "There's your brother." Then,
tapping the little confused skull, he added, "You've a head, and so
has a pin." The whole school laughed at these sarcasms. They were well
known. They were the master's only jokes, and, therefore, did duty very
often.

Willie had now run the gantlet of all the lessons and all the
punishment. The road to knowledge had not been to him a green and
flowery lane, along which he was led with ease and delight. It had
rather been a thorny brake, through which he had been dragged by main
force, and from which he issued hot, dishevelled, and bleeding. It
never occurred to him to ask, "What is the use of all this?" He had a
vague impression that this education, like measles and whooping cough,
was one of those serious dispensations of Providence which all must go
through, and which must be borne with patience.

But now came a relief. Mr Sloan, soothed by the good dinner which he
had just eaten, sank into his usual afternoon nap; and the scholars
immediately turned from their books and slates to subdued fun and
talking. Willie, greatly relieved, stood up and began to tell his
neighbour, Button Bowie, as they called him, all the strange sights
which he and Bob Fortune had seen that morning: the partridge with the
brood of chickens, the chaffinch's nest, and the fight between the
wood-pigeon and the sparrow-hawk.

But this interval of relief was not to last long. In every school,
just as in every company of human beings, there is always to be found
a bully; and this bully requires two persons near him,--a victim to be
tormented by him, and a toady to laugh at his cleverness. Christopher
Bain, nine years of age, was the bully; poor, harmless Willie was the
victim; and Button Bowie, whose father was foreman to Bain's father,
was the toady. Bain founded his superiority on the fact that his father
was the largest farmer in the neighbourhood, and kept a gig. He was
conceited, brazen-faced, and loud. Coming forward, he cried, "Weel,
what's that little numskull, that dunce o' the hale schule, been sayin'
noo? He's gettin' stupider than ever."

Button, eager to curry favour with the son of his father's employer,
told him.

"Ye lee'in beggar," said Bain to Willie, as if in righteous
indignation, "hoo daur ye tell sic stories? Why, ye're sae stupid that
ye wadna ken a pigeon frae a hawk. Ye wadna ken a B from a bull's
fit;" and, so saying, he gave the little fellow a push which sent him
sprawling on the floor.

While some of the girls cried out "Shame," and Button Bowie sniggered,
Bob Fortune exclaimed, "Stop that, ye big coward. Strike ane o' yer ain
size. I tell the same story that Willie telt aboot what he saw this
mornin'. Ca' me a leer! Try't!"

"Ay, I'll try't," retorted Bain in a blustering voice.

"Just try't," repeated Bob.

"Ay, I'll try't, and dae't tae."

But now an explosive snore proclaimed that the master was waking, and
in an instant the scholars were intent on their slates and books, just
as if they had never stopped their studies; and the teacher himself
tried to look as if he had never been asleep, but had only shut his
eyes to think out some deep problem. A fine bit of acting on both sides!

After the scholars were dismissed, Bob and Willie went to do some
errands at the village shops, and then they took their way homewards.
When they came to the foot of the avenue, whom should they see but Bain
and Bowie looking up at the chaffinch's nest? "Oh, ho!" cried Bain,
"so, this is yer precious nest;" and before they had any idea of what
was going to happen, the wretch had shot a stone with unerring aim, and
the ruins of the nest and the young birds, gasping out their little
lives, were lying on the hard ground. Willie burst into tears; but
Bob, rushing at the heartless rascal, thrashed him soundly, and ended
by throwing him down in a bed of nettles. Bain, starting up, ran to a
distance, and then threw a big stone which, had not Bob smartly ducked,
might have done serious damage. Bob, crying out, "Twa can play at that
game," sent after him a missile which hit him on the small of the back,
and he went howling round the corner, followed by his sympathising
spaniel, Button Bowie. Bob and Willie sorrowfully gathered up the
murdered birds, and buried them in a tuft of moss, while the parents,
fluttering round, filled the air with their distressful notes.

The next day, Thursday, was the annual fast, which, in this primitive
village of Sandyriggs, was most rigidly observed. As the preparation
for the solemn rites of the communion, it was considered even more
sacred than the Sabbath itself. Any secular work or any amusement on
such a day was considered to be an act of desecration. There is a story
still handed down, that a stranger, who was passing through the village
on a Fast Day, and who chanced to whistle, was stoned by the natives,
and obliged to run for his life. I myself distinctly remember my horror
when I saw two boys on such an occasion playing at marbles. I trembled
lest lightning should fall from heaven, and strike them dead. But of
late, there were some bold spirits who regarded this day as a mere
human institution, and, therefore, not binding upon them. Bob Fortune's
father was one of these. On principle, neither he nor his children went
to church on a Fast Day. And thus it happened that Bob had told Willie
that he was going on the morrow to see his big brother fish in the
loch.

On the forenoon of the Fast Day, George Torrance, silent and serious,
like a man bent on living up to a high ideal, set out with all his
family to church. It was a brilliant summer day, and as they went along
Willie could not help occasionally giving vent to his delight, when a
golden butterfly wavered across his path, or a lark sprang up singing
from a neighbouring grass field. But his unseasonable joy was frowned
down by his father; and his mother said, "For ony sake, laddie, mind
whatna day it is." When they came to the loch, there was Bob Fortune
in the distance. He had taken off his shoes, and was lying on his back
on the grass, and luxuriating in the sunshine. On seeing them, he rose
up and waved to them. Willie had soon good reason for remembering that
action. For the rest of his life, the image of the bright boy waving
his hand never left his memory.

The services that day in the church, in which George Torrance was
an elder, were solemn and long. First of all, the minister of the
congregation, Mr. Peden, went up into the pulpit, gave out a psalm
to be sung, and offered up a long prayer. Then, while a second psalm
was being sung, he gave place to a reverend brother, Mr. Herd, of
the Byres, who, not satisfied with the prayer already given, thought
it necessary to engage in another of equal length. The sermon came
next, severely doctrinal, many-headed, long-tailed; and then a short
prayer and a psalm concluded the forenoon service. Mr. Torrance, in
the interval, led his family to a room in a private house, where
they silently lunched on _baps_ and ale. The afternoon service was a
repetition of that of the forenoon, with one of the long prayers left
out.

Some people of the present day may be inclined to sneer at this service
as "weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable." But to the intelligent
and pious rustics who had few books, it was an intellectual and a
spiritual treat, which edified and refreshed them. Their most heartfelt
associations clustered round the church and its worship, and they could
sing with genuine feelings the lines of the psalm:

 "Blessed are they in Thy courts that dwell,
       They ever give Thee praise."

A great mistake, however, was made in subjecting mere children to these
ordinances. It was thought, indeed, that the preaching of the Word,
though not understood, was bound to touch them and foster within them
a love of religion. The very reverse, however, was often the result.
Their bodies were wearied out, their minds were stupefied, and they
formed disagreeable associations with the church, which were sometimes
never dispelled.

Willie Torrance, in the afternoon especially, passed through a very
disagreeable ordeal. He sat on a high, hard seat with his feet dangling
in the air. Under the influence of the heat of the crowded church,
and the monotonous tones of the minister, he fell fast asleep. Then
he was roughly awakened by a nudge from his father, and a kick from
his brother; and his mother whispered to him, "Sit up, and listen to
the minister." The poor lad, rubbing his eyes, tried to obey her,
but he could not understand a single scrap of the sermon. It was as
meaningless and depressing to him as the moaning of the east wind at
the kitchen window on a wild winter night. What could he do, therefore,
but sit wearily, and allow his thoughts to stray to all sorts of
things, and, above all, wonder what Bob was doing at the loch side,
until the word "Amen" told him that the sermon was at last done, and
the end of his imprisonment near. What a welcome sound had that word
always been! It was the only part of a discourse that ever stirred
him; and even in a dead sleep he could hear it, and waken up with the
feeling that a wearisome ordeal was passed. Yet on that particular day
when he came out into the sunshine, he did not experience his usual
joy. A strange depression lay upon his spirits. He could not help
feeling that God was angry with him for not listening to the sermon,
and for not liking the church. He had also the apprehension that a
punishment was hanging over him, and on this occasion that apprehension
was fated to be realised.

On their way home, when they came near the loch, he saw that something
unusual had happened. A group of people were standing on the bank,
and talking excitedly; and two men, hurrying towards the village,
whispered something to his father, who was in front. He heard the name,
"Fortune," and in another minute he became conscious that a terrible
calamity had befallen him. His boy friend and protector was drowned.

Two young men, in the course of the day, had come to the loch, and had
got hold of a boat to have a row, and had invited Bob to go along with
them. When they were at some distance from the land, the two young men
fell into a dispute, and after the foolish manner of gawks, stood up
in the boat and had some horse-play. In an instant the boat was upset,
and the three occupants were in the water struggling for life. The
young men managed, with difficulty, to reach the shore; but the boy,
who was not a swimmer, could only cling to the bottom of the boat. For
some time he struggled to get out of the water on to the keel, crying
desperately all the while for help. But his brother could not swim,
and the two young men were either too tired or too timid to venture to
rescue him; and while they were standing wondering what they should
do, the poor lad, worn out with his ineffectual struggles, sank out of
sight. A minute afterwards, men from the neighbouring farm arrived in
another boat, but it was too late. All they could do now was to recover
the body. After an hour's dragging, it was found, placed on a barn
door, and covered with a cloak to be carried home. The Torrances, on
arriving at the loch side, saw the melancholy procession proceeding up
the road by the Mill Farm.

This terrible disaster fell upon Willie like a blow, and stunned him.
His powers were paralysed, and he could neither speak nor weep. He
saw the loch, the excited groups on the shore, and the muffled figure,
lying on the barn door, disappearing in the distance; but the whole
scene appeared to be a terrible nightmare. This stupor continued as he
walked home, and sat silent by the fire. But after he had gone to bed,
his mother heard him sobbing, and, in a voice half-choked with tears,
praying that God would restore to life his lost friend. And in the
morning he was really hopeful that his prayer would be answered. God
had raised the dead in past times, and why should He not do the same
now? And he actually waited for his daily companion, looking up the
pathway in the Back Planting, and expecting to see him, as formerly,
coming bounding down like a deer. But he waited and looked in vain, and
was obliged to set out for school alone.

As he went along the familiar road, his grief broke out afresh. Almost
every object reminded him of his best friend, who was gone, and would
never, never come again. He lingered awhile with a strange, melancholy
feeling over the ruins of the chaffinch's nest that still lay on the
road. There was one object, however, that he could not face, and that
was the cruel loch which had drowned his friend; and to escape it he
went round by the Myre Farm, and down the links. Then as he came near
the village, the thought suddenly flashed across his brain: What if Bob
should be there, if he should have recovered, and, for some reason,
gone to school by another way, and should be sitting waiting for him?
But alas! no such joyful experience awaited him, but another of a very
different kind.

There is a set of well-meaning but narrow-minded Christians, who take
a very paltry view of God's government of this vast and complicated
universe. They imagine that every calamity is a judgment, that it
is the punishment of some particular sin, and that this sin can be
identified. They are also convinced that it is their duty to call
attention to this calamity, and hold it up as a warning to their
fellow-men. And this they call "sanctifying the dispensation of
Providence." Mr Sloan was one of these; and when Willie entered, he
was beginning to read to his awestruck scholars a speech which his
minister, the Rev. Mr Moodie, of the Original Protesting Church, had
prepared for him:

"They were met," he said, "under the gloom of a sad calamity. One of
their number, while playing by the loch side on the Fast Day, had been
drowned. His heart bled for the poor boy cut off in the springtime of
his days. But while he owed a duty to the dead, he also owed a duty
to the living. He had now to tell them that God was reading to them a
terrible warning. Had this unfortunate boy been attending to his duty,
had he been at church, had he been observing the day set apart by God's
own people, he would still have been in the land of the living and the
place of hope. As it was, the punishment fell upon him in the midst of
his sin, and without any time for repentance he was sent before the
Great Judge. It was an awful thought, but if they believed the Bible it
was a thought that they could not help having, that their unfortunate
schoolmate was now bitterly repenting his neglect of ordinances in the
place of woe."

At the sound of these last three words, horror fell upon the young
listeners, and a childish voice was heard calling out, "It's a lee."

"Who said that?" cried the master, white with rage.

"William Torrance," cried the officious Christopher Bain, in a tone
of exultation; and, seizing the culprit by the collar, he dragged him
forward.

The master took the child by the throat, and shook him. "Now, sir! do
you know what you are saying? you are calling, not only my word, by the
Word of God a lie. Do you still say that what I said was a lie?"

"It's no true," said Willie, with flashing eyes, and a look of
determination on his childish features.

"Then," said the master, taking off his coat and pulling out the
_tawse_, "I must punish you, first for the offence, and then I must
flog you till you express your regret for what you have said."

Then was witnessed a spectacle which was not uncommon in that class of
schools--a man trying to beat what he called "human depravity" out of a
child, just as a housemaid beats the dust out of a dirty carpet. But,
in this case, the man failed in his task. The boy frequently writhed
as the cutting stripes fell upon him; but he shed not a single tear,
and kept his teeth resolutely clenched; and at every interval when he
was asked if he was not sorry, he kept repeating the phrase, "it's
no true." At last the master, puffing and perspiring, was obliged to
give in and sit down; and the small culprit stood before him, red and
dishevelled, but unsubdued.

"Go out of this school," panted forth, at last, the defeated pedagogue;
and the little lad, with a dignity beyond his years, took up his cap
and books, walked to the door, and deliberately shut it behind him. He
took the same way by which he had come in the early morning; and he
carried out his determination not to cry, till at the turning of the
road, he unexpectedly caught a glimpse of the loch. Then, before he was
aware, an uncontrollable paroxysm of grief came on, and when he arrived
at home he was sobbing hysterically. At first, he could not tell his
mother what was wrong; and it was only by persistent questioning
that she extracted from him all the details of the disaster. She was
struck dumb with consternation, and she could only wash his face,
brush his hair, and lay him down to rest on her own bed. But when
the family assembled at dinner, the horror which his crime excited
found expression. "It was an awfu' like thing," said the mother, "to
contradick the maister."

"Contradickin' the maister," said the father, "that was the least o't;
it was contradickin' the Word o' God."

"I wonder what the neibours will say," skirled the sister, "and Sawbath
the Sacrament. I'll never be able to gang forrit."

"It should be threshed oot o' him," growled the brother.

"And that's exactly what I'll dae," said the father; "bring the strap."

The mother, however, was instantly up in arms. She was in general an
obedient wife; but here her obedience found its limit. "'Tweel," she
cried, "ye'll dae naething o' the kind. The bairn's been hashed enough
already. The bluid's barkened on his skin, and his serk's stickin' to
his back;" and she took him in her arms as if to protect him.

Next morning his father told him that he must go back to the school and
apologise to the master; but that look of determination came again into
his youthful face, and he said, "No, I'll no gang." The father got hold
of the strap, seized him by the collar, and was about to flog him; but
stopped when he said, "Ye may kill me, but I'll no gang." The father
was startled and half afraid at this unprecedented rebellion. It was
something eerie and uncanny. He did not know what it might lead to. He
therefore desisted, and throwing the boy aside, said--

"Weel, I'm through wi' ye. I've dune a' that I can for ye; and if ye
gang to the bad, it's yer ain faut. But ye'll no eat the bread o'
idleness here. If ye wunna learn ye maun work. Ye maun gang and herd
the sheep in the Back Park."

And now was this little fellow made to suffer for his sin. His life
must have been very like that of an excommunicated one in the Catholic
times. His own father would not speak to him, and would not permit
him either to attend church or family worship. The neighbours stared
and shook their heads when he passed. His former school-fellows must
have been told to avoid him, for they never came near him. The only
sympathy he got, if it could be called sympathy, was from "auld Wull
Crabbie," the stone-breaker, who plied his hammer near the entrance
to the village. This wayside philosopher, shaggy-browed keen-eyed,
hook-nosed, perched upon a seat made of an upright stone with a bunch
of straw on the top of it, _knapped_ away at the "bing" before him;
and in the intervals of labour watched all that was going on. From
every stranger that passed he levied some bit of information, and to
every acquaintance that came near he imparted some sarcastic comment.
In fact, he was a cynic, a true follower of Diogenes, scorning the
luxuries which never came to him, and finding his true luxury in
criticising severely the failings of his fellow-creatures.

One morning when Willie was passing, Wull, fixing his ferret-like eyes
upon him, said, "And sae, laddie, ye were bold enough to ca' auld Sloan
a leer. Ye stupid shaver, dae ye no ken that dominies and ministers
never tell lees. They're perfeck. Did ye ever hear them confess that
they were ever wrang? Na! Dod I come to think that they must have been
present at the creation, and that they brocht awa wi' them the Mawker's
plans, and hae packed them a' into the twa buirds o' the Confession o'
Faith. But, toots, what am I sayin'? I'm jist haverin'. Wha am I, to
sit in judgment upon men o' that kind? It's aye best to be ceevil, as
the auld wife said when she bobbit to the deevil;" and with that he
made a fierce blow at a stone and said no more.

For several months Willie continued to be a herd-boy. It was thought
a degradation by his father; but he himself felt it to be the
reverse. After the bondage and oppression of Sloan's school, what an
unspeakable relief it was! He had now the freedom--a freedom which
should be the birthright of every young creature--to wander about over
the green earth and under the blue sky, to drink in the fresh air and
sunshine, to notice all the beauties of beast, and bird, and flower,
and to share in the general banquet of joy provided by nature. And
another pleasure altogether unexpected awaited him.

One Sunday morning, as he was setting out for the Back Park, his mother
said to him that, as it was the Sabbath day, he should take his Bible
with him and read it as he herded the sheep. To please her, although
the method of his education had given him unpleasant associations
connected with the Book, he put it in his pocket; and in the afternoon,
as he lay on the grass in a listless mood, he took it out and opened
it. Now, it chanced that the passage which caught his eye was the
history of Abraham, and before he was almost aware, he was reading it
attentively. He could not master some of the hard names and allusions;
but he knew enough to understand and appreciate the narrative. Here
was a discovery: The Bible, after all, was not a collection of hard
names and difficult passages fitted only to puzzle and torment school
children. It was a delightful story-book. So he continued to read it
day after day. Surrounded as he was with pastoral associations, he
dwelt with especial delight on the pastoral scenes in Genesis. In fact,
he was never tired of reading them. What a wonderful magic lies in a
book which enabled this Scottish shepherd lad in the nineteenth century
to enter into the lives and feelings of those primitive shepherd kings
of the East! In his own little way he fancied he saw them and heard
them speak. He often found himself placing the scenes of the principal
events in the pastures that lay before him. For instance, a large
beech standing by itself was the tree under which Abraham pitched his
tent; a pleasant meadow in the distance was the field where Isaac was
meditating at the eventide, when "he lifted up his eyes and saw, and
behold, the camels were coming;" and the watering-place at the foot of
the Back Park was the well where "Jacob kissed Rachel, and lifted up
his voice and wept." This was literally bringing ancient history home
to him.

When the winter was coming on, Willie's mother saw that something must
be done for his education. Now, there was in Sandyriggs another school
of much higher standing than Sloan's, and the master of it, Mr Fairful,
was college-bred, and had the very highest character for intelligence
and Christian philanthropy. She, therefore, resolved to apply to him.
He was very likely, she thought, to refuse to take her scapegrace,
through fear of his contaminating the other children; but at any rate
she must do something for the boy. So, one morning, with Willie in
her hand, she knocked at the door of the school and asked to see the
master. When he came out, he looked so frank, genial, and kind, that
she had no hesitation in telling him all about her child.

"I know all about the case," he said. "No doubt the lad was wrong; but
those that provoked him were still more to blame. There are certain
religious questions so mysterious that they should never be handled,
especially before the young. What we have got to do, is to set people
on the right road in this world: we should never attempt to fix their
everlasting destiny in the next." Then, taking Willie by the hand, and
looking at him kindly, he added: "I'll be happy to receive him, and
do what I can for him." Mrs Torrance thanked him warmly, and went away
very much relieved.

As time passed on, Mrs Torrance fancied that she saw a change for the
better in Willie. He became tidier, and was more particular in washing
his face and hands and brushing his hair; and on Sabbath evenings he
was often seen reading the Bible. But, on the other hand, very little
time seemed to be devoted by him to the preparation of his lessons. On
the long winter nights he was usually engrossed with a book, entitled
"Natural History of Beasts, Birds, and Fishes," poring over its pages,
and copying on paper its pictures of animals; and when the lightsome
evenings of spring came, he was almost always out of doors, playing
with the tenants of the farmyard, or roving through the woods in search
of nests. His big brother, in that masterful tone generally assumed by
big brothers, often asked him, "Hoo are ye gettin' on at the schule?"
But the invariable answer was "fine." "What dae ye mean by _fine_?" the
brother demanded. "Ou, jist fine," was all the reply.

At length came the time when the school year was to be closed with
the public examination. It was a great event; for not only were the
pupils to be examined in presence of the public, but the prizes were
to be decided on the spot by the voices of the scholars themselves.
This method, though common enough in those days, seems to us rough and
ready, and apt to lead to favouritism. Yet it seldom failed to arrive
at the right decision. The fact was, that the best pupils generally
stood out unmistakably; and when there was any doubtful case, the
teacher had ways and means of turning opinion in the right direction.

The parents were respectfully invited to be present at this ceremony.
Mrs Torrance resolved to go; but it was with fear and trembling.
She was afraid that Willie would fail in his examination, and bring
disgrace upon her before the public. He was such a queer laddie, and
had never brought them anything like credit. And when she went into the
schoolroom, and saw the company assembled, her feeling rose to alarm.
There were the laird's wife, Mrs Campion, and the parish minister's
sister, Miss MacGuffog, and the wife of the principal grocer and of the
principal baker, Mrs Figgins and Mrs Cook, and many others. There were
several ministers, black-coated, white-necktied, solemn-faced. Above
all there was the Rev. Mr MacGuffog, who had denounced Willie from the
pulpit. Oh, what a countenance he had, self-denying and holy without
doubt, but oh, so hard and so devoid of ordinary sympathy! There was
no saying what this fanatical man might think it his duty to do. He
might seize this opportunity of catechising her son and exposing his
deficiencies before the assembled company.

The examination, however, went on quietly; and when Willie's class
came forward a pleasant surprise awaited her. There was her boy at the
top, happy and intelligent, catching encouragement from the teacher's
eye, and answering every question. She could not believe that it was
the same lad who was so silent, and often so stupid-looking, at home.
With flushed cheeks and bright eyes he actually appeared good-looking.
His very hair seemed no longer red, but auburn. And when the time came
for his class-fellows to award the prizes, there was just one name on
their lips, and that was "William Torrance"; and the three rewards,
for English, Bible Knowledge, and Arithmetic respectively, all went
to him. And how shall I describe her emotions when the exhibition was
over, and all the principal people--Mrs Campion, Mrs Figgins, Mrs
Cook, the ministers, and among them Mr MacGuffog himself--came up to
congratulate her! The tears were in her eyes, her heart was in her
mouth, and she could scarcely frame words wherewith to thank them.

Then the teacher, Mr Fairful, came up, and shaking her hand, told her
how gratified he was by Willie's success. "The poor boy," he said, "had
been very much misunderstood. He had within him a keen desire to know
all about the natural objects around him--human beings, beasts, and
birds. Instead of gratifying this desire, those who should have known
better tried to cram him with tasks that had no interest for him. The
consequence was that he became disgusted, and wore what was considered
a sullen and stupid look. But when he came to us, we gave him lessons
that were not only interesting, but referred to the familiar scenes
around him. Therefore, he devoured them eagerly, and became a most
diligent scholar. And then it was that the information about country
sights and sounds, which of his own accord he had collected, became of
use to him and gave him an advantage over his fellows. A young human
soul, in fact, is a rosebud full of delightful possibilities. Keep it
in a chilly atmosphere, and it will never develop itself properly, and
will very likely become a canker. Surround it with bright and genial
influences, and it will gradually open wide its petals, and delight the
world with its grace, fragrance, and splendour."

"But, sir, he did not spend much time over his lessons at night."

"No," replied Mr Fairful, "we do not approve of long home lessons. If
children give all their attention at school for four or five hours a
day, that should nearly be enough. They should then be allowed to enjoy
their own freedom, to run about and use their eyes, their limbs, and
their lungs, and to learn what their parents and Mother Nature herself
can teach them. You need have no anxiety about your son. Leave him to
himself, and he will develop his talents in his own way, and if he is
spared he will yet be a credit to you."

The master's prophecy was fulfilled. Twenty years afterwards, a lecture
on "The Poetry of Science" was given in Sandyriggs. The lecturer
was the eminent professor, Dr William Torrance, from Canada; and the
lecture-hall was that very church where he had been denounced as a Boy
Heretic.




HOW THE DEACON BECAME AN ABSTAINER.


About sixty years ago a stranger arrived in the burgh, who at once
attracted notice. His name was Mitchell Roper, wholesale brazier; but
everyone called him "The Deacon." Why he was called so, nobody knew;
and, indeed, nobody inquired, for it was felt that such a special man
required a special title.

The truth is that it was his face which at once struck public
attention. His face was really his fortune. What his character was,
I cannot describe better than by saying, that it was ineffably
respectable. Not only all the ten commandments, but all the Christian
doctrines, seemed to be written on it. As a natural result, there came
very soon to be a demand for it. Those who were getting up a public
meeting said to him, "You must give us your countenance." At every
public gathering, therefore, it was seen in a prominent place, like
the full harvest moon in the sky, or rather (to be more correct) like
one of his own copper kettles on a farmer's kitchen wall. And on the
mere strength of it, and for no other reason, the Deacon was made, in
a very short time, a member of the parochial board, a town councillor,
and an elder in the parish church. In this last capacity especially,
his influence was potent. Whenever it was his turn to stand at the
plate, the collection was nearly double; for when such a sublimely
religious visage was regarding them, the members were ashamed to put
in the regulation halfpenny. At funerals, too, his presence lent
solemnity. The very way in which he partook of the wine that was handed
round, gave the company the impression, that he was paying a tribute of
respect to the deceased and showing his sympathy with the survivors.

In spite of his popularity, the Deacon, like every other great man,
was modest and conciliatory. He had a good word to say about all,
especially those in high places. "An excellent man, sir," was the
comment which he invariably passed when one of these was mentioned.
With him an influential position was like charity: it covered a
multitude of sins. He was particularly obsequious to the minister of
the parish, Mr Patullo, for he regarded him as the local representative
of Church and State, and national institutions generally.

There was one national institution (if we may be allowed to call it
so) which the Deacon assiduously kept up, namely, the practice of
closing the labours of the day with a tumbler of toddy. Every evening,
punctually at ten, as soon as family worship was over and the Bibles
were removed, the servant lassie, Eesie, put down on the table whisky,
sugar, and hot water. This operation was gone about in such a serious
way, that a stranger might have fancied that it was another religious
rite which was about to be performed. And if we may judge from the
grave manner in which he proceeded to mix the elements, the Deacon
evidently thought so too. His wife, indeed, who had not the same
reverence for her great husband as the outside world had, tried to
limit his allowance of spirits to "one glass and an _eke_." But, as
he whispered to himself, he was a sound Whig and could not abide any
but Liberal measures. Accordingly, as soon as her back was turned, he
dexterously tilted up the bottle and swelled the quantity of spirits;
and if she chanced to remark that the colour of the toddy was stronger
than usual, he would asseverate in his gravest manner, "only one and
an _eke_, my dear." He did not think it necessary to explain that
they differed in their notions of the word _eke_. To her mind it
meant merely half a glass, to his mind an addition _ad libitum_. A
wonderfully accommodating term!

In fact, the Deacon belonged to the old school of worthies commemorated
by Lord Cockburn and Dean Ramsay, who practised drinking as a virtue,
and who considered whisky as an indispensable necessary of life,--a
salve for the body, a balm for the heart, a clarifier for the mind,
a solder of friendship, a good omen at births and marriages, and a
consolation at funerals. In other words, he was about the last relic of
those thorough-going topers who found in almost every circumstance of
life a reason for drinking. As he was mixing his toddy he would say,
"It is a fine old custom, sir," and then (altering Shakespeare to suit
his meaning) he would add, 'A custom more honoured in the observance
than in the breach.' He had heard of a new-fangled set of men called
teetotallers, who condemned drinking on any occasion whatever, but he
classed them with those poor creatures--idiots and savages--who had
not yet come into the use of all the blessings of civilisation, and
did not know what was good for them. Little did he think that he was
destined to become a member of that very body which he so much despised.

The New Year festivities, or, as they were called in Scotland,
"the daft days," had come. In Fife, the great day of the feast was
Handsel Monday, that is, the Monday after old New Year's Day. It was
dedicated to complete relaxation from toil and care, and to the kindly
interchange of good wishes and hospitality. Men forgot for a time that
they were rivals struggling for existence, and remembered only that
they were Christians. They threw off the hard armour of selfishness,
and appeared in the guise of charity. Every mansion, every farm-house
was turned into a sort of banqueting hall, and was well supplied
with comforting viands: oatmeal cakes and cheese for the children,
and currant loaves, shortbread, wine and spirits for the adults. No
invitations were sent out, but everyone was made heartily welcome.
And what a pleasant sight it was to see the merry, chubby-faced
tackety-shoed _jockies_ and _jennies_ going their rounds,--the boys in
their well-darned corduroys, the girls in their white _daidlies_, the
infants of a year old hoisted on the backs of their brothers, and all
carrying pokes to hold the quarter cakes and _whangs_ of cheese, which
they were sure to get at every farm-town.

Of the adults who kept up these old-fashioned festivities, there was
none more faithful than the Deacon. For several years, at Handsel
Monday time, he had been accustomed to travel ten miles into the
country, starting on Sunday at mid-day, and returning on Tuesday
forenoon. His ostensible purpose was to eat his Handsel Monday dinner
with one friend, Mr Stark of Kingswell, and his Handsel Monday supper
with another friend, Mr Piper of Hallyetts; but he also made it his
business to call by the way at many houses, both public and private.
Some irreverent wag compared him on these occasions to a Dutch lugger,
putting in at every available port for the purpose of victualling;
but he felt himself to be a sort of missionary going forth to promote
good-will and good-fellowship among men. Sociality, he held, was a
virtue which ought to be encouraged for the sake of the dispenser as
well as of the receiver. "It is twice blessed: it blesseth him that
gives, and him that takes."

On the particular occasion to which this story refers, the Deacon was
accompanied by his nephew, Sam Slater. As they set out after forenoon
service on a sombre Sunday, they presented a striking contrast. The
Deacon was stout, and full and red in the face; Sam was little, and had
a lean and hungry look. The Deacon was heavy with a sense of his own
dignity; Sam was light and airy as a bird upon the tree. The Deacon was
bent upon taking advantage of every possible refreshment by the way;
Sam was on the alert to mark the solemn excuses which would be given
for this indulgence. It was Bully Bottom led on by tricksy Puck.

They had not gone far before the refreshing process commenced. At the
outskirts of the town, when they were passing a small change-house, the
Deacon, giving a shiver, said, "I feel cold; prevention is better than
cure; let us fortify ourselves against a chill by a timely dram." And
this accordingly they did.

They had travelled four miles, and after climbing a steep hill they had
arrived at Baidlin Toll Inn, when the Deacon stopped, and, wiping his
perspiring forehead, said, "We must go in here, and cool ourselves with
a little of the national beverage."

When they were drinking it, Sam, with a twinkle in his eye, said, "It's
strange that we should take our first dram to warm us, and our second
to cool us."

"No," replied the Deacon, gravely, "not at all strange; good whisky,
sir, is a cure for almost every complaint. It's a sympathetic,
comforting friend that fits into all our wants. Yes sir! it fits into
all our wants;" and he took a large gulp, and smacked his lips.

The next place of entertainment was at the Cross Roads, three miles
farther on. As they came up to it, Sam hurried on and passed the door;
but the Deacon, telling him to stop, said, in a voice quavering with
emotion, "This house is kept, sir, by a decent woman, Mrs Dowie, who
has just lost her husband. It was a sudden call, and my heart bleeds
for her. This is not a time to forget the widow and the fatherless. Let
us go in, and give her our sympathy." The sympathy was expressed by
quaffing two glasses to her very good health.

The only other inn on the way was the well-known house at Inverarden
Bridge, near the church and manse.

"Surely," said Sam, as they came up to the inn, "we need not go in
here. This house is not kept by a widow."

"This house," said the Deacon, ignoring the gibe, "was used by my
honoured father during his journeys for twenty years, and for his son
to pass the door would imply disapproval of his conduct. In these
radical times, sir, we should not desert the old paths. Besides," he
added, rising into a higher tone, "an inn is a public institution,
sanctioned by the magistrates, and paying taxes to uphold the Church
and State. As loyal subjects of the King, we must support it."

So in they went, and, fortified by what they imbibed, were able to
reach Kingswell, an old-fashioned farm-house surrounded by ancient
trees.

That evening the Deacon, with his impressive personality, fairly
took possession of the house and its inmates. At tea his face, under
the influence of buttered toast, scones, savoury ham, and new-laid
eggs, literally shone like a lamp, self-feeding and self-adjusting.
Then, seated in the farmer's easy chair beside the fire, he directed
the conversation to famous preachers, as a subject appropriate for
the evening; and when one minister after another was mentioned, he
signified his approval of each by saying, "A workman not needing to
be ashamed," or, "A polished shaft in the temple." There was, perhaps,
a want of variety about these judgments, but they were uttered with
such an air of wisdom that they appeared perfectly conclusive. At nine
he "took the Books," and conducted family worship in a manner which
satisfied everybody. The servant, Kirstie Clash, whispered to Sam,
"He's a wonderfu' man that deacon o' yours. He has eneuch o' unction
and command o' Scripter to sair a haill Presbytery." And when he
retired for the night, after partaking of a liberal tumbler, it was
with the air of a man that had left no duty unperformed.

Next day was one of those mild and sunny gleams that sometimes fall
on the sterile landscape of winter, like the memory of some youthful
pleasure on the face of an old man. The Deacon rose in the morning like
a giant refreshed, and with a giant's appetite.

After a breakfast of ham and eggs and cold fowl, he said to his host,
Mr Stark, "By the by, you have a new neighbour at Myreside, Mr Potter.
I should like to call upon him."

"Do you know Mr Potter?" asked Mr Stark.

"Not exactly," replied the Deacon, "but he is a relative of my friend,
Councillor Tawse."

"Your friend!" exclaimed Sam Slater, in a tone of surprise; "why,
Councillor Tawse is your greatest enemy."

"Municipally, but not socially," said the Deacon. "We disagree at
the council board, but we make it up at the festive board; and even
although he were my enemy, should we not, especially at this season,
return good for evil?"

There was no gainsaying this high religious reasoning, and so the
Deacon, accompanied by his host and Sam, called at Myreside; and there
they were entertained with shortbread, currant loaf, and whisky; and
there the Deacon, like a well-oiled machine, performed the conventional
task of wishing health and prosperity to the household. But it was at
the dinner, which took place at mid-day at Kingswell, where the great
man came out in his full strength. After the turkey and plum-pudding,
his soul seemed to melt and flow forth in benevolent expression. He
proposed toast after toast, he uttered sentiment after sentiment, he
christened each toast and sentiment with a liberal libation of toddy,
and he got into such a full flow of sociality that it was a difficult
task to stop him. At last, when the gloaming was coming on, Sam started
up and said that they must set out at once. They were to return
homewards by a different road, and stay all night with a hospitable
friend, Mr Piper of Hallyetts, who lived at a village half way on their
journey.

After a most impressive farewell to Mr Stark and his family, the Deacon
took Sam's arm, and proceeded on his way. He had been wound up so
tightly by the festivities of the day that he was not yet nearly run
down; and as he went on, he descanted warmly upon the hospitalities
and virtues of the people they had left. And when Sam, in his own
mischievous mood, began to sneer at toast-drinking, and to wonder
how the swallowing of liquor could have any effect upon the health
and prosperity of other people, the Deacon grew red with righteous
indignation.

"Sam," he explained, "I am astonished at your ignorance. The Bible,
sir, says that wine maketh glad the heart of man. In other words, it
fills the heart with kindly social feeling. This feeling finds its
legitimate outlet in kind wishes towards our fellow-men; and what are
kind wishes but prayers; and are you such an unbeliever, sir, as to
hold that prayers have no effect?"

There was only one public-house by the way; and the whisky which they
got there was pronounced by the Deacon to be disgraceful. But he told
Sam to cheer up, for they would soon be at a house where they would
have every comfort. And then he went off into a eulogy on his friend
Piper. "He is a good Samaritan, sir, and his home is a perfect haven
of rest; and as for his whisky, it's the balm of Gilead, soothing the
wounds of both soul and body."

But, alas for human expectations! When they arrived at Hallyetts, and
were welcomed warmly by Mr and Mrs Piper and their family, and when
they had been ushered into the dining-room where the table was laid
for supper, the Deacon stood aghast. So stands the country gentleman
when he steps out of his mansion on a May morning expecting to see
nothing but beauty and warmth, and finds the landscape under a sheet of
chilling snow. Instead of the warm, heart-cheering decanters that were
wont to be there, the Deacon beheld nothing but _cauldrife_ bottles
of soda water. Was it possible? Was he not mistaken? No, it was too
true! The well-remembered, much-comforting Glenlivet was gone! He sank
speechless into a chair. He turned red and then white. His friends in
alarm gathered round him, asking him if he were ill. He could only
whisper, "Brandy, for heaven's sake!"

"I'm very sorry," said Mr Piper, "but we have not a drop of spirits or
wine in the house. Did you not hear that we have become abstainers? I
thought that all our friends had heard it."

The Deacon could only answer with a look,--a look of pity not unmingled
with contempt.

"The fact is," continued Mr Piper, "we were so appalled when our
cousin, poor Ned Venters, while under the influence of drink, murdered
his wife, that we took the pledge at once."

"Your cousin's vile disposition," said the Deacon, in feeble tones,
"was the cause of the crime,--not the drink, unless it was bad. Good
sound whisky can't make a man a murderer. It makes him more amiable."

"As Christians," said Mr Piper, "we felt that we were bound to give up
strong drink, which causes our brother to err."

"As Christians," retorted the Deacon, still feebly, "we are commanded
to celebrate the communion, and while celebrating the communion, we
are commanded to drink wine. Your appeal to Christianity won't hold
water."

"Come, come, Deacon," said Mr Piper, "have a cup of tea. It will do
you more good than brandy, and then you'll go to bed and you'll be all
right in the morning."

"No bed for me," murmured the Deacon. "If I was to try to sleep here
in my present condition, there would be a _corp_ in your house before
morning. I'll go home. Come, Sam, we'll find the needed medicine in
some humble change-house by the wayside." So saying, the Deacon rose,
got his hat, and in a dignified, but (it must be confessed) rather a
staggery manner, went out of the house, closely followed by Sam.

Next morning the Deacon awoke with the feeling that he was in unknown
quarters. He opened his eyes, and saw that he was in a strange room.
For a moment the thought flashed through his brain, "Can this be
me?" But the sight of his well-known pantaloons lying on a chair,
and in a rather muddy plight, restored his consciousness of personal
identity. He rose and looked out at the window, but saw nothing
except a few outhouses and a strip of garden, all of which were
unfamiliar. He dressed himself hastily, and opened the door of the
room, but found himself in a passage where there was no sight or
sound of anybody. He crept quietly along, and finding a room door
open, entered it. There was no one in it. It was evidently a parlour,
bright and comfortable, with a clear fire in the grate, and with the
walls covered with numerous pictures and sketches. And what was this
paper on the table? It was a sketch of a figure. He took it up; and,
could he believe his eyes? Yes! rough and hasty though it was, it was
a representation of himself in a state of stupor--hair dishevelled,
eyes swollen and closed, features distorted, mouth open, jaw hanging
down; and underneath it was written "A Drunken Sot." Could this be the
countenance of which he was so proud, and which, his admirers said,
was the embodiment of respectability? As he looked at it, he felt that
his good name was gone, and the perspiration fell in drops from his
forehead. What enemy could have done this?

He was still wondering, when steps were heard approaching, and he had
just time to push away the picture, when there stood in the doorway the
very last man whom at that moment he would have wished to see--the
Rev. Mr Patullo. And this gentleman behaved in an extraordinary manner.
Not a smile of recognition did he give. Not a word did he utter. He
merely sat down and gazed sorrowfully on the Deacon. His feelings were
evidently too strong for words. The silence continued for about a
minute. It was an awful minute for the Deacon. He felt that he ought to
speak; but he really could not do it till he knew where he was; and it
would be a most humiliating question to ask, "Where am I?"

At last the minister broke the oppressive silence. In that slow, deep,
and funereal tone for which he was famous, he repeated again and
again just one word--"Lost! Lost! Lost!" and then stopped. This was a
favourite method of his, which he often used at the beginning of his
sermon, and which at once riveted and solemnised his congregation. And
on this occasion it sounded in the Deacon's ears like the voice of
Doom. Then after an awful pause, the minister continued:

"This is terrible, Mr Roper, terrible for me, and still more terrible
for you. I came here yesterday to dine and stay the night with my
friend, Mr Virtue, the artist. We were sitting at supper, when
intelligence arrived that a gentleman of respectable appearance had
dropped down by the roadside, and that his friend who was with him was
unable to take him any farther. He was brought in, and you may imagine
what was my horror when I found that the gentleman was my friend and
chief elder, and that he was in a plight which I can't trust myself to
describe. Now, as I must bring this matter before the Kirk Session--"

"Oh! Mr Patullo, you surely will never do that."

"I must. I would be quite unworthy of my place if I did not do it. If
it were not your own case, you yourself would advise that. You remember
how severe you were upon poor Willie Flett, who was up before us last
month. But before I make up my mind definitely, I shall listen to any
explanation you have to give."

The Deacon, fortunately for himself, had long cultivated the faculty of
putting the best face on every matter, and this faculty now served him
in good stead. So, shaking Mr Patullo's hand, and wiping a tear from
his eye, he said, "Thank you, sir, you are acting as my best friend,
as you have always done. I will, therefore, tell you frankly the whole
matter. Sam Slater and I were keeping our Handsel Monday at Kingswell.
I am not an abstainer, as you know, and have always used the gifts
of Providence without abusing them. At dinner I had my share of the
punch, but no more, and when we set out I was perfectly well. But,
unfortunately, at a half-way house where we stopped for refreshment,
the whisky was bad. As soon as I had taken it, I felt ill, and said
so to Sam. It was some time before it acted; but at length it made me
quite sick and helpless. Mr Patullo! it was poison and not drink that
put me into such a sad condition! I was really ill, not intoxicated."

Mr Patullo hummed and hawed, and said, "Would you object to me hearing
what Mr Sam Slater has got to say?"

"Nothing would gratify me more," said the Deacon, although he did not
look as if he were gratified. The fact is, that he was not sure on what
line the whimsical Sam might get.

When Sam came in and was asked point blank by the minister, "How do
you account for the state in which Mr Roper was last night?" it seemed
as if he were going to put his foot into it. Blushing and hesitating
he said, "Well! really I could not undertake to say." But when the
minister asked him if they got anything at the roadside public-house
which disagreed with them, he saw what cue he was to take.

"Ah! yes," he said, brightening up, "I remember now--the bad whisky.
The Deacon, after drinking it, said that it was atrocious. It had no
bad effect at first; but when we were in Mr Piper's house, I noticed
that the Deacon turned as white as a sheet, and when we came out into
the open air, he became so sick that he had to sit down by the wayside.
Yes, it must have been the adulterated drink that poisoned him."

"But how was it that you were not poisoned?" asked the minister.

"For the simple reason," answered Sam, "that I merely put the stuff to
my lips and did not take off my glass."

"Well," said the minister, after some anxious consideration, "as a
Christian pastor I must take the most charitable view; and even as
a humane man, I must, where there is a doubt, give the accused the
benefit of a doubt. I therefore will agree to make no charge against
you. But you must take means instantly to prevent yourself ever falling
into such suspicious circumstances again."

"How can I do that?" asked the Deacon.

"By taking the pledge," replied the minister: "not publicly--just now
at least, that might rouse people's suspicion, but privately to myself.
I shall draw up a paper here to-day, which you will sign, and to which
Mr Slater will append his name as a witness. I shall then explain to
the people of the house that you were ill, not intoxicated, and that to
prevent the uncharitable world putting the worst construction on the
circumstance, they must mention this lamentable occurrence to nobody."

But the Deacon demurred, and turned sick at the idea of taking the
pledge. What! he who had upheld moderate drinking as the right use of
the mercies of Providence, and had branded total abstainers as casting
a reflection on Him who turned water into wine!

Mr Patullo, however, in a resolute voice said, "Mr Roper, if you could
have seen yourself as others saw you last night--but what is this?" He
had caught sight of the sketch on the table, had taken it up and was
looking at it. "This is the work of Tom, Mr Virtue's son. He is an art
student, and sketches everybody and everything. It was too bad of him
to take advantage of you in your unfortunate plight. But its turning
up just now, at this critical moment, serves a good purpose. It gives
you the power which Burns so much desired for mankind--the power of
seeing yourself as others see you. Look at it, Mr Roper, and listen to
me. What happened yesterday may happen again in your own town. You may
take a glass too much, and that glass, like the one that has made you
ill, may be poison. And what will be the result? You will appear before
your fellow-townsmen, your fellow-Christians, your own wife, in this
disgusting condition. Your ruin will then be instant and irretrievable.
The high character which you have maintained for so many years will
fall to pieces; and from being the respected and admired of Sandyriggs
society, you will become, what you are represented here to be, 'a
drunken sot.'"

The Deacon shuddered at the prospect thus held up before him, and
seizing Mr Patullo's hands, declared that he was ready to sign a
promise, renouncing drink for ever.

The Deacon was able to keep his promise; for, if he ever felt tempted
to stretch forth his hand towards the enchanted cup, the thought of
that horrible sketch appalled him and quenched the desire. He now gave
his countenance to every teetotal platform; and if that countenance had
lost the florid complexion which at one time had been so much admired,
yet it still beamed with wisdom. He seldom spoke, but his silence was
far more expressive than his speech would have been. His usual luck
also attended him. He was now pointed out as a fine specimen of a
self-sacrificing Christian, one who had given up all the delights of
convivial society, of which he was a great favourite, in order to set
an example to his weaker brethren.


THE END.


_Printed by_ M'Farlane & Erskine, _Edinburgh_.




_MORISON BROTHERS' PUBLICATIONS._


FIRST SERIES. Third and Popular Edition.

The Auld Scotch Sangs.

Arranged and Harmonised by SINCLAIR DUNN.

Containing 96 Scotch Songs with Pianoforte Accompaniments.

 Paper Covers,                 2/6
 Cloth (Gilt Boards),          3/6
 Leather, Limp (Gilt Edges),   7/6
 Silk Clan Tartan,            10/6

(Special Tartans bound to order.)


SECOND SERIES. Just Published.

Auld Scotch Sangs and Ballads.

Arranged and Harmonised by SINCLAIR DUNN.

Containing 96 Scotch Songs with Pianoforte Accompaniments.

 Paper Covers,                 2/6
 Cloth (Gilt Boards),          3/6
 Leather, Limp (Gilt Edges),   7/6
 Silk Clan Tartan,            10/6

(Special Tartans bound to order.)


COMPLETE EDITION IN ONE VOLUME OF

Auld Scotch Sangs

AND

Auld Scotch Sangs and Ballads.

Arranged and Harmonised by SINCLAIR DUNN.

Containing

192 Scotch Songs with Pianoforte Accompaniments.

 CLOTH (Gilt Boards), 6/-
 LEATHER (Limp), 10/6
 SILK CLAN TARTAN, 15/-

(Special Tartans Bound to Order.)

Complete Illustrated Catalogue Post Free on Application.


JUST PUBLISHED.

Fcap. 4to. Art Linen Illustrated Boards, Gilt Top, with 16
Illustrations, 237 pages.

Price 6/-

SKETCH-BOOK OF THE NORTH.

By GEORGE EYRE-TODD.

Illustrated by A.S. Boyd, A. Monro, S. Reid, and Harrington Mann.

"A handsome and beautifully illustrated book, worthily preserving Mr
Todd's graceful and pleasant prose from oblivion."--_Scotsman._

"A very handsome book."--_Glasgow Herald._

"We cannot imagine a more acceptable gift to an exiled Scot or an
artistically inclined Sassenach."--_North British Daily Mail._

"It would not be too much to say that an Englishman, desiring an
intimate knowledge of Scotland and its people, would gain it more
readily by reading Mr Eyre-Todd's book than he would by becoming a
student of the Kailyard Academy."--_Academy._

"An exceptionally delightful book."--_New Saturday._

"The book is one that is likely to find its way into every patriotic
and cultured home in Scotland."--_Scottish Society._


Works of Scottish Humour and Pathos.

By NICHOLAS DICKSON.

 _NEW EDITION._      Cloth, 2s.      Postage, 4-1/2d.

 THE ELDER AT THE PLATE                              }
                                                     }
 A Collection of Anecdotes and Incidents relating to }
 Church-door Collections.                            }  One
                                                     }  Vol.
 and                                                 }
                                                     }
 THE KIRK BEADLE.                                    }
                                                     }
 A Collection of Anecdotes and Incidents relating to }
 the Minister's Man.                                 }


 THE AULD SCOTCH MINISTER           }
                                    }
 As sketched in Anecdote and Story. }
                                    }  One
 and                                }  Vol.
                                    }
 THE AULD SCOTCH PRECENTOR.         }
                                    }
 As sketched in Anecdote and Story. }


Morison Brothers, 52 Renfield Street, Glasgow.