And with children he's a regular Pied Piper."

Elizabeth came into the room and heard the last words.

"Is Father telling you about Mr. Jamieson? He's one of the people

who'll be very 'far ben' in the next world; but when you know my father

better, Mr. Stevenson, you will find that when a goose happens to

belong to him it is invariably a swan. His church, his congregation,

his house, his servants, his sons----"

"Even his slack-tongued and irreverent daughter," put in Mr. Seton.

"Are pretty nearly perfect," finished Elizabeth. "It is one of the

nicest things about Father."

"There is something utterly wrong about the young people of this age,"

remarked Mr. Seton, as he looked at his watch; "they have no respect

for their elders. Dear me! it's late. I must get to my sermon."

"You must come again, Mr. Stevenson," said Elizabeth. "It has been so

nice seeing you."

And Mr. Stevenson had, perforce, to take his leave.

"A very nice fellow," said Mr. Seton, when the visitor had departed.

"A very personable young man," said Elizabeth, "but some day he'll get

himself cursed, I'm afraid, for he doesn't know when to withdraw his

foot from his neighbour's house. Half-past six! Nearly Buff's

bed-time!" and as Mr. Seton went to his study Elizabeth flew to see

what wickedness Buff had perpetrated since tea.

_CHAPTER VII_

"How full of briars is this working-day world!"

_As You Like It_.

It was Monday morning.

Buff was never quite his urbane self on Monday morning. Perhaps the

lack of any other occupation on Sabbath made him overwork his

imagination, for certainly in the clear cold light of Monday morning it

was difficult to find the way (usually such an easy task) to his own

dream-world with its cheery denizens--knights and pirates, aviators and

dragons. It was desolating to have to sup porridge, that was only

porridge and not some tasty stew of wild fowl fallen to his own gun, in

a dining-room that was only a dining-room, not a Pirate's Barque or a

Robber's Cave.

On Monday, too, he was apt to be more than usually oppressed by his

conviction of the utter futility of going to school when he knew of at

least fifty better ways of spending the precious hours. So he kicked

the table-leg and mumbled when his father asked him questions about his

lessons.

Ellen coming in with the letters seemed another messenger of Satan sent

to buffet him. Time was when he had been Mercury to his family, but

having fallen into the pernicious practice of concealing about his

person any letters that took his fancy and forgetting about them till

bed-time brought them to light, he was deposed. The memory rankled, and

he gloomily watched the demure progress of Ellen as she took the

letters to Elizabeth.

"Three for you, Father," said Elizabeth, sorting them out, "and three

for me. The Indian letters are both here."

"Read them, will you?" said Mr. Seton, who disliked deciphering letters

for himself.

"I'll just see if they're both well and read the letters afterwards if

you don't mind. We'll make Buff late. Cheer up, old son" (to that

unwilling scholar). "Life isn't all Saturdays. Monday mornings are

bound to come. You should be glad to begin again. Why, the

boys"--Walter and Alan were known as "the boys"--"wouldn't have thought

of sitting like sick owls on Mondays: they were pleased to have a fine

new day to do things in."

Buff was heard to ejaculate something that sounded like "Huch," and his

sister ceased her bracing treatment and, sitting down beside him, cut

his bread-and-butter into "fingers" to make it more interesting. She

could sympathise with her sulky young brother, remembering vividly, as

she did, her own childish troubles. Only, as she told Buff, coaxing him

the while to drink his milk, it was Saturday afternoon she abhorred. It

smelt, she said, of soft soap and of the end of things. Monday was

cheery: things began again. Why, something delightful might happen

almost any minute: there was no saying what dazzling adventures might

lurk round any corner. The Saga of Monday as sung by Elizabeth helped

down the milk, cheered the heart of Buff, and sent him off on his daily

quest for knowledge in a more resigned spirit than five minutes before

had seemed possible. Then Elizabeth gathered up the letters and went

into the study, where she found her father brooding absorbed over the

pots of bulbs that stood in the study windows. "The Roman hyacinths

will be out before Christmas," he said, as he turned from his beloved

growing things and settled down with a pleased smile to hear news of

his sons.

Alan's letter was like himself, very light-hearted. Everything was

delightful, the weather he was having, the people he was meeting, the

games he was playing. He was full of a new polo-pony he had just bought

and called Barbara, and he had also acquired a young leopard, "a jolly

little beast but rank."

"Buff will like to hear about it," said Elizabeth, as she turned to

Walter's letter, which was more a tale of work and laborious days.

"Tell Father," he finished, "that after bowing in the house of Rimmon

for months, I had a chance yesterday of attending a Scots kirk. It was

fine to hear the Psalms of David sung again to the old tunes. I have

always held that it was not David but the man who wrote the metrical

version who was inspired."

"Foolish fellow," said Mr. Seton.

Elizabeth laughed, and began to read another letter. Mr. Seton turned

to his desk and was getting out paper when a sharp exclamation from his

daughter made him look round.

Elizabeth held out the letter to him, her face tragic.

"Aunt Alice is mad," she said.

"Dear me," said Mr. Seton.

"She must be, for she asks if we can take her nephew Arthur Townshend

to stay with us for a week?"

"A very natural request, surely," said her father. "It isn't like you

to be inhospitable, Elizabeth."

"Oh! it isn't that. Any ordinary young man is welcome to stay for

months and months, but this isn't an ordinary young man. He's the sort

of person who belongs to all the Clubs--the best ones I mean--and has a

man to keep him neat, and fares sumptuously every day, and needs to be

amused. And oh! the thought of him in Glasgow paralyses me."

Mr. Seton peered in a puzzled way at the letter he was holding.

"Your aunt appears to say--I wish people would write plainly--that he

has business in Glasgow."

Elizabeth scoffed at the idea.

"Is it likely?" she asked. "Why, the creature's a diplomatist. There's

small scope for diplomatic talents in the South Side of Glasgow, or

'out West' either."

"But why should he want to come here?"

"He _doesn't_, but my demented aunt--bless her kind heart!--adores him,

and she adores us, and it has always been her dream that we should meet

and be friends; but he was always away in Persia or somewhere, and we

never met. But now he is home, and he couldn't refuse Aunt Alice--she

is all the mother he ever knew and has been an angel to him--and I dare

say he is quite good-hearted, though I can't stand the type."

"Well, well," said Mr. Seton, by way of closing the subject, and he

went over to the window to take a look at the world before settling

down to his sermon. "Run away now, like a good girl. Dear me! what a

beautiful blue sky for November!"

"Tut, tut," said Elizabeth, "who can think of blue skies in this

crisis! Father, have you thought of the question of _drinks_?"

"Eh?"

"Mr. Townshend will want wine--much wine--and how is the desire to be

met in this Apollinaris household?"

"He'll do without it," said Mr. Seton placidly. "I foresee the young

man will be a reformed character before he leaves us;" and he lifted

Launcelot from its seat on the blotter, and sat down happily to his

sermon.

Elizabeth shook her head at her provokingly calm parent, and picking up

the kitten, she walked to the door.

"Write a specially good sermon this week," she advised. "Remember Mr.

Arthur Townshend will be a listener," and closed the door behind her

before her father could think of a dignified retort.

Mrs. Henry Beauchamp, the "Aunt Alice" who had dropped the bombshell in

to the Seton household, was the only sister of Elizabeth's dead mother.

A widow and childless, she would have liked to adopt the whole Seton

family, Mr. Seton included, had it been possible. She lived most of the

year in London in her house in Portland Place, and in summer she joined

the Setons in the South of Scotland.

Arthur Townshend was her husband's nephew. As he had lived much abroad,

none of the Setons had met him; but now he was home, and Mrs. Beauchamp

having failed in her attempt to persuade Elizabeth to join them in

Switzerland, suggested he should pay a visit to Glasgow.

Elizabeth was seriously perturbed. Arthur Townshend had always been a

sort of veiled prophet to her, an awe-inspiring person for whom people

put their best foot foremost, so to speak. Unconsciously her aunt had

given her the impression of a young man particular about trifles--"ill

to saddle," as Marget would put it. And she had heard so much about his

looks, his abilities, his brilliant prospects, that she had always felt

a vague antipathy to the youth.

To meet this paragon at Portland Place would have been ordeal enough,

but to have him thrust upon her as a guest, to have to feed him and

entertain him for a week, her imagination boggled at it.

"It's like the mountain coming to Mahomet," she reflected. "Mahomet

must have felt it rather a crushing honour too."

The question was, Should she try to entertain him? Should she tell

people he was coming, and so have him invited out to dinner, invite

interesting people to meet him, attempt elaborate meals, and thoroughly

upset the household?

She decided she would not. For, she argued with herself, if he's the

sort of creature I have a feeling he is, my most lofty efforts will

only bore him, and I shall have bored myself to no purpose; if, on the

other hand, he is a good fellow, he will like us best _au naturel_. She

broke the news to Marget, who remained unmoved.

"What was guid eneuch for oor ain laddies'll surely be guid eneuch for

him," she said.

Elizabeth explained that this was no ordinary visitor, but a young man

of fashion.

"Set him up!" said Marget; and there the matter rested.

Everything went wrong that day, Elizabeth thought, and for all the

untoward events she blamed the prospective visitor. Her father lost his

address-book--that was no new thing, for it happened at least twice a

week, but what was new was Elizabeth's cross answer when he asked her

to find it for him. She wrangled with sharp-tongued Marget (where she

got distinctly the worse of the encounter), and even snapped at the

devoted Ellen. She broke a Spode dish that her mother had prized, and

she forgot to remind her father of a funeral till half an hour after

the hour fixed.

Nor did the day ring to evensong without a passage-at-arms with Buff.

In the drawing-room she found, precariously perched on the top of one

of the white book-cases, a large unwashed earthy pot.

"What on earth----" she began, when Buff came running to explain. The

flower-pot was his, his and Thomas's; and it contained an orange-pip

which, if cherished, would eventually become a lovely orange-tree.

"Nonsense," said Elizabeth sharply. "Look how it's marking the enamel;"

and she lifted the clumsy pot. Buff caught her arm, and between them

the flower-pot smashed on the floor, spattering damp earth around. Then

Elizabeth, sorely exasperated, boxed her young brother's ears.

Buff, grieved to the heart at the loss of his orange-tree, and almost

speechless with wrath at the affront offered him, glared at his sister

with eyes of hate, but "You--you _puddock_!" was all he managed to say.

Elizabeth, her brief anger gone, sat down and laughed helplessly.

Thomas grubbed in the earth for the pip. "By rights," he said gloomily,

"we would have had oranges growing mebbe in a month!"

_CHAPTER VIII_

"I do desire it with all my heart: I hope it is no dishonest desire to

desire to be a woman of the world."

_As You Like It_.

There are many well-kept houses in Glasgow, but I think Jeanieville was

one of the cleanest. Every room had its "thorough" day once a fortnight

and was turned pitilessly "out." Every "press" in the house was a model

of neatness; the very coal-cellar did not escape. The coals were piled

in a neat heap; the dross was swept tidily into a corner; the

briquettes were built in an accurate pile.

"I must say," Mrs. Thomson often remarked, "I like a tidy coal-cellar;"

and Jessie, who felt this was rather a low taste, would reply, "You're

awful eccentric, Mamma."

On the first and fourth Thursdays of the month Mrs. Thomson was "at

home"; then, indeed, she trod the measure high and disposedly.

On these auspicious days Annie the servant, willing but "hashy," made

the front-door shine, and even "sanded" the pillars of the gate to

create a good impression. The white steps of the stairs were washed,

and the linoleum in the lobby was polished until it became a danger to

the unwary walker. Dinner set agoing, Mrs. Thomson tied a large white

apron round her ample person and spent a couple of hours in the kitchen

baking scones and pancakes and jam-sandwiches, while Jessie, her share

of the polishing done, took the car into town and bought various small

cakes, also shortbread and a slab of rich sultana cake.

By half past two all was ready.

Mrs. Thomson in her second best dress, and Jessie in a smart silk

blouse and skirt, sat waiting. Mrs. Thomson had her knitting, and

Jessie some "fancy work." The tea-table with its lace-trimmed cloth and

silver tray with the rosy cups ("ma wedding china and only one saucer

broken") stood at one side of the fireplace, with a laden cake-rack

beside it, while a small table in the offing was also covered with

plates of eatables.

There never was any lack of callers at Jeanieville. It was such a

vastly comfortable house to call at. The fire burned so brightly, the

tea was so hot and fresh, the scones so delicious, and the shortbread

so new and crimpy; and when Mrs. Thomson with genuine welcome in her

voice said, "Well, this is real nice," no matter how inclement the

weather outside each visitor felt the world a warm and kindly place.

Mrs. Thomson enjoyed her house and her handsome furniture, and

desired--and hoped it was no dishonest desire--to be a social success;

but her kindest smile and heartiest handshake were not for the

sealskin-coated ladies of Pollokshields but for such of her old friends

as ventured to visit her on her Thursdays, and often poor Jessie's

cheeks burned as she heard her mother explain to some elegant suburban

lady, as she introduced a friend:

"Mrs. Nicol and me are old friends. We lived for years on the same

stair-head."

Except in rare cases, there was no stiffness about the sealskin-ladies,

and conversation flowed like a river.

On this particular Thursday four females sat drinking tea with Mrs.

Thomson and her daughter out of the rosy cups with the gilt

garlands--Mrs. Forsyth and Mrs. Macbean from neighbouring villas, and

the Misses Hendry whom we have already met. Mrs. Forsyth was a typical

Glasgow woman, large, healthy, prosperous, her face beaming with

contentment. She was a thoroughly satisfactory person to look at, for

everything about her bore inspection, from her abundant hair and her

fresh pink face, which looked as if it were rubbed at least once a day

with a nice soapy flannel, to her well-made boots and handsome clothes.

Her accent, like Mrs. Thomson's, was Glasgow unabashed.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Thomson, two lumps. Did you notice in the papers

that my daughter--Mrs. Mason, you know--had had her fourth? Ucha, a

fine wee boy, and her only eight-and-twenty! I said to her to-day,

'Mercy, Maggie,' I said, 'who asked you to populate the earth?' I just

said it like that, and she _laughed_. Oh ay, but it's far nicer--just

like Papa and me. I don't believe in these wee families."

Mrs. Macbean, a little blurred-looking woman with beautiful sables,

gave it as her opinion that a woman was never happier than when

surrounded by half a dozen "wee ones."

Mrs. Forsyth helped herself to a scone.

"Home-made, Mrs. Thomson? I thought so. They're lovely. Speaking about

families, I was just saying to Mr. Forsyth the other night that I

thought this was mebbe the happiest time of all our married life. It's

awful nice to marry young and to be able to enjoy your children. I was

twenty and Mr. Forsyth was four years older when we started."

"Well, well," said Mrs. Thomson. "You began young, but you've a great

reason for thankfulness. How's Dr. Hugh?"

"Hugh!" said his mother, with a great sigh of pride; "Hugh's well,

thanks."

"He's a cliver young man," said Mrs. Thomson. "It's wonderful how he's

got on."

"Mrs. Thomson, his father just said to me this morning, '_Whit_ a

career the boy's had!' At school he got every prize he could have got,

and at college he lifted the Buchanan Prize and the Bailie Medal; then

he got the Dixon Scholarship, and--it sounds like boasting, but ye know

what I mean--the Professors fair fought to have him for an assistant,

and now at his age--at his age, mind you--he's a specialist on--excuse

me mentioning it--the stomach and bowels."

Everyone in the room murmured their wonder at Dr. Hugh's meteoric

career, and Mrs. Macbean said generously, "You should be a proud woman,

Mrs. Forsyth."

"Oh! I don't know about that. How are your girls? Is Phemie better?"

"I didn't know she was ill," said Mrs. Thomson.

Mrs. Macbean's face wore an important look, as she said with a sort of

melancholy satisfaction, "Yes, she's ill, Mrs. Thomson, and likely to

be ill for a long time. And you wouldn't believe how simply it began.

She was in at Pettigrew & Stephens', or it might have been Copland &

Lye's; anyway, it was one of the Sauchiehall Street shops, and she was

coming down the stairs quite quietly--Maggie was with her--when one of

the young gentlemen shop-walkers came up the stairs in a kinda hurry,

and whether he pushed against Phemie, I don't know, and Maggie can't be

sure; anyway, she slipped. She didn't fall, you know, or anything like

that, but in saving herself she must have given herself a twist--for

I'll tell you what happened."

There was something strangely appetising in Mrs. Macbean as a talker:

she somehow managed to make her listeners hungry for more.

"Well, she didn't say much about it at the time. Just when she came in

she said, joky-like, 'I nearly fell down the stairs in a shop to-day,

Mother, and I gave myself quite a twist.' That was all she said, and

Maggie passed some remark about the gentleman in the shop being in a

hurry, and I thought no more about it. But about a week later Phemie

says to me, 'D'ye know,' she says, 'I've got a sort of pain, nothing

much, but it keeps there.' You may be sure I got the doctor quick, for

I'm niver one that would lichtly a pain, as ye might say, but he

couldn't find anything wrong. But the girl was niver well, and he said

perhaps it would be as well to see a specialist. And I said,

'Certainly, doctor, you find out the best man and Mr. Macbean won't

grudge the money, for he thinks the world of his girls.' So Dr. Rankine

made arrangements, and we went to see Sir Angus Johnston, a real swell,

but such a nice homely man. I could have said _anything_ to him--ye

know what I mean. And he said to me undoubtedly the trouble arose from

the twist she had given herself that day."

"And whit was like the matter?" asked Miss Hendry, who had listened

breathless to the recital.

"Well," said Mrs. Macbean, "it was like this. When she slipped she had

put something out of its place and it had put something else out of its

place. I really can't tell you right what, but anyway Sir Angus

Johnston said to me, 'Mrs. Macbean,' he said, 'your daughter's

liver'--well, I wouldn't just be sure that it was her liver--but anyway

he said it was as big as a tea-kettle."

"Mercy!" ejaculated the awed Miss Hendry, who had no idea what was the

proper size of any internal organ.

"Keep us!" said Mrs. Thomson, who was in a similar state of ignorance.

"A tea-kettle, Mrs. Macbean!"

"A tea-kettle," said Mrs. Macbean firmly.

"Oh, I say!" said Jessie. "That's awful!"

Mrs. Macbean nodded her head several times, well pleased at the

sensation she had made.

"You can imagine what a turn it gave me. Maggie was with me in the

room, and she said afterwards she really thought I was going to faint.

I just kinda looked at the man--I'm meaning Sir Angus--but I could not

say a word. I was speechless. But Maggie--Maggie's real bright--she

spoke up and she says, 'Will she recover?' she says, just like that.

And he was nice, I must say he was awful nice, very reassuring. 'Time,'

he says, 'time and treatment and patience'--I think that was the three

things, and my! the patience is the worst thing."

"But she's improving, Mrs. Macbean?" asked Mrs. Forsyth.

"Slowly, Mrs. Forsyth, slowly. But a thing like that takes a long time."

"Our Hugh says that the less a body knows about their inside the

better," said healthy Mrs. Forsyth.

"That's true, I'm sure," agreed Mrs. Thomson. "Mrs. Forsyth, is your

cup out? Try a bit of this cake."

"Thanks. I always eat an extra big tea here, Mrs. Thomson, everything's

that good. Have you a nurse for Phemie, Mrs. Macbean?"

Mrs. Macbean laid down her cup, motioning Jessie away as she tried to

take it to refill it, and said solemnly:

"A nurse, Mrs. Forsyth? Nurses have walked in a procession through our

house this last month. And, mind you, I haven't a thing to say against

one of them. They were all nice women, but somehow they just didn't

suit. The first one had an awful memory. No, she didn't forget things,

it was the other way. She was a good careful nurse, but she could say

pages of poetry off by heart, and she did it through the night to

soothe Phemie like. She would get Phemie all comfortable, and then

she'd turn out the light, and sit down by the fire with her knitting,

and begin something about 'The stag at eve had drunk its fill,' and so

on and on and on. She meant well, but who would put up with that? D'you

know, that stag was fair getting on Phemie's nerves, so we had to make

an excuse and get her away. Then the next was a strong-minded kind of a

woman, and the day after she came I found Phemie near in hysterics, and

it turned out the nurse had told her she had patented a shroud, and it

had given the girl quite a turn. I don't wonder! It's not a nice

subject even for a well body. Mr. Macbean was angry, I can tell you, so

_she_ went. The next one--a nice wee fair-haired girl--she took

appendicitis. Wasn't it awful? Oh! we've been unfortunate right enough.

However, the one we've got now is all right, and she considers the

servants, and that's the main thing--not, mind you, that I ever have

much trouble with servants. I niver had what you would call a real bad

one. Mine have all been nice enough girls, only we didn't always happen

to agree. Ye know what I mean?"

"Ucha," said Mrs. Thomson. "Are you well suited just now, Mrs. Macbean?"

"Fair, Mrs. Thomson, but that's all I'll say. My cook's is a Cockney! A

real English wee body. I take many a laugh to myself at her accent. I'm

quite good at speakin' like her. Mr. Macbean often says to me, 'Come

on, Mamma, and give us a turn at the Cockney.' Oh! she's a great

divert, but--_wasteful!_ It's not, ye know what I mean, that we grudge

the things, but I always say that having had a good mother is a great

disadvantage these days. My mother brought me up to hate waste and to

hate dirt, and it keeps me fair miserable with the kind of servants

that are now."

Mrs. Thomson nodded her head in profound agreement; but Mrs. Forsyth

said:

"But my! Mrs. Macbean, I wouldna let myself be made miserable by any

servant. I just keep the one--not that Mr. Forsyth couldn't give me two

if I wanted them, but you can keep more control over one. She gets

everything we get ourselves, but she knows better than waste so much as

a potato peel. I've had Maggie five years now, and it took me near a

year to get her to hang the dishcloths on their nails; but now I have

her real well into my ways, and the way she keeps her range is a treat."

Presently Mrs. Forsyth and Mrs. Macbean went away to make other calls,

and Mrs. Thomson and her two old friends drew near the fire for a cosy

talk.

"Sit well in front and warm your feet, Miss Hendry. Miss Flora, try

this chair, and turn back your skirt in case it gets scorched. Now,

you'll just stay and have a proper tea and see Papa. Yes, yes," as the

Miss Hendrys expostulated, "you just will. Ye got no tea to speak of,

and there's a nice bit of Finnan haddie----My! these 'at home' days are

tiring."

"They're awful enjoyable," said Miss Flora rather wistfully. "Ye've

come on, Mrs. Thomson, since we were neighbours, but I must say you

don't forget old friends."

"Eh, and I hope I never will. The new friends are all very well,

they're kind and all that, but a body clings to the old friends. It was

you I ran to when Rubbert took the croup and I thought we were to lose

him; and d'ye mind how you took night about with me when Papa near

slipped away wi' pneumonia? Eh, my, my! ... Jessie's awful keen to be

grand; she's young, and young folk havena much sense. She tells me I'm

eccentric because I like to see that every corner of the house is

clean. She thinks Mrs. Simpson's a real lady because she keeps three

servants and a dirty house. Well, Papa's always at me to get another

girl, for of course this is a big house--we have the nine rooms--but

I'll not agree. Jessie's far better helping me to keep the house clean

than trailing in and out of picture houses like the Simpsons. The

Simpsons! Mercy me, did I not know the Simpsons when they kept a wee

shop in the Paisley Road? And now they're afraid to mention the word

shop in case it puts anybody in mind. As I tell Jessie, there's nothing

wrong in keepin' a shop, but there's something far wrong in being

ashamed of it."

"Bless me," said Miss Hendry, who could not conceive of anyone being

ashamed of a shop. "A shop's a fine thing--real interesting, I would

think. You werena at the prayer-meeting last night?"

"No. I was real sorry, but there was a touch of fog, if you remember,

and Papa's throat was troublesome, so I got him persuaded to stay in.

Was Mr. Seton good?"

"_Fine,_" said Miss Hendry,--"fair excelled himself."

"Papa often says that Mr. Seton's at his best at the prayer-meeting."

"You're a long way from the church now, Mrs. Thomson," said Miss

Hendry. "You'll be speakin' about leaving one o' these days."

"Miss Hendry," said Mrs. Thomson solemnly, "that is one thing we niver

will do, leave that church as long as Mr. Seton's the minister. Even if

I had notions about a Pollokshields church and Society, as Jessie talks

about, d'ye think Mr. Thomson would listen to me? I can do a lot with

my man, but I could niver move him on that point--and I would niver

seek to."

"Well," said Miss Hendry in a satisfied tone, "I'm glad to hear you say

it. Of course we think there's not the like of our minister anywhere.

He has his faults. He niver sees ye on the street, and it hurts people;

it used to hurt me too, but now I just think he's seeing other things

than our streets.... And he has a kinda cold manner until ye get used

to it. He came in one day when a neighbour was in--a Mrs. Steel, she

goes to Robertsons' kirk--and she said to me afterwards, 'My! I wudna

like a dry character like that for a minister.' I said to her, 'I dare

say no' after the kind ye're used to, but I like ma minister to be a

gentleman.' Robertson's one o' these joky kind o' ministers."

"Well," said Miss Flora, who seldom got a word in when her sister was

present, "I'm proud of ma minister, and I'm proud of ma minister's

family."

"Yes," agreed her sister, "Elizabeth's a fine-lookin' girl, and awful

bright and entertainin'; it's a pity she canna get a man."

"I'm sure," said Mrs. Thomson, "she could get a man any day if she

wanted one. I wouldn't wonder if she made a fine marriage--mebbe an

M.P. But what would her father do wanting her? and wee David? She

really keeps that house _well_. I've thought an awful lot of her since

one day I was there at my tea, and she said to me so innerly-like,

'Would you like to see over the house, Mrs. Thomson?' and she took me

into every room and opened every press--and there wasn't a thing I

would have changed."

"Well," said Miss Hendry, "they talk about folk being too sweet to be

wholesome, like a frosted tattie, and mebbe Elizabeth Seton just puts

it on, but there's no doubt she's got a taking way with her. I niver

get a new thing either for myself or the house but I wonder what she'll

think about it. And she aye notices it, ye niver have to point it out."

"Yes," said Mrs. Thomson. "She's a grand praiser. Some folk fair make

you lose conceit of your things, but she's the other way. Did I tell

you Papa and me are going away next week for a wee holiday? Just the

two of us. Jessie'll manage the house and look after the boys. Papa

says I look tired. I'm sure that it's no' that I work as hard as I used

to work; but there, years tell, and I'm no' the Mrs. Thomson I once

was. We're going to the Kyles Hydro--it's real homely and nice."

"I niver stopped in a Hydro in my life," Miss Hendry said. "It must be

a grand rest. Nothing to do but take your meat."

"That's so," Mrs. Thomson admitted. "It gives you a kind of rested

feeling to see white paint everywhere and know that it's no business of

yours if it gets marked, and to sit and look at a fine fire blazing

itself away without thinkin' you should be getting on a shovel of

dross; and it's a real holiday-feeling to put on your rings and your

afternoon dress for breakfast."

Voices were heard in the lobby. Mrs. Thomson started up to welcome home

her husband, while Jessie announced to the visitors that tea was ready

in the parlour.

_CHAPTER IX_

"I have great comfort from this fellow."

_The Tempest._

On the afternoon of the Saturday that brought Arthur Townshend to

Glasgow Elizabeth sat counselling her young brother about his behaviour

to the expected guest. She drew a lurid picture of his everyday

manners, and pointed out where they might be improved, so that Mr.

Arthur Townshend might not get too great a shock. Buff remained quite

calm, merely remarking that he had never seen anyone called Townshend

quite close before. Elizabeth went on to remind him that any remarks

reflecting on the English as a race, or on the actions in history,

would be in extreme bad taste. This warning she felt to be necessary,

remembering how, when Buff was younger, some English cousins had come

to stay, and he had refused to enter the room to greet them, contenting

himself with shouting through the keyhole, "_Who killed William

Wallace?_"

Since then, some of his fierce animosity to the "English" had died

down, though he still felt that Queen Mary's death needed a lot of

explaining.

As his sister continued the lecture, and went into details about clean

nails and ears, Buff grew frankly bored, and remarking that he wished

visitors would remain at home, went off to find Thomas and Billy.

Mr. Seton, sitting with his sermon, unabatedly cheerful in spite of the

fact that a strange young man--a youth "tried and tutored in the

world"--was about to descend on his home, looked up and laughed at his

daughter.

"Let the boy alone, Lizbeth," he advised. "I see nothing wrong with his

manners."

"Love is blind," said Elizabeth. "But it's not only his manners; the

boy has a perfect genius for saying the wrong thing. Dear old Mrs.

Morton was calling yesterday, and you know what a horror she has of

theatres and all things theatrical. Well, when she asked Buff what he

was going to be, expecting no doubt to hear that he had yearnings after

the ministry, he replied quite frankly, 'An actor-man.' I had to run

him out of the room. Then he told Mrs. Orr there was nothing he liked

so much as fighting, so he meant to be a soldier. She said in her sweet

old voice, 'You will fight with the Bible, darling--the sword of the

Spirit.' 'Huh!' said Buff, 'queer dumpy little sword that would be.'"

Mr. Seton seemed more amused than depressed by the tale of his son's

misdeeds, and Elizabeth continued: "After all, what does it matter what

Mr. Arthur Townshend thinks of any of us? I've done my best for him,

and I hope the meals will be decent; but of course the thought of him

has upset Marget's temper. It is odd that when she is cross she _will_

quote hymns. I must say it is discouraging to make some harmless remark

about vegetables and receive nothing in reply but a muttered

'Teach me to live that I may dread

The grave as little as my bed.'"

"Elizabeth, you're an absurd creature," said her father. "Why you and

Marget should allow yourselves to be upset by a visit from an ordinary

young man I don't know. Dear me, _I'll_ look after him."

"And how do you propose to entertain him, Father?"

"Well, I might take him one day to see the glass-houses in the Park;

there is a beautiful show of chrysanthemums just now. I greatly enjoyed

it as I passed through yesterday. Then one morning we could go to the

Cathedral--and the Art Gallery and Municipal Buildings are very

interesting in their way."

"_Dear_ Father," said Elizabeth.

* * * * *

Mr. Arthur Townshend was expected about seven o'clock, and Elizabeth

had planned everything for his reception. Buff would be in bed, and

Thomas and Billy under the shelter of their own roof-tree. The house

would be tidy and quiet, the fires at their best. She herself would be

dressed early and ready to receive him.

But it happened otherwise.

Elizabeth, a book in hand, was sunk in a large arm-chair, a boy on each

of the chair-arms and one on the rug. It was getting dark, but the tale

was too breathless to stop for lights; besides, the fire was bright and

she held the book so that the fire-light fell on the page.

"Over the rock with them!" cried the Brigand Chief; and the men stepped

forward to obey his orders.

"Oow!" squealed Billy in his excitement.

"_Mr. Townshend_," announced Ellen.

No one had heard the sounds of his arrival. Elizabeth rose hastily,

sending Buff and Billy to the floor, her eyes dazed with fire-light,

her mind still in the Robbers' Cave.

"But the train isn't in yet," was her none too hospitable greeting.

"I must apologise," said the new-comer. "I came North last night to

catch a man in Edinburgh--his ship was just leaving the Forth. I ought

to have let you know, but I forgot to wire until it was too late. I'm

afraid I'm frightfully casual. I hope you don't mind me walking in like

this?"

"Oh no," said Elizabeth, vainly trying to smooth her rumpled hair. "Get

up, boys, and let Mr. Townshend near the fire; and we'll get some fresh

tea."

"Please don't. I lunched very late. I suppose one of these young men is

Buff?"

Ellen, meanwhile, had drawn the curtains and lighted the gas, and the

company regarded one another.

"A monocle!" said Elizabeth to herself, feeling her worst fears were

being realised, "and _beautifully_ creased trousers." (_Had_ Ellen

remembered to light his bedroom fire?) But, certainly, she had to admit

to herself a few minutes later, he knew how to make friends with

children. He had got out his notebook and was drawing them a

battleship, as absorbed in his work as the boys, who leaned on him,

breathing heavily down his neck and watching intently.

"A modern battleship's an ugly thing," he said as he worked.

"Yes," Billy agreed, "that's an ugly thing you're making. I thought a

battleship had lovely masts, and lots of little windows, and was all

curly."

"He's thinking," said Thomas, "of pictures of ships in poetry-books."

"I know," said Arthur Townshend. "Ballad ships that sailed to Norroway

ower the faem. This is our poor modern substitute."

"Now a submarine," Buff begged.

Arthur Townshend drew a periscope, and remarked that of course the rest

of the submarine was under water.

"Aw!" cried Buff; and the three sprang upon their new friend, demanding

further amusements.

But Elizabeth intervened, saying Thomas and Billy must go home, as it

was Saturday night. Thomas pointed out that Saturday night made no real

difference to him or Billy, and gave several excellent reasons for

remaining where he was; but, Elizabeth proving adamant, they went,

promising Mr. Townshend that he would see them early the next morning.

Buff was told to show the guest to his room (where, finding himself

well entertained, he remained till nearly dinner-time, when he was

fetched by Ellen and sent, bitterly protesting, to seek his couch), and

Elizabeth was left to tidy away the story-books and try to realize her

impressions.

Dinner went off quite well. The food, if simple, was well cooked; for

Marget, in spite of her temper, had done her best, and Ellen made an

efficient if almost morbidly painstaking waitress.

Elizabeth smiled to herself, but made no remark, as she watched her

pour water firmly into the guest's glass; and her father, leaning

forward, said kindly, "I think you will find Glasgow water particularly

good, Mr. Townshend; it comes from Loch Katrine."

Mr. Townshend replied very suitably that water was a great treat to one

who had been for so long a dweller in the East. Elizabeth found that

with this guest there was going to be no need of small talk--no

aimless, irrelevant remarks uttered at random to fill up awkward

silences. He was a good talker and a good listener.

Mr. Seton was greatly interested in his travellers' tales, and as

Elizabeth watched them honesty compelled her to confess to herself that

this was not the guest she had pictured. She liked his manner to her

father, and she liked his frank laugh. After all, it would not be

difficult to amuse him when he was so willing to laugh.

"I wonder," said Mr. Seton, as he pared an apple, "if you have ever

visited my dream-place?" He gave his shy boy's smile. "I don't know

why, but the very name spells romance to me--Bokhara."

"Yes--'that outpost of the infinitive.' I know it well; or rather I

don't, of course, for no stray Englishman can know a place like that

well, but I have been there several times.... I'm just wondering if it

would disappoint you."

"I dare say it might," said Mr. Seton. "But I'm afraid there is no

likelihood of my ever journeying across the desert to find my

'dream-moon-city' either a delight or a disappointment. But I keep my

vision--and I have a Bokhara rug that is a great comfort to me."

"When you retire, Father," broke in Elizabeth, "when we're done with

kirks and deacons'-courts for ever and a day, we shall go to Bokhara,

you and I. It will be such a nice change."

"Well, well," said her father, "perhaps we shall; but in the meantime I

must go to my sermon."

In the drawing-room Elizabeth settled herself in an arm-chair with some

needlework, and pointed out the cigarettes and matches to her guest.

"Don't you smoke?" he asked.

"No. Father would hate it: he doesn't ever smoke himself."

"I see. I say, you have got a lot of jolly prints. May I look at them?"

He proved very knowledgeable about the prints, and from prints they

passed to books, and Elizabeth found him so full of honest enthusiasm,

and with so nice a taste in book-people, that the last shreds of

distrust and reserve vanished, and she cried in her Elizabethan way:

"And actually I wondered what in the world I would talk to you about!"

Arthur Townshend laughed.

"Tell me," he said, "what subjects you had thought of?"

"Well," said she, sitting up very straight and counting on her fingers,

"first I thought I would start you on Persia and keep you there as long

as possible; then intelligent questions about politics, something

really long-drawn-out, like Home Rule or Women's Suffrage;

then--then--I _had_ thought of Ellen Wheeler Wilcox!"

Arthur Townshend groaned.

"_What_ sort of an idea had Aunt Alice given you of me?"

"Quite unintentionally," Elizabeth said, "she made you sound rather a

worm. Not a crawling worm, you understand, but a worm that reared an

insolent head, that would think it a horrid bore to visit a manse in

Glasgow--a side-y worm."

"Good Lord," said Mr. Townshend, stooping to pick up Elizabeth's

needlework which in her excitement had fallen on the rug, "this is not

Aunt Alice----"

"No," said Elizabeth, "it's my own wickedness. The fact is, I was

jealous--Aunt Alice seemed so devoted to you, and quoted you, and

admired everything about you so much, and I thought that in praising

you she was 'lychtlying' my brothers, so of course I didn't like you.

Yes, that's the kind of jealous creature I am."

The door opened, and Ellen came in with a tray on which stood glasses,

a jug of milk, a syphon, and a biscuit-box. She laid it on a table

beside her mistress and asked if anything else was needed and on being

told "No," said good-night and made her demure exit.

"Pretend you've known me seven years, and put a log on the fire,"

Elizabeth asked her guest.

He did as he was bid, and remained standing at the mantelpiece looking

at the picture which hung above it.

"Your mother, isn't it?" he asked. "She was beautiful; Aunt Alice has

often told me of her."

He looked in silence for a minute, and then went back to his chair and

lit another cigarette.

"I never knew my mother, and I only remember my father dimly. I was

only her husband's nephew, but Aunt Alice has had to stand for all my

home-people, and no one knows except myself how successful she has

been."

"She is the most golden-hearted person," said Elizabeth. "I don't

believe she ever has a thought that isn't kind and gentle and sincere.

I am so glad you had her--and that she had you. One can't help seeing

what you have meant to her...." Then a spark of laughter lit in

Elizabeth's grey eyes.

"Don't you love the way her sentences never end? just trail deliciously

away ... and her descriptions of people?--'such charming people, _such_

staunch Conservatives and he plays the violin so beautifully.'"

Arthur Townshend laughed in the way that one laughs at something that,

though funny, is almost too dear to be laughed at.

"That is exactly like her," he said. "Was your mother at all like her

sister?"

"Only in heart," said Elizabeth. "Mother was much more definite. People

always said she was a 'sweet woman,' but that doesn't describe her in

the least. She was gentle, but she could be caustic at times: she hated

shams. That picture was painted before her marriage, but she never

altered much, and she never got a bit less lovely. I remember once we

were all round her as she stood dressed to go to some wedding, and Alan

said, 'Are _you_ married, Mums?' and when she said she was, he cried

consolingly, 'But you would do again.'... I sometimes wonder now how

Mother liked the work of a minister's wife in Glasgow. I remember she

used to laugh and say that with her journeys ended in Mothers'

Meetings. I know she did very well, and the people loved her. I can see

her now coming in from visiting in the district, crying out on the

drabness of the lives there, and she would catch up Buff and dance and

sing with him and say little French nursery-songs to him, like a happy

school-girl. Poor little Buff! He doesn't know what a dreadful lot he

is missing. Sometimes I think I spoil him, and then I remember 'his

mother who was patient being dead.'"

The fire had fallen into a hot red glow, and they sat in silence

looking into it.

Presently the door opened, and Mr. Seton came in. He came to the fire

and warmed his hands, remarking, "There's a distinct touch of frost in

the air to-night, and the glass is going up. I hope it means that you

are going to have good weather, Mr. Townshend."

He helped himself to a glass of milk and a biscuit.

"Elizabeth, do you know what that brother of yours has done? I happened

to take down _The Pilgrim's Progress_ just now, and found that the

wretched little fellow had utterly ruined those fine prints by drawing

whiskers on the faces of the most unlikely people."

Mr. Seton's mouth twitched.

"The effect," he added, "is ludicrous in the extreme."

His listeners laughed in the most unfeeling way, and Elizabeth

explained to Mr. Townshend that when Buff was in fault he was alluded

to as "your brother," as if hers was the sole responsibility.

"Well, you know," said Mr. Seton, as he made the window secure, "you

spoil the boy terribly."

Elizabeth looked at Arthur Townshend, and they smiled to each other.

_CHAPTER X_

"If ever you have looked on better days,

If ever been where bells have knolled to church."

_As You Like It._

Mr. Seton's church was half an hour's walk from his house, and the

first service began at nine-forty-five, so Sabbath morning brought no

"long lie" for the Seton household. They left the house at a

quarter-past nine, and remained at church till after the afternoon

service, luncheon being eaten in the "interval."

Thomas and Billy generally accompanied them to church, not so much from

love of the sanctuary as from love of the luncheon, which was a

picnic-like affair. Leaving immediately after it, they were home in

time for their two-o'clock Sunday dinner with "Papa."

Elizabeth had looked forward with horror to the prospect of a Sunday

shut in with the Arthur Townshend of her imagination, but the actual

being so much less black than her fancy had painted she could view the

prospect with equanimity, hoping only that such a spate of services

might not prove too chastening an experience for a worldly guest.

Sabbath morning was always rather a worried time for Elizabeth. For one

thing, the Sabbath seemed to make Buff's brain more than usually

fertile in devising schemes of wickedness, and then, her father _would_

not hurry. There he sat, calmly contemplative, in the study while his

daughter implored him to remember the "intimations," and to be sure to

put in that there was a Retiring Collection for the Aged and Infirm

Ministers' Fund.

Mr. Seton disliked a plethora of intimations, and protested that he had

already six items.

"Oh, Father," cried his exasperated daughter, "what _is_ the use of

saying that when they've all to be made?"

"Quite true, Lizbeth," said her father meekly.

Mr. Seton always went off to church walking alone, Elizabeth following,

and the boys straggling behind.

"I'm afraid," said Elizabeth to Mr. Townshend, as they walked down the

quiet suburban road with its decorous villa-residences--"I'm afraid you

will find this rather a strenuous day. I don't suppose in Persia--and

elsewhere--you were accustomed to give the Sabbath up wholly to 'the

public and private exercises of God's worship'?"

Mr. Townshend confessed that he certainly had not.

"Oh, well," said Elizabeth cheeringly, "it will be a new experience. We

generally do five services on Sunday. My brother Walter used to say

that though he never entered a church again, his average would still be

higher than most people's. What king was it who said he was a 'sair

saunt for the Kirk'? I can sympathise with him."

They drifted into talk, and became so engrossed that they had left the

suburbs and had nearly reached the church before Elizabeth remembered

the boys and stopped and looked round for them.

"I don't see the boys. They must have come another way. D'you mind

going back with me to see if they're coming down Cumberland Street?"

It was a wide street, deserted save for a small child carrying

milk-pitchers, and a young man with a bowler hat hurrying churchwards;

but, as they watched, three figures appeared at the upper end. Thomas

came first, wearing with pride a new overcoat and carrying a Bible with

an elastic band. (He had begged it from the housemaid, who, thankful

for some sign of grace in such an abandoned character, had lent it

gladly.) Several yards behind Billy marched along, beaming on the world

as was his wont; and last of all came Buff, deep in a story, walking in

a dream. When the story became very exciting he jumped rapidly several

times backwards and forwards from the pavement to the gutter. He was

quite oblivious of his surroundings till a starved-looking cat crept

through the area railings and mewed at him. He stopped and stroked it

gently. Then he got something out of his trouser-pocket which he laid

before the creature, and stood watching it anxiously.

Elizabeth's eyes grew soft as she watched him.

"Buff has the tenderest heart for all ill-used things," she said,

"especially cats and dogs." She went forward to meet her young brother.

"What were you giving the poor cat, sonny?" she asked.

"A bit of milk-chocolate. It's the nearest I had to milk, but it didn't

like it. Couldn't I carry it to the vestry and give it to John for a

pet?"

"I'm afraid John wouldn't receive it with any enthusiasm," said his

sister. ("John's the beadle," she explained to Mr. Townshend.) "But I

expect, Buff, it really has a home of its home--quite a nice one--and

has only come out for a stroll; anyway, we must hurry. We're late as it

is."

The cavalcade moved again, and as they walked Elizabeth gave Mr.

Townshend a description of the meeting he was about to attend.

"It's called the Fellowship Meeting," she told him, "and it is a joint

meeting of the Young Men's and the Young Women's Christian Association.

Someone reads a paper, and the rest of us discuss it--or don't discuss

it, as the case may be. Some of the papers are distinctly good, for we

have young men with ideas. Today I'm afraid it's a wee young laddie

reading his first paper. The president this winter is a most estimable

person, but he has a perfect genius for choosing inappropriate hymns.

At ten a.m. he gives out 'Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,' or

again, we find ourselves singing

'The sun that bids us rest is waking

Our brethren 'neath the Western sky,'

--such an obvious untruth! And he chooses the prizes for the Band of

Hope children, and last year, when I was distributing them, a mite of

four toddled up in response to her name, and I handed her a

cheerful-looking volume. I just happened to glance at the title, and it

was _The Scarlet Letter_, by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I suppose he must

have bought it because it had a nice bright cover! Don't look at me if

he does anything funny to-day! I am so given to giggle."

The Fellowship Meeting was held in the hall, so Elizabeth led the way

past the front of the church and down a side-street to the hall door.

First, they all marched into the vestry, where coats could be left, and

various treasures, such as books to read in "the interval," deposited

in the cupboard. The vestry contained a table, a sofa, several chairs,

two cupboards, and a good fire; Mr. Seton's own room opened out of it.

Billy sat down on the sofa and said languidly that if the others would

go to the meeting he would wait to help Ellen lay the cloth for

luncheon, but his suggestion not meeting with approval he was herded

upstairs. As it was, they were late. The first hymn and the prayer were

over, and the president was announcing that he had much pleasure in

asking Mr. Daniel Ross to read them his paper on Joshua when they

trooped in and sat down on a vacant form near the door.

Mr. Daniel Ross, a red-headed boy, rose unwillingly from his seat on

the front bench and, taking a doubled-up exercise book from his pocket,

gave a despairing glance at the ceiling, and began. It was at once

evident that he had gone to some old divine for inspiration, for the

language was distinctly archaic. Now and again a statement, boyish,

abrupt, and evidently original, obtruded itself oddly among the flowery

sentences, but most of it had been copied painfully from some ancient

tome. He read very rapidly, swallowing audibly at intervals, and his

audience was settling down to listen to him when, quite suddenly, the

essay came to an end. The essayist turned a page of the exercise-book

in an expectant way, but there was nothing more, so he sat down with a

surprised smile.

Elizabeth suppressed an inclination to laugh, and the president,

conscious of a full thirty minutes on his hands, gazed appealingly at

the minister. Mr. Seton rose and said how pleasant it was to hear one

of the younger members, and that the paper had pleased him greatly.

(This was strictly true, for James Seton loved all things old--even the

works of ancient divines.) He then went on to talk of Joshua that

mighty man of valour, and became so enthralled with his subject he had

to stop abruptly, look at his watch, and leave the meeting in order to

commune with the precentor about the tunes.

The president asked for more remarks, but none were forthcoming till

John Jamieson rose, and leaning on his stick, spoke. An old man, he

said, was shy of speaking in a young people's meeting, but this morning

he felt he had a right, for the essayist was one of his own boys. Very

kindly he spoke of the boy who had come Sabbath after Sabbath to his

class: "And now I've been sitting at my scholar's feet and heard him

read a paper. It's Daniel Ross's first attempt at a paper, and I think

you'll agree with me that he did very well. He couldn't have had a

finer subject, and the paper showed that he had read it up." (At this

praise the ears of Daniel Ross sitting on the front bench glowed

rosily.) "Now, I'm not going to take up any more time, but there's just

one thing about Joshua that I wonder if you've noticed. _He rose up

early in the morning._ Sometimes a young man tells me he hasn't time to

read. Well, Joshua when he had anything to do rose up early in the

morning. Another man hasn't time to pray. There are quiet hours before

the work of the day begins. The minister and the essayist have spoken

of Joshua's great deeds, deeds that inspire; let me ask you to learn

this homely lesson from the great man, to rise up early in the morning."

The president, on rising, said he had nothing to add to the remarks

already made but to thank the essayist in the name of the meeting for

his "v'ry able paper," and they would close by singing Hymn 493:

"Summer suns are glowing

Over land and sea;

Happy light is flowing

Bountiful and free."

As they filed out Elizabeth spoke to one and another, asking about

ailing relations, hearing of any happenings in families. One boy, with

an eager, clever face, came forward to tell her that he had finished

Blake's _Songs of Innocence and Experience_, and they were fine; might

he lend the book to another chap in the warehouse? Elizabeth willingly

gave permission, and they went downstairs together talking poetry.

In the vestry Elizabeth paraded the boys for inspection. "Billy, you're

to _sit_ on the seat to-day, remember, not get underneath it."

"Buff, take that sweetie out of your mouth. It's most unseemly to go

into church sucking a toffee-ball."

"_Thomas!_ What is that in the strap of your Bible?"

"It's a story I'm reading," said Thomas.

"But surely you don't mean to read it in church?"

"It passes the time," said Thomas, who was always perfectly frank.

Mr. Seton caught Arthur Townshend's eye, and they laughed aloud; while

Elizabeth hastily asked the boys if they had their collection ready.

"The 'plate' is at the church door," she explained to Mr. Townshend.

"As Buff used to say, 'We pay as we go in.' Thomas, put that book in

the cupboard till we come out of church. Good boy: now we'd better go

in. You've got your intimations, Father?"

"Seton's kirk," as it was called in the district, was a dignified

building, finely proportioned, and plain to austerity. Once it had been

the fashionable church in a good district. Old members still liked to

tell of its glorious days, when "braw folk" came in their carriages and

rustled into their cushioned pews, and the congregation was so large

that people sat on the pulpit steps.

These days were long past. No one sat on the pulpit steps to hear James

Seton preach, there was room and to spare in the pews. Indeed, "Seton's

kirk" was now something of a forlorn hope in a neighbourhood almost

entirely given over to Jews and Roman Catholics. A dreary and

disheartening sphere to work in, one would have thought, but neither

Mr. Seton nor his flock were dreary or disheartened. For some reason,

it was a church that seemed difficult to leave. Members "flitted" to

the suburbs and went for a Sabbath or two to a suburban church, then

they appeared again in "Seton's kirk," remarking that the other seemed

"awful unhomely somehow."

Mr. Seton would not have exchanged his congregation for any in the

land. It was so full of character, he said; his old men dreamed dreams,

his young men saw visions. That they had very little money troubled him

not at all. Money was not one of the things that mattered to James

Seton.

Arthur Townshend sat beside Elizabeth in the Manse seat. Elizabeth had

pushed a Bible and Hymnary in his direction and, never having taken

part in a Presbyterian service, he awaited further developments with

interest, keeping an eye the while on Billy, who had tied a bent pin to

a string and was only waiting for the first prayer to angle in the next

pew. As the clock struck eleven the beadle carried the big Bible up to

the pulpit, and descending, stood at the foot of the stairs until the

minister had passed up. Behind came the precentor, distributing before

he sat down slips with the psalms and hymns of the morning service,

round the choir.

Mr. Seton entered the pulpit. A hush fell over the church. "Let us

pray," he said.

A stranger hearing James Seton pray was always struck by two

things--the beauty of his voice, or rather the curious arresting

quality of it which gave an extraordinary value to every word he said,

and the stateliness of his language. There was no complacent

camaraderie in his attitude towards his Maker. It is true he spoke

confidently as to a Father, but he never forgot that he was in the

presence of the King of kings.

"Almighty and merciful God, who hast begotten us again unto a living

hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, we approach Thy

presence that we may offer to Thee our homage in the name of our risen

and exalted Saviour. Holy, holy, holy art Thou, Lord God Almighty. The

whole earth is full of Thy glory. Thou art more than all created

things, and Thou givest us Thyself to be our portion. Like as the hart

pants after the water-brooks, so make our souls to thirst for Thee, O

God. Though Abraham acknowledge us not and Israel be ignorant of us, we

are Thy offspring...."

Mr. Seton had a litany of his own, and used phrases Sabbath after

Sabbath which the people looked for and loved. The Jews were prayed for

with great earnestness--"Israel beloved for the Father's sake"; the

sick and the sorrowing were "the widespread family of the afflicted."

Again, for those kept at home by necessity he asked, "May they who

tarry by the brook Bezor divide the spoil"; and always he finished,

"And now, O Lord, what wait we for? Our hope is in Thy word."

There was no "instrument" in "Seton's kirk," not even a harmonium. They

were an old-fashioned people and liked to worship as their fathers had

done. True, some of the young men, yearning like the Athenians after

new things, had started a movement towards a more modern service, but

nothing had come of it. At one time psalms alone had been sung, not

even a paraphrase being allowed, and when "human" hymns were introduced

it well-nigh broke the hearts of some of the old people. One old man,

in the seat before the Setons, delighted Elizabeth's heart by chanting

the words of a psalm when a hymn was given out, his efforts to make the

words fit the tune being truly heroic.

Mr. Seton gave out his text:

"The kingdom of heaven is like unto a certain king who made a marriage

for his son, and he sent forth his servants, saying, Tell them which

are bidden, and they would not come. Again he sent forth other

servants, saying, Behold, I have prepared my dinner; my oxen and

fatlings are killed, and all things are ready. _But they made light of

it._"

To Arthur Townshend Mr. Seton's preaching came as a revelation. He had

been charmed with him as a gentle saint, a saint kept human by a sense

of humour, a tall daughter, and a small, wicked son. But this man in

the pulpit, his face stern and sad as he spoke of the unwilling guest,

was no gentle saint, but a "sword-blade man."

He preached without a note, leaning over the pulpit, pouring out his

soul in argument, beseeching his hearers not to make light of so great

a salvation. He seemed utterly filled by the urgency of his message. He

told no foolish anecdotes, he had few quotations, it was simple what he

said: one felt that nothing mattered to the preacher but his message.

The sermon only lasted a matter of twenty minutes (even the restless

Buff sat quietly through it), then a hymn was sung. "Before singing

this hymn, I will make the following intimations," Mr. Seton announced.

After the hymn, the benediction, and the service was over.

To reach the vestry, instead of going round by the big door, the Manse

party went through the choir-seat and out of the side-door. The boys,

glad to be once again in motion, rushed down the passage and collided

with Mr. Seton before they reached the vestry.

"Gently, boys," he said. "Try to be a little quieter in your ways"; and

he retired into his own room to take off his gown and bands.

Luncheon had been laid by Ellen, and Marget was pouring the master's

beef-tea into a bowl.

"I've brocht as much as'll dae him tae," she whispered to Elizabeth, as

she departed from the small hall, where tea and sandwiches were

provided for people from a distance. The "him" referred to by Marget

was standing with his monocle in his eye watching Buff and Billy who,

clasped in each other's arms, were rolling on the sofa like two young

bears, while Thomas hung absorbed over the cocoa-tin.

"Mr. Townshend, will you have some beef-tea, or cocoa? And do find a

chair. The boys can all sit on the sofa, if we push the table nearer

them."

"I don't want any hot water in my cup," said Thomas, who was stirring

cocoa, milk, and sugar into a rich brown paste. "Try a lick," he said

to Buff; "it's like chocolate."

Mr. Townshend found a chair, and said he would like some beef-tea, but

refused a sausage roll, to the astonishment of the boys.

"The sausage-rolls are because of you," said Elizabeth reproachfully.

"They are Marget's speciality, and she made them as a great favour.

However, have a sandwich. Thomas"--to that youth, who was taking a sip

of chocolate and a bite of sausage-roll turn about--"Thomas, you'll be

a very sick man before long."

"Aw, well," said Thomas, "if I'm sick I'll no can go to school, and I'm

happy just now, anyway."

"Thomas is a philosopher," said Arthur Townshend.

Mr. Seton had put his bowl of beef-tea on the mantelpiece to cool (it

was rather like the Mad Tea-party, the Setons' lunch), and he turned

round to ask which (if any) of the boys remembered the text.

"Not me," said Thomas, always honest.

"Something about oxes," said Buff vaguely, "and a party," he added.

Billy looked completely blank.

"Mrs. Nicol wasn't in church," said Thomas, who took a great interest

in the congregation, and especially in this lady, who frequently gave

him peppermints, "and none of the Clarks were there. Alick Thomson

winked at me in the prayer."

"If your eyes had been closed, you wouldn't have seen him," said

Elizabeth, making the retort obvious. "Come in," she added in response

to a knock at the door. "Oh! Mr. M'Auslin, how are you? Let me

introduce--Mr. Townshend, Mr. M'Auslin."

Arthur Townshend found himself shaking hands with the president of the

Fellowship Meeting, who said "Pleased to meet you," in the most

friendly way, and proceeded to go round the room shaking hands warmly

with everyone.

"Sit down and have some lunch," said Mr. Seton.

"Thank you, Mr. Seton, no. I just brought in Miss Seton's tracts." He

did not go away, however, nor did he sit down, and Arthur Townshend

found it very difficult to go on with his luncheon with this gentleman

standing close beside him; no one else seemed to mind, but went on

eating calmly.

"A good meeting this morning," said Mr. Seton.

"Very nice, Mr. Seton. Pleasant to see the younger members coming

forward as, I think, you observed in your remarks."

"Quite so," said Mr. Seton.

"How is your aunt?" Elizabeth asked him.

"Poorly, Miss Seton; indeed I may say very poorly. She has been greatly

tried by neuralgia these last few days."

"I'm so sorry. I hope to look in to see her one day this week."

"Do so, Miss Seton; a visit from you will cheer Aunt Isa, I know. By

the way, Miss Seton, I would like to discuss our coming Social Evening

with you, if I may."

"Yes. Would Thursday evening suit you?"

"No, Miss Seton. I'm invited to a cup of tea on the Temperance Question

on Thursday."

"I see. Well, Saturday?"

"That would do nicely. What hour is most convenient, Miss Seton?"

"Eight--eight-thirty; just whenever you can come."

"Thank you, Miss Seton. Good morning. Good morning, Mr. Seton." He

again went round the room, shaking hands with everyone, and withdrew.

"Did you recognize the chairman of the Fellowship Meeting?" Elizabeth

asked Arthur Townshend. "Isn't he a genteel young man?"

"He has very courtly manners," said Arthur.

"Yes; and his accent is wonderful, too. He hardly ever falls through

it. I only once remember him forgetting himself. He was addressing the

Young Women's Bible Class on Jezebel, and he got so worked up he cried,

'Oh, girrls, girrls, Jezebel was a bad yin, girrls.' I wonder why he

didn't talk about the Social here and now? He will come trailing up to

the house on Saturday and put off quite two hours."

"My dear," said her father, "don't grudge the time, if it gives him any

pleasure. Remember what a narrow life he has, and be thankful little

things count for so much to him. To my mind, Hugh M'Auslin is doing a

very big thing, and the fine thing about him is that he doesn't see it."

"But, Father, what is he doing?"

"Is it a small thing, Lizbeth, for a young man to give up the best

years of his life to a helpless invalid? Mr. M'Auslin," Mr. Seton

explained to Arthur Townshend, "supports an old aunt who cared for him

in his boyhood. She is quite an invalid and very cantankerous, though,

I believe, a good woman. And--remember this, you mocking people, when

you talk of courtly manners--his manners are just as 'courtly' when his

old aunt upbraids him for not spending every minute of his sparse spare

time at her bedside."

"I never said that Mr. M'Auslin wasn't the best of men," said

Elizabeth, "only I wish he wouldn't be so coy. Well, my district awaits

me, I must go. I wonder what you would like to do, Mr. Townshend? I can

lend you something to read--_The Newcomes_ is in the cupboard--and show

you a quiet cubby-hole to read it in, if you would like that."

"That will be delightful, but--is it permitted to ask what you are

going to do?"

"I? Going with my tracts. That's what we do between services. I have

two 'closes,' with about ten doors to each close. Come with me, if you

like, but it's a most unsavoury locality."

Thomas and Billy were getting into their overcoats preparatory to going

away. Buff asked if he might go part of the way with them and,

permission being given, they set off together.

Elizabeth looked into the little square looking-glass on the

mantelpiece to see if her hat was straight, then she threw on her fur,

and went out with Arthur Townshend into the street.

The frost of the morning had brought a slight fog, but the pavements

were dry and it was pleasant walking. "It's only a few steps," said

Elizabeth--"not much of a task after all. One Sunday I sent Ellen, and

Buff went with her. She had a formula which he thought very neat. At

every door she said, 'This is a tract. Chilly, isn't it?'"

Arthur Townshend laughed. "What do you say?" he asked.

"At first I said nothing, simply poked the tract at them. When Father

prayed for the 'silent messengers'--meaning, of course, the tracts--I

took it to mean the tract distributors! I have plucked up courage now

to venture a few remarks, but they generally fall on stony ground."

At a close-mouth blocked by two women and several children Elizabeth

stopped and announced that this was her district. It was very dirty and

almost quite dark, but as they ascended the light got better.

Elizabeth knocked in a very deprecating way at each door. Sometimes a

woman opened the door and seemed pleased to have the tract, and in one

house there was a sick child for whom Elizabeth had brought a trifle.

On the top landing she paused. "Here," she said, "we stop and ponder

for a moment. These two houses are occupied respectively by Mrs.

Conolly and Mrs. O'Rafferty. I keep on forgetting who lives in which."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, a lot. You see, Mrs. Conolly is a nice woman and Mrs. O'Rafferty

is the reverse. Mrs. Conolly takes the tract and thanks me kindly; Mrs.

O'Rafferty, always gruff, told me on my last visit that if I knocked

again at her door she would come at me with a fender. So you see it is

rather a problem. Would you like to try and see what sort of 'dusty

answer' you get? Perhaps, who knows, the sight of you may soothe the

savage breast of the O'Rafferty. I'll stand out of sight."

Arthur Townshend took the proffered tract from Elizabeth's hand,

smiling at the mischief that danced in her eyes, and was about to

knock, when one of the doors suddenly opened. Both of the tract

distributors started visibly; then Elizabeth sprang forward, with a

relieved smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. Conolly. I was just going to knock. I hope you are

all well."

Mrs. Conolly was understood to say that things were moderately bright

with her, and that close being finished, Elizabeth led the way

downstairs.

"What quite is the object of giving out these things?" asked Arthur

Townshend, as they emerged into the street. "D'you think it does good?"

"Ah! 'that I cannot tell, said he,'" returned Elizabeth. "I expect the

men light their pipes with them, but that isn't any business of mine.

My job is to give out the tracts and leave the results in Higher Hands,

as Father would say."

* * * * *

The afternoon service began at two and lasted an hour. Mr. Seton never

made the mistake of wearying his people with long services. One member

was heard to say of him: "He needs neither specs nor paper, an' he's

oot on the chap o' the hour."

The attendance was larger in the afternoons, and the sun struggled

through the fog and made things more cheerful. Mr. Seton preached on

Paul. It was a subject after his own heart, and his face shone as he

spoke of that bond-slave of Jesus Christ--of all he gave up, of all he

gained. At the church door, the service ended, people stood in groups

and talked. Elizabeth was constantly stopped by somebody. One stolid

youth thrust himself upon her notice, and when she said pleasantly,

"How are you all, Mr...?" (she had forgotten his name), he replied,

"Fine, thanks. Of coorse ma faither's deid and buried since last I saw

ye."

"Why 'of course'?" Elizabeth asked Arthur. "And there is another odd

thing--the use of the word 'annoyed.' When I went to condole with a

poor body whose son had been killed in an explosion, she said, 'Ay, I'm

beginnin' to get over it now, but I was real annoyed at first.' It

sounds so _inadequate_."

"It reminds me of a Hindu jailer," said Arthur, "in charge of a

criminal about to be hung. Commenting on his downcast look, the jailer

said, 'He says he is innocent, and he will be hung to-morrow, therefore

he is somewhat peevish.'"

Arthur Townshend found himself introduced to many people who wrung his

hand and said "V'ry pleased to meet you." Little Mr. Taylor, hopping by

the side of his tall wife, asked him if he had ever heard Mr. Seton

preach before, and being told "No," said, "Then ye've had a treat the

day. Isn't he great on Paul?"

The Taylors accompanied them part of the way home. Mr. Taylor's humour

was at its brightest, and with many sly glances at Mr. Townshend he

adjured Elizabeth to be a "good wee miss" and not think of leaving

"Papa." Finding the response to his witticisms somewhat disappointing,

he changed the subject, and laying a hand on Buff's shoulder said,

"Ye'll be glad to hear, Mr. Townshend, that this boy is going to follow

his Papa and be a minister."

Buff had been "stotting" along the road, very far away from Glasgow and

Mr. Taylor and the Sabbath Day. He had been Cyrano de Bergerac, and was

wiping his trusty blade after having accounted for his eighty-second

man, when he was brought rudely back to the common earth.

He turned a dazed eye on the speaker. What was he saying? "This boy is

going to be a minister."

And he had been Cyrano! The descent was too rapid.

"Me?" cried Buff. "Not likely! I'm going to fight, and kill _hundreds

of people_."

"Oh, my, my," said Mrs. Taylor. "That's not a nice way for a Christian

little boy to speak. That's like a wee savage!"

Buff pulled his sister's sleeve.

"Was Cyrano a savage?" he whispered.

Elizabeth shook her head.

"Well," said Buff, looking defiantly at Mrs. Taylor, "Cyrano fought a

hundred men one after another and _he_ wasn't a savage."

Mrs. Taylor shook her head sadly. "Yer Papa would be sorry to think ye

read about sich people."

"Haw!" cried Buff, "it was Father read it to me himself--didn't he

Lizbeth?--and he laughed--he _laughed_ about him fighting the hundred

men."

They had come to the end of the street where the Taylors lived, and

they all stopped for a minute, Buff flushed and triumphant, Mrs. Taylor

making the bugles of her Sabbath bonnet shake with disapproval, and Mr.

Taylor still brimful of humour.

"It's as well we're leavin' this bloodthirsty young man, Mrs. Taylor,"

he said. "It's as well we're near home. He might feel he wanted to kill

us." (Buff's expression was certainly anything but benign.)

Elizabeth shook hands with her friends, and said:

"It would be so nice if you would spend an evening with us. Not this

week--perhaps Tuesday of next week?"

The Taylors accepted with effusion. There was nothing they enjoyed so

much as spending an evening, and this Elizabeth knew.

"That'll be something to look forward to," Mr. Taylor said; and his

wife added, "Ay, if we're here and able, but ye niver can tell."

As they walked on Elizabeth looked at her companion's face and laughed.

"Mr. Taylor is a queer little man," she said. "He used to worry me

dreadfully. I simply couldn't stand his jokes--and then I found out

that he wasn't the little fool I had been thinking him, and I was

ashamed. He is rather a splendid person."

Mr. Townshend and Buff both looked at her.

"Yes; Father told me. It seems that years ago he had a brother who was

a grief to him, and who did something pretty bad, and went off to

America, leaving a wife and three children. Mr. Taylor wasn't a bit

well-off, but he set himself to the task of paying off the debts his

brother had left, and helping to keep the family. For years he denied

himself everything but the barest necessities--no pipe, no morning

paper, no car-pennies--and he told no one what he was doing. And his

wife helped him in every way, and never said it was hard on her. The

worst is over now, and he told Father. But I think it must have been in

those hard days that he learned the joking habit, to keep himself

going, you know, and so I don't find them so silly as I did, but brave,

and rather pathetic somehow."

Arthur Townshend nodded. "'To know all,'" he quoted. "It seems a pity

that there aren't always interpreters at hand."

"And what do you think of the Scots Kirk?" Elizabeth asked him

presently.

"In the Church of England a man who could preach like your father would

be a bishop."

"I dare say. We have no bishops in our Church, but we have a fairly

high standard of preaching. Do you mean that you think Father is rather

thrown away in that church, preaching to the few?"

"It sounds impertinent--but I think I did mean that."

"Yes. Oh! I don't wonder. I looked round this morning and wondered how

it would strike you. A small congregation of dull-looking, shabby

people! But as Father looks at them they aren't dull or shabby. They

are the souls given him to shepherd into the Fold. He has a charge to

keep. He simply wouldn't understand you if you talked to him of a

larger sphere, more repaying work, and so on. People often say to me,

'Your father is thrown away in that district.' They don't see...."

"You must think me a blundering sort of idiot----" Arthur began.

"Oh no! I confess I have a leaning towards your point of view. I know

how splendid Father is, and I rather want everyone else to know it too.

I want recognition for him. But he doesn't for himself. 'Fame i' the

sun' never vexes his thoughts. I expect, if you have set your face

steadfastly to go to Jerusalem, these things seem very small. And I am

quite sure Father could never be a really popular minister. At times he

fails lamentably. Yes; he simply can't be vulgar, poor dear, not even

at a social meeting. He sees in marriage no subject for jesting. Even

twins leave him cold. Where another man would scintillate with

brilliant jokes on the subject Father merely says, 'Dear me!' Sometimes

I feel rather sorry for the people--the happy bridegroom and the proud

father, I mean. They are standing expecting to be, so to speak, dug in

the ribs--and they aren't. I could do it quite well--it is no trouble

to me to be all things to all men--but Father can't."

Arthur Townshend laughed. "No, I can't see your father being jocose. I

was thinking when I listened to him what a tremendous thing for people

to have a padre like that. His very face is an inspiration. His eyes

seem to see things beyond. He makes me think of--who was it in _The

Pilgrim's Progress_ who had 'a wonderful innocent smile'?"

Elizabeth nodded.

"I know. Isn't it wonderful, after sixty odd years in this world? There

is something so oddly joyous about him. And it isn't that sort of

provoking fixed brightness that some Christian people have--people who

have read Robert Louis and don't mean to falter in their task of

happiness. When you ask them how they are, they say _'Splendid'_; and

when you remark, conversationally, that the weather is ghastly beyond

words, they pretend to find pleasure in it, until, like Pet Marjorie,

you feel your birse rise at them. Father knows just how bad the world

is, the cruelty, the toil, the treason; he knows how bitter sorrow is,

and what it means to lay hopes in the grave, but he looks beyond and

sees something so ineffably lovely--such an exceeding and eternal

weight of glory--that he can go on with his day's work joyfully."

"Yes," said Arthur, "the other world seems extraordinarily real to him."

"Oh! Real! Heaven is much the realest place there is to Father. I do

believe that when he is toiling away in the Gorbals he never sees the

squalor for thinking of the streets of gold."

Elizabeth's grey eyes grew soft for a moment with unshed tears, but she

blinked them away and laughed.

"The nicest thing about my father is that he is full of contradictions.

So gentle and with such an uncompromising creed! The Way is the Way to

Father, narrow and hard and comfortless. And he is so good, so purely

good, and yet never righteous over much. There is a sort of ingrained

humility and lovableness in him that attracts the sinners as well as

the saints. He never thinks that because he is virtuous there should be

no more cakes and ale. And then, though with him he carries gentle

peace, he is by no means a pacific sort of person. He loves to fight;

and he hates to be in the majority. Minorities have been right, he

says, since the days of Noah. When he speaks in the Presbytery it is

always on the unpopular side. D'you remember what a fuss they made

about Chinese labour in South Africa? Father made a speech defending

it! Someone said to me that he must have an interest in the Mines! Dear

heart! He doesn't even know what his income is. The lilies of the field

are wily financiers compared to him."

Half an hour later, at four o'clock to be precise, the Setons and their

guest sat down to dinner.

"I often wonder," said Mr. Seton, as he meditatively carved slices of

cold meat, "why on Sabbath we have dinner at four o'clock and tea at

seven. Wouldn't it be just as easy to have tea at four and dinner at

seven?"

"'Sir,'" said Elizabeth, "in the words of Dr. Johnson, 'you may

wonder!' All my life this has been the order of meals on the Sabbath

Day, and who am I that I should change them? Besides, it's a change and

makes the Sabbath a little different. Mr. Townshend, I hope you don't

mind us galumphing through the meal? Father and I have to be back at

the church at five o'clock."

"You don't mean," protested Arthur Townshend, "that you are going back

to church again?"

"Alas! yes--Have some toast, won't you?--Father has his Bible class,

and I teach a class in the Sabbath school. Buff, pass Mr. Townshend the

butter."

"Thank you. But, tell me, do you walk all the way again?"

"Every step," said Elizabeth firmly. "We could get an electric car, but

we prefer to trudge it."

"But why?"

"Oh! just to make it more difficult."

Elizabeth smiled benignly on the puzzled guest. "You see," she

explained, "Father is on the Sabbath Observance Committee, and it

wouldn't look well if his daughter ruffled it on Sabbath-breaking cars.

Isn't that so, Father?"

Mr. Seton shook his head at his daughter, but did not trouble to reply;

and Elizabeth went on:

"It's more difficult than you would think to be a minister's family.

The main point is that you must never do anything that will hurt your

father's 'usefulness,' and it is astonishing how many things tend to do

that--dressing too well, going to the play, laughing when a sober face

would be more suitable, making flippant remarks--their name is legion.

Besides, try as one may, it is impossible always to avoid being a

stumbling-block. There are little ones so prone to stumble that they

would take a toss over anything."

"That will do, Elizabeth," said Mr. Seton.

"Sorry, Father." She turned in explanation to Mr. Townshend. "When

Father thinks I am flippant and silly he says 'Elizabeth!' and his eyes

twinkle; but when I become irreverent--I am apt to be often--he says

'That will do,' and I stop. So now you will understand. To change the

subject--perhaps the most terrible experience I have had, as yet, in my

ministerial career was being invited to a christening party and having

to sit down in a small kitchen to a supper of tripe and kola. Alan says

the outside edge was reached with him when a man who picked his ears

with a pencil asked him if he were saved."

"Elizabeth," said her father, "you talk a great deal of nonsense."

"I do," agreed Elizabeth; "I'm what's known as vivacious--in other

words, 'a nice bright girl.' And the funny thing is it's a thing I

simply hate being. I admire enormously strong, still people. Won't it

be awful if I go on being vivacious when I'm fifty? Or do you think

I'll be arch then? There is something so resuscitated about vivacious

spinsters." She looked gaily round the table, as if the dread future

did not daunt her greatly.

Ellen had removed the plates and was handing round the pudding.

Elizabeth begged Mr. Townshend not to hurry, and to heed in no way the

scrambling table manners of his host and hostess. She turned a deaf ear

to his suggestion that he would like to hear her instruct her class,

assuring him that he would be much better employed reading a book by

the fire. Buff, she added, would be pleased to keep him company after

he had learned his Sabbath evening task, eight lines of a psalm.

"Aw," said Buff. "Must I, Father?"

"Eight lines are easily learned, my son."

"Well, can I choose my own psalm?"

His father said "Certainly"; but Elizabeth warned him: "Then make him

promise to learn a new one, or he'll just come with 'That man hath

perfect blessedness.'"

"I won't," said Buff. "I know a nice one to learn: quite new, about a

worm."

"Dear me," said his father, "I wonder what psalm that is? Well,

Lizbeth, we must go. You'll find books in the drawing-room, Mr.

Townshend; and see that the fire is good."

Elizabeth's class consisted of seven little bullet-headed boys.

To-night there was an extra one, whom she welcomed warmly--Bob Scott,

the small boy whom she had befriended while collecting in the rain. She

found, however, that his presence was not conducive to good conduct in

the class. Instead of lapping up the information served out to him

without comment as the other boys did, he made remarks and asked

searching questions. Incidents in the Bible lesson recalled to him

events, generally quite irrelevant, which he insisted on relating. For

instance, the calling forth of evil spirits from the possessed reminded

him of the case of a friend of his, one Simpson, a baker, who one

morning had gone mad and danced on the bakehouse roof, singing, "Ma

sweetheart hes blue eyes," until he fell through a skylight, with

disastrous results.

Bob's manners, too, lacked polish. He attracted Elizabeth's attention

by saying "Hey, wumman!" he contradicted her flatly several times; but

in spite of it all, she liked his impudent, pinched little face, and at

the end of the hour kept him behind the other boys to ask how things

were going with him. He had no mother, it seemed, and no brothers or

sisters: he went to school (except when he "plunk't"), ran messages for

shops, and kept house--such keeping as it got. His father, he said, was

an extra fine man, except when he was drunk.

Before they parted it was arranged that Bob should visit the Seton's on

Saturday and get his dinner; he said it would not be much out of his

way, as he generally spent his Saturday mornings having a shot at

"fitba'" in the park near. He betrayed no gratitude for the invitation,

merely saying "S'long, then," as he walked away.

On Sabbath evenings the Setons had prayers at eight o'clock, and Buff

stayed up for the event. Marget and Ellen were also present, and

Elizabeth played the hymns and led the singing.

"First," said Mr. Seton, "we'll have Buff's psalm."

Buff was standing on one leg, with his ill-used Bible bent back in his

hand, learning furiously.

"Are you ready?" asked his father.

Buff took a last look, then handed the Bible to his father.

"It's not a psalm," he said; "it's a paraphrase."

He took a long breath, and in a curious chant, accentuating such words

as he thought fit, he recited:

"Next, from the _deep_, th' Almighty King

Did _vital_ beings frame;

Fowls of the _air_ of ev'ry wing,

And fish of every name.

To all the various _brutal_ tribes

He _gave_ their wondrous birth;

At once the lion _and_ the worm

_Sprung_ from the teeming earth."

He only required to be prompted once, and when he had finished he drew

from his pocket a paper which he handed to his father.

"What's this?" said Mr. Seton. "Ah, I see." He put his hand up to his

mouth and appeared to study the paper intently.

"It's not my best," said Buff modestly.

"May I see it?" asked Elizabeth.

Buff was fond of illustrating the Bible, and this was his idea of the

Creation so far as a sheet of note-paper and rather a blunt pencil

could take him. In the background rose a range of mountains on the

slopes of which a bird, some beetles, and an elephant (all more or less

of one size) had a precarious foot-hold. In the foreground a

dishevelled lion glared at a worm which reared itself on end in a

surprised way. Underneath was printed "At once the lion and the

worm"--the quotation stopped for lack of space.

"Very fine, Buff," said Elizabeth, smiling widely. "Show it to Mr.

Townshend."

"He's seen it," said Buff. "He helped me with the lion's legs, but I

did all the rest myself--didn't I?" he appealed to the guest.

"You did, old man. We'll colour it to-morrow, when I get you that

paint-box."

"Yes," said Buff, crossing the room to show his picture to Marget and

Ellen, while Mr. Seton handed Arthur Townshend a hymn-book and asked

what hymn he would like sung, adding that everyone chose a favourite

hymn at Sabbath evening prayers. Seeing Arthur much at a loss,

Elizabeth came to his help with the remark that English hymn-books were

different from Scots ones, and suggesting "Lead, kindly Light," as

being common to both.

Marget demanded "Not all the blood of beasts," while Ellen murmured

that her favourite was "Sometimes a light surprises."

"Now, Buff," said his father.

"Prophet Daniel," said Buff firmly.

Both Mr. Seton and Elizabeth protested, but Buff was adamant. The

"Prophet Daniel" he would have and none other.

"Only three verses, then," pleaded Elizabeth.

"It all," said Buff.

The hymn in question was a sort of chant. The first line ran "Where is

now the Prophet Daniel?" This was repeated three times, and the fourth

line was the answer: "Safe in the Promised Land."

The second verse told the details: "He went through the den of lions"

(repeated three times), "Safe to the Promised Land."

After the prophet Daniel came the Hebrew children, then the Twelve

Apostles. The great point about the hymn was that any number of

favourite heroes might be added at will. William Wallace Buff always

insisted on, and to-night as he sang "He went up from an English

scaffold" he gazed searchingly at the English guest to see if no shade

of shame flushed his face; but Mr. Townshend sat looking placidly

innocent, and seemed to hold himself entirely guiltless of the death of

the patriot. The Covenanters came after William Wallace, and Buff with

a truly catholic spirit wanted to follow with Graham of Claverhouse;

but this was felt to be going too far. By no stretch of imagination

could one picture the persecutor and the persecuted, the wolf and the

lamb, happily sharing one paradise.

"That will do now, my son," said Mr. Seton; but Buff was determined on

one more, and his shrill treble rose alone in "Where is now Prince

Charles Edward?" until Elizabeth joined in, and lustily, almost

defiantly, they assured themselves that the Prince who had come among

his people seeking an earthly crown had attained to a heavenly one and

was "Safe in the Promised Land."

Mr. Seton shook his head as he opened the Bible to read the evening

portion. "I hope so," he said, and his tone was dubious--"I hope so."

"Well!" said Elizabeth, as she said good-night to her guest, "has this

been the dullest day of your life?"

Arthur Townshend looked into the mocking grey eyes that were exactly on

a level with his own, and "I don't think I need answer that question,"

he said.

"The only correct answer is, 'Not at all.' But I'm quite sure you never

sang so many hymns or met so many strange new specimens of humanity all

in one day before."

Mr. Seton, who disliked to see books treated lightly, was putting away

all the volumes that Buff had taken out in the course of the evening

and left lying about on chairs and on the floor. As he locked the glass

door he said:

"Lizbeth turns everything into ridicule, even the Sabbath Day."

His daughter sat down on the arm of a chair and protested.

"Oh no, I don't. I don't indeed. I laugh a lot, for 'werena ma hert

licht I wad dee.' I have, how shall I say? a heart too soon made glad.

But I'm only stating a fact, Father, when I say that Mr. Townshend has

sung a lot of hymns to-day and seen a lot of funnies.... Oh! Father,

_don't turn out the lights_. Isn't he a turbulent priest! My father,

Mr. Townshend, has a passion for turning out lights. You will find out

all our peculiarities in time--and the longer you know us the odder

we'll get."

"I have six more days to get to know you," said Mr. Townshend. And he

said it as if he congratulated himself on the fact.

_CHAPTER XI_

"As we came in by Glasgow town

We were a comely sight to see."

_Old Ballad._

Arthur Townshend was what Elizabeth called a repaying guest. He noticed

and appreciated things done for his comfort, he was easily amused; also

he had the air of enjoying himself. Mr. Seton liked him from the first,

and when he heard that he re-read several of the _Waverley Novels_

every year he hailed him as a kindred spirit.

He won Buff's respect and admiration by his knowledge of aeroplanes.

Even Marget so far unbent towards him as to admit that he was "a

wise-like man"; Ellen thought he looked "noble." As for

Elizabeth--"You're a nice guest," she told him; "you don't blight."

"No? What kind of guest blights?"

"Several, but _the_ Blight devastates. Suppose I've had the

drawing-room done up and am filled with pride of it, open the door and

surprise myself with it a dozen times in the day--you know, or rather I

suppose you don't know, the way of a house-proud woman with a new room.

The Blight enters, looks round and says, 'You've done something to this

room, haven't you? Very nice. I've just come from the

Puffington-Whalleys, and their drawing-rooms are too delicious. I must

describe them to you, for I know you are interested in houses,' and so

on and so on, and I have lost conceit of my cherished room. Sometimes

the Blight doesn't say anything, but her glance seems to make one's

belongings shrivel. And she is the same all the time. You stay her with

apples and she prattles of nectarines; you drive her in a hired chaise

and she talks of the speed of So-and-so's Rolls-Royce."

"A very trying person," said Arthur Townshend. "But it isn't exactly

fulsome flattery to compliment me on not being an ill-bred snob. Do you

often entertain a Blight?"

"Now that I think of it," Elizabeth confessed, "it only happened once.

Real blights are rare. But we quite often have ungracious guests, and

they are almost as bad. They couldn't praise anything to save their

lives. Everything is taken, as the Scotsman is supposed to have taken

his bath, for granted. When you say 'I'm afraid it is rather a poor

dinner,' they reply, 'Oh, it doesn't matter,'--the correct answer, of

course, being, 'What _could_ be nicer?'"

"I shall remember that," said Arthur Townshend, "and I'm glad that so

far you find me a fairly satisfactory guest, only I wish the standard

had been higher. I only seem white because of the blackness of those

who went before."

Mr. Seton carried out his plan of showing Mr. Townshend the sights of

Glasgow, and on Monday morning they viewed the chrysanthemums in the

Park, in the afternoon the Cathedral and the Municipal Buildings; and

whatever may have been the feelings of the guest, Mr. Seton drew great

enjoyment from the outing.

On Tuesday Elizabeth became cicerone, and announced at the

breakfast-table her intention of personally conducting Mr. Townshend

through Glasgow on top of an electric car.

Buff was struggling into his overcoat, watched (but not helped) by

Thomas and Billy, but when he heard of his sister's plan he at once

took it off again and said he would make one of the party.

Thomas looked at his friend coldly.

"Mamma says," he began, "that's it's a very daft-like thing the way you

get taken to places and miss school. By rights I should have got

staying at home to-day with my gum-boil."

"Poor old Thomas!" said Elizabeth. "Never mind. You and Buff must both

go to school and grow up wise men, and you will each choose a chocolate

out of Mr. Townshend's box for a treat."

The sumptuous box was produced, and diverted Buff's mind from the

expedition; and presently the three went off to school, quite

reconciled to attempting another step on the steep path to knowledge.

"Isn't Thomas a duck?" said Elizabeth, as she returned to the table

after watching them go out of the gate. "So uncompromising."

"'Mamma' must be a frank and fearless commentator," said Mr. Townshend.

"Thomas makes her sound so," Elizabeth admitted. "But when I meet

her--I only know her slightly--she seems the gentlest of placid women.

Well, can you be ready by eleven-thirty? _Of course_ I want to go. I'm

looking forward hugely to seeing Glasgow through your eyes. Come and

write your letters in the drawing-room while I talk to Marget about

dinner."

Punctually they started. It was a bright, frosty morning, and the trim

villas with their newly cleaned doorsteps and tidily brushed-up gardens

looked pleasant, homely places as they regarded them from the top of a

car.

"This is much nicer than motoring," said Elizabeth. "You haven't got to

think of tyres, and it only costs twopence-ha'penny all the way."

She settled back in her seat, and "You've to do all the talking

to-day," she said, nodding her head at her companion. "On Sunday I

_deaved_ you, and you suffered me gladly, or at least you had the

appearance of so doing, but it may only have been your horribly good

manners; anyway, to-day it is your turn. And you needn't be afraid of

boring me, because I am practically unborable. Begin at the beginning,

when you were a little boy, and tell me all about yourself." She broke

off to look down at a boy riding on a lorry beside the driver. "Just

look at that boy! He's being allowed to hold the whip and he's got an

apple to eat! What a thoroughly good time he's having--and playing

truant too, I expect."

Arthur Townshend glanced at the happy truant, and then at Elizabeth

smiling unconsciously in whole-hearted sympathy. She wore a soft blue

homespun coat and skirt, and a hat of the same shade crushed down on

her hair which burned golden where the sun caught it. Some nonsensical

half-forgotten lines came into his mind:

"Paul said and Peter said,

And all the saints alive and dead

Vowed that she had the sweetest head

Of yellow, yellow hair."