"I do not know this Leighton--and I think I am acquainted with all the

ministers who have the root of the matter in them in this and in other

cities of the kingdom. And I call upon you, sir, to stir us up with

rousing evangelical addresses instead of set sermons. We are asleep,

and we need awakening."

"I am all too conscious of it," said the Doctor; "but it is not my

talent."

"Then if you do know it, if your conscience tells you of your failure,

why not get in some such preachers as Boanerges Simpson of Maitland, or

even throw open your pulpit to some earnest merchant-evangelist such

as--well, as myself?"

But Mr. Gullibrand had gone a step too far. The Doctor could be a

Boanerges also upon occasion, though he walked always in quiet ways and

preferred the howe of life to the mountain tops.

"No, sir," he said firmly; "no unqualified or unlicensed man shall ever

preach in my pulpit so long as I am minister and teaching elder of a

Covenant-keeping Kirk!"

"We'll see about that!" said Jacob Gullibrand, thrusting out his under

lip over his upper half-way to his nose. Then, seizing his tall hat and

unrolled umbrella, he stalked angrily out.

* * * * *

And he kept his word. He did see about it. In Lady Nixon's Wynd there

was division. On the one side were ranged the heads of families

generally, the folk staid and set in the old ways--"gospel-hardened" the

Gullibrandites called them. With the Doctor were the old standards of

the Kirk, getting a little dried, maybe, with standing so long in their

post-holes, but, so far as in them lay, faithful unto death.

But the younger folk mostly followed the new light. There were any

number of Societies, Gospel Bands, Armies of the Blue Ribbon, and of the

White--all well and better than well in their places. But being mostly

imported wholesale from England, and all without exception begun,

carried on, and ended in Gullibrand, they were out of keeping with the

plain-song psalms of the Kirk of the Martyrs. There were teas also at

"Mount Delectable," the residence of Gullibrand, where, after the

singing of many hymns and the superior blandishments of the Misses

Gullibrand, it was openly said that if the Kirk in Lady Nixon's Wynd was

to be preserved, the Doctor must "go." He was in the way. He was a

fossil. He had no modern light. He took no interest in the "Work." He

would neither conduct a campaign of street-preaching nor allow an

unordained evangelist into his pulpit. The Doctor must go. Mr.

Gullibrand was sure that a majority of the congregation was with him.

But there were qualms in many hearts which even three cups of

Gullibrand's Coffee Essence warm could not cure.

After all, the Doctor was the Doctor--and he had baptised the most part

of those present. Besides, they minded that time when Death came into

their houses--and also that Noble Presence, that saintly prayer, that

uplifted hand of blessing; but in the psychological moment, with meet

introduction from the host, uprose the persecuted evangelist.

"If he was unworthy to enter the pulpits of Laodicean ministers, men

neither cold nor hot, whom every earnest evangelist should" (here he

continued the quotation and illustrated it with an appropriate gesture)

"he at least thanked God that he was no Doctor of Divinity. Nor yet of

those who would permit themselves to be dictated to by self-appointed

and self-styled ministers."

And so on, and so on. The type does not vary.

The petition or declaration already in Gullibrand's breast pocket was

then produced, adopted, and many signatures of members and adherents

were appended under the influence of that stirring appeal. Great was

Gullibrand. The morning light brought counsel--but it was too late.

Gullibrand would erase no name.

"You signed the document, did you not? Of your own free will? That is

your handwriting? Very well then!"

* * * * *

The blow fell on the Sabbath before the summer communion, always a great

time in the little Zion in Lady Nixon's Wynd.

A deputation of two, one being Jacob Gullibrand, elder, waited on Dr.

Marcus Lawton after the first diet of worship. They gave him a paper to

read in which he was tepidly complimented upon his long and faithful

services, and informed that the undersigned felt so great an anxiety for

his health that they besought him to retire to a well-earned leisure,

and to permit a younger and more vigorous man to bear the burden and the

heat of the day. (The choice of language was Gullibrand's.) No mention

was made of any retiring allowance, nor yet of the manse, in which his

father before him had lived all his life, and in which he himself had

been born. But these things were clearly enough understood.

"What need has he of a manse or of an allowance either?" said

Gullibrand. "His family are mostly doing for themselves, and he has no

doubt made considerable savings. Besides which, he holds a comfortable

appointment with a large salary, as I have good reason to know."

"But," he added to himself, "he may not hold that very long either. I

will teach any man living to cross Jacob Gullibrand!"

* * * * *

The Doctor sat in the little vestry with the tall blue scroll spread out

before him. The light of the day suddenly seemed to have grown dim, and

somehow he could hardly see to smooth out the curled edges.

"It is surely raining without," said the Doctor, and lighted the gas

with a shaking hand. He looked down the list of names of members and

adherents appended to the request that he should retire. The written

letters danced a little before his eyes, and he adjusted his glasses

more firmly.

"William Gilmour, elder," he murmured; "ah, his father was at school

with me; I mind that I baptised William the year I was ordained. He was

a boy at my Bible-class, a clever boy, too. I married him; and he came

in here and grat like a bairn when his first wife died, sitting on that

chair. I called on the Lord to help William Gilmour--and now--he wants

me away."

"Jacob Gullibrand, elder."

The Doctor passed the name of his persecutor without a comment.

"Christopher Begbie, manager. He was kind to me the year the bairns

died."

(Such was Christopher's testimony. The year before I went to Edinburgh

the Doctor had lost a well-beloved wife and two children, within a week

of each other. He preached the Sabbath after on the text, "All thy

waves have gone over me!" Christopher Begbie, manager, had been kind

then. Pass, Christopher!)

"Robert Armstrong, manager. Mine own familiar friend in whom I

trusted," said the Doctor, and stared at the lozenges of the window till

coloured spots danced before his kind old eyes. "Robert Armstrong, for

whose soul I wrestled even as Jacob with his Maker; Robert Armstrong

that walked with me through the years together, and with whom I have had

so much sweet communion, even Robert also does not think me longer fit

to break the bread of life among these people!"

Pass, Robert! There is that on the blue foolscap which the Doctor

hastened to wipe away with his sleeve. But it is doubtful if such drops

are ever wholly wiped away.

"John Malcolm--ah, John, I do not wonder. Perhaps I was over faithful

with thee, John. But it was for thy soul's good. Yet I did not think

that the son of thy father would bear malice!"

"Margaret Fountainhall, Elizabeth Fountainhall--the children of many

prayers. Their mother was a godly woman indeed; and you, too, Margaret

and Elizabeth, would sit under a younger man. I mind when I prepared

you together for your first communion!"

The Doctor sighed and bent his head lower upon the paper. "Ebenezer

Redpath, James Bannatyne, Samuel Gardiner"--he passed the names rapidly,

till he came to one--"Isobel Swan."

The Doctor smiled at the woman's name. It was the first time he had

smiled since they gave him the paper and he realised what was written

there.

"Ah, Isobel," he murmured, "once in a far-off day you did not think as

now you think!"

And he saw himself, a slim stripling in his father's pew, and across the

aisle a girl who worshipped him with her eyes. And so the Doctor passed

from the name of Isobel Swan, still smiling--but kindly and graciously,

for our Doctor had it not in him to be anything else.

He glanced his eye up and down the list. He seemed to miss something.

"Henry Walker, treasurer--I do not see thy name, Henry. Many is the

hard battle I have had with thee in the Session, Henry. Dost thou not

want thine old adversary out of thy path once and for all? And Mary,

thy wife? Tart is thy tongue, Mary, but sweet as a hazel-nut in the

front of October thy true heart!"

"Thomas Baillie--where art thou, true Thomas? I crossed thee in the

matter of the giving out of the eleventh paraphrase, Thomas. Yet I do

not see thy name. Is it possible that thou hast forgotten the nearer

ill and looked back on the days of old when Allan Symington with Gilbert

his brother, and thou and I, Thomas Baillie, went to the house of God in

company? No, these things are not forgotten. I thank God for that.

The name of Thomas Baillie is not here."

And the Doctor folded up the blue crackling paper and placed it

carefully between the "leds" of the great pulpit Bible.

"It is the beginning of the week of Communion," he said; "it is not meet

that I should mingle secular thoughts with the memory of the broken body

and the shed blood. On your knees, Marcus Lawton, and ask forgiveness

for your repining and discriminating among the sheep of the flock whom

it is yours to feed on a coming Lord's day; and are they not all

yours--your responsibility, your care, aye, Marcus--even--even Jacob

Gullibrand?"

* * * * *

It was the Sabbath of High Communion in the Kirk of the Covenants.

Nixon's Wynd, ordinarily so grim and bare, so gritty underfoot and so

narrow overhead, now seemed to many a spacious way to heaven, down which

walked the elect of the Lord in a way literally narrow, and literally

steep, and literally closed with a gate at which few, very few, went in.

A full hour too soon they began to arrive, strange quaint figures some

of them, gathered from the nooks and corners of the old town. They

arrived in twos and threes--the children's children of the young plants

of grace who saw Claverhouse ride down the West Bow on his way to

Killiecrankie. As far as Leith walk you might know them, bent a little,

mostly coopers in the Trongate, wrights in the Kirk Wynd, ships'

carpenters at the Port. They had their little "King's Printer" Bibles

in the long tails of their blue coats--for black had not yet come in to

make uniform all the congregations of every creed. But the mistress,

walking a little behind, carried her Bible decently wrapped in a white

napkin along with a sprig of southern-wood.

All that Sabbath day there hung, palpable and almost visible, about

Nixon's Wynd a sweet savour as of "Naphtali," and the Persecutions, and

Last Testimonies in the Grassmarket; but in the shrine itself there was

nothing grim, but only graciousness and consolation and the sense of the

living presence of the Hope of Israel. For our Doctor was there sitting

throned among his elders. The sun shone through the narrow windows, and

just over the wall, it it were your good fortune to be near those on the

left-hand side, you could see the top of the Martyrs' monument in the

kirkyard of Old Greyfriars.

It was great to see the Doctor on such days, great to hear him.

Beneath, the white cloths glimmered fair on the scarred bookboards,

bleached clean in honour of the breaking of holy bread. The silver cups,

ancient as Drumclog and Shalloch, so they said, shone on the table of

communion, and we all looked at them when the Doctor said the solemn and

mysterious words, "wine on the lees well refined."

For there are no High Churchmen so truly high as the men of the little

protesting covenanting remnants of the Reformation Kirk of Scotland;

none so jealous in guarding the sacraments; none that can weave about

them such a mantle of awe and reverence.

The Doctor was concluding his after-table address. Very reverend and

noble he looked, his white hair falling down on his shoulders, his hands

ever and anon wavering to a blessing, his voice now rising sonorous as a

trumpet, but mostly of flute-like sweetness, in keeping with his words.

He never spoke of any subject but one on such a day. That was, the love

of Christ.

"Fifty-one summer communions have I been with you in this place," so he

concluded, "breaking the bread and speaking the word. Fifty-one years

to-day is it since my father took me by the hand and led me up yonder to

sit by his side. Few there be here in the flesh this day who saw that.

But there are some. Of such I see around me three--Henry Walker, and

Robert Armstrong, and John Malcolm. It is fitting that those who saw

the beginning should see the end."

At these words a kind of sough passed over the folk. You have seen the

wind passing over a field of ripe barley. Well, it was like that. From

my place in the gallery I could see set faces whiten, shoulders suddenly

stoop, as the whole congregation bent forward to catch every word. A

woman sobbed. It was Isobel Swan. The white faces turned angrily as if

to chide a troublesome child.

"It has come upon me suddenly, dear friends," the Doctor went on, "even

as I hope that Death itself will. Sudden as any death it hath been, and

more bitter. For myself I was not conscious of failing energies, of

natural strength abated. But you, dear friends, have seen clearer than

I the needs of the Kirk of the Covenants. One hundred and six years

Marcus Lawtons have ministered in this place. From to-day they shall

serve tables no more. Once--and not so long ago, it seems, looking

back--I had a son of my body, a plant reared amid hopes and prayers and

watered with tears. The Lord gave. The Lord took. Blessed be the name

of the Lord."

There ensued a silence, deep, still--yet somehow also throbbing,

expectant. Isobel Swan did not sob again. She had hidden her face.

"And now my last word. After fifty-one years of service in this place,

it is hard to come to the end of the hindmost furrow, to drop the hand

from the plough, never more to go forth in the morning as the sower

sowing precious seed."

"_No--no--no!_"

It was not only Isobel Swan now, but the whole congregation. Here and

there, back and forth subdued, repressed, ashamed, but irresistible, the

murmur ran; but the doctor's voice did not shake.

"Fifty-one years of unworthy service, my friends--what of that?--a

moment in the eternity of God. Never again shall I meet you here as

your minister; but I charge you that when we meet in That Day you will

bear me witness whe her I have loved houses or lands, or father or

mother or wife or children better than you! And now, fare you well.

The memory of bygone communions, of hours of refreshment and prayer in

this sacred place, of death-beds blessed and unforgotten in your homes

shall abide with me as they shall abide with you. The Lord send among

you a worthier servant than Marcus Lawton, your fellow-labourer and

sometime minister. Again, and for the last time, fare you well!"

* * * * *

It was a strange communion. The silver cups still stood on the table,

battered, but glistening. The plates of bread that had been blessed were

beside them. The elders sat around. A low inarticulate murmur of agony

travelled about the little kirk as the Doctor sat down and covered his

face with his hands, as was his custom after pronouncing the

benediction.

Then in the strange hush uprose the tall angular form of William Gilmour

from the midst of the Session, his bushy eye-brows working and

twitching.

"Oh, sir," he said, in forceful jerks of speech, "dinna leave us. I

signed the paper under a misapprehension. The Lord forgive me! I

withdraw my name. Jacob Gullibrand may dischairge me if he likes!"

He sat down as abruptly as he had risen.

Then there was a kind of commotion all over the congregation. One after

another rose and spoke after their kind, some vehemently, some with

shamed faces.

"And I!" "And I!" "And I!" cried a dozen at a time. "Bide with us,

Doctor! We cannot want you! Pray for us!"

Then Henry Walker, the white-haired, sharp-featured treasurer and

precentor of Nixon's Wynd, stretched out his hand. The Doctor had been

speaking, as is the custom, not from the pulpit, but from the communion

table about which the elders sat. He had held the Gullibrand manifesto

in his hand; but ere he lifted them up in his final blessing he had

dropped it.

Henry Walker took it and stood up.

"Is it your will that I tear this paper? Those contrary keep their

seats--those agreeable STAND UP!"

As one man the whole congregation stood up.

All, that is, save Jacob Gullibrand. He sat a moment, and then amid a

silence which could be felt, he rose and staggered out like a man

suddenly smitten with sore sickness. He never set foot in Nixon's Wynd

again.

Henry Walker waited till the door had closed upon the Troubler of

Israel, the paper still in his hand. Then very solemnly he tore it into

shreds and trampled them under foot.

He waited a moment for the Doctor to speak, but he did not.

"And you, also, will withdraw your resignation and stay with us?" he

said.

The Doctor could not answer in words; but he nodded his head. It was,

indeed, the desire of his heart. Then in a loud and surprising

voice--jubilant, and yet with a kind of godly anger in it, Henry Walker

gave out the closing psalm.

"All people that on earth do dwell,

Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice;

Him serve with mirth, His praise forthtell,

Come ye before Him and rejoice!"

*CARNATION'S MORNING JOY*

This is the story of the little white-washed cottage at the top of the

brae a mile or so before you come into Cairn Edward. It is a love

story, a simple and uneventful one, quickly told.

The cottage is not now what it was--I fear to say how many years

ago--when I was wont to drive in to the Cameronian Kirk on summer

Sabbaths in the red farm cart. Then not only I, but every one used to

watch from far for the blue waft of reek going up as we sighted the

white gable-end far away.

"Carnation's Cottage!" we used to call it, and even my father,

Cameronian elder as he was, smiled when he passed it.

It was so named because a girl once lived there whose fame for worth and

beauty had travelled very far. Her name was Carnation Maybold, a

combination which at once tells its tale of no countryside origin.

Carnation's father was a railroad engineer who had come from England and

married a farmer's daughter in a neighbouring parish. Then when

Carnation's mother died in childbirth, he had called his one daughter by

the name of his wife's favourite flower.

"What for do ye no caa' her Jessie like her mither?" said the ancient

dame who had come to keep his house.

"Because I never want to hear that name again!" Engineer Maybold had

said. For he had been wrapped up in his wife.

Carnation Maybold lost her father, the imaginative man and second-rate

engineer, when she was thirteen, a tall slim slip of a girl, with a face

like a flower and a cheek that already had upon it the blush of her

name. Old Tibbie Lockhart dwelt with her, and defenced the orphan maid

about more securely than a city set with walls. The girl went a mile to

the Cairn Edward Academy, where she was already in the first girls'

class, and John Charles Morrison carried the green bag which held her

books. In addition to this, being strongly built, he thrashed any boy

who laughed at him for doing so. John Charles was three years older

than his girl friend, and had the distinct beginnings of a moustache in

days when Carnation still wore her hair in a long plaited tail down her

back--for in those days Gretchen braids were the fashion.

It is curious to remember that, while all the other girls were Megs and

Katies, Madges and Jennies, Carnation Maybold's first name knew no

diminutive. She was, and has remained, just Carnation. That is enough.

She was fifteen when John Charles was sent to college. After that she

carried her own books both ways. She had offers from several would-be

successors to the honourable service, but she accepted none. Besides,

she was thinking of putting her hair up.

When John Charles came home in the windy close of the following March,

the first thing he did was to put the little box which contained his

class medal into his vest pocket, and hasten down the road to meet

Carnation. His father was at market. His mother (a peevish,

complaining, prettyish woman) was in bed with sick headache, and not to

be disturbed. But there remained Carnation. The returned scholar asked

no better.

The heart of John Charles beat as he kept the wider side of the turns of

the road that he might the sooner spy her in front of him. She was only

a slip of a school girl and he a penniless student--but nevertheless his

heart beat.

Did he love her? No, he knew that he had never uttered the word in her

hearing, and that if he had, she was too young to know its meaning. She

was just Carnation--and--and, how his heart beat!

But still the wintry trees stood gaunt and spectral on either hand. He

passed them as in a dream, his soul bent on the next twist of the

red-gray sandy ribbon of road, that was flung so unscientifically about

among the copses and pastures.

There she was at last--taller, lissomer than ever, her green bag

swinging in her hand and a gay lilt of a tune upon her lips.

"Carnation!"

She did not answer him by any word. Instead, she stood silent with the

song stilled mid-flight upon her lips. She smiled happily, however, as

he came near.

"Carnation!" he cried again. And there was something shining in the

lad's eyes which she had never seen there before.

She held out the green bag. Then she turned her elbow towards him with

a certain defensive instinct.

"Here, take my books, John Charles!" she said, as if he had never been

away; and with no more than that they began to walk homeward together.

"Are you not glad to see me?" he asked presently.

"Oh, yes, indeed--very glad!" she answered, looking at the ground; "you

will be able to carry my books again, you see!"

"Who has carried them while I have been away?"

"Carried them myself!"

"For true?"

"Honour!"

John Charles breathed so long a breath that it was almost a sigh.

Carnation looked at him curiously.

"Why, you have grown a moustache," she said, smiling a quick, radiant

smile.

"And you--you are different too. What is it?" he returned, gazing

openly at her, as indeed he had been doing ever since they met. She

turned her face piquantly towards him. It was like a flower. A faint

perfume seemed to breathe about the boy, making his brain whirl.

"Not grown a moustache, anyway," Carnation said, tauntingly.

And she roguishly twirled imaginary tips between her finger and thumb.

"Let me see!" said John Charles, drawing nearer as if to examine into

the facts.

"Oh, no," said Carnation hastily, fending him off with a glance, "I'm

grown up now, and it's different! Besides----"

And she glanced behind her along the red-gray ribbon of dusty road,

along which for lack of company the March dust was dancing little jigs

of its own.

"Why different?" began John Charles, thrusting his hands deep into his

pockets.

"Well, don't you see, stupid?" she gave her head a pretty coquettish

turn, "I've got my hair up!"

* * * * *

After this they walked somewhat moodily along a while. Or, at least the

young man was moody and silent, while Carnation only smiled sedately,

and something, perhaps a certain bitter easting in the wind, made her

cheeks more fiowerlike and reminiscent of her name than ever.

"Carnation," he said at last, "why are we not to be friends any more?

Why have you grown away from me? You are three years younger--and

yet--you seem older somehow to-day--years and years older."

"Well, what more do you want--aren't you carrying my bag?"

"Tell me about yourself--what have you been doing?" He changed the

subject.

"Going to school--let me see, six twenties are a hundred and twenty.

Coming back another hundred and twenty times. Two hundred and forty

trudges, and the bag growing heavier all the time! It is quite time you

came back, John Charles!"

"Carnation, dear," with trepidation he ventured the adjective, "I have

something to show you that nobody has seen--what will you give me if I

show it you?"

"I shan't give you anything; but you can show me and see," was the

somewhat inconsequent reply.

"Come here then, by the end of the house."

They had arrived at Carnation's cottage, and the consciousness of the

eye of Tibbie Lockhart out of the kitchen window was upon the youth.

"I shan't--show it to me here!" said Carnation, swinging the bag of

books through the open front door in a casual and school-girlish manner.

"I can't. I don't want Tibbie to know about it--nobody but you must see

it!"

"Are you sure nobody has seen it--no girl in Edinburgh--nobody in Cairn

Edward?"

"No one at all--not even my mother, not since I got it. I kept it for

you, Carnation."

"Is it _very_ pretty?"

"Yes, very pretty! Come in here; you will be sorry if you don't!"

"Well, I will come--just for a moment!"

They went round to the gable of the cottage where, being sheltered from

the wind, a couple of sentinel Irish yews grew tall and erect. Between

them there was a little bower. John Charles took the little flat box

out of his pocket and opened it.

A gold class medal lay within, not fitting very well on account of a

thin blue ribbon which the proprietor had strung through a clasp at the

top.

"Oh," said Carnation with a gasp, "it _is_ lovely. Is it gold? Why, it

has your name on. It is the medal of the class. How proud your father

and mother will be!"

And she clasped her hands and gazed, but did not offer to take it in her

fingers.

"No, indeed, that they won't," said John Charles grimly; "they won't

ever know, and if they did they wouldn't care. I am not going to tell

them or any one. I won it for you. All the time I was working I kept

saying to myself, 'If I win the medal I shall give it to Carnation to

wear round her neck on a blue ribbon--because blue is her colour----'"

"Oh, but I could not!" cried the girl, going back a step or two, "I dare

not! Any one might see and read--what is written on it."

"You needn't wear it outside, Carnation," he pleaded, in a low tone;

"see, I put the ribbon through it that you might."

"It _is_ pretty"--her face had a kind of inner shining upon it, and her

eyes glittered darkly--"it was very nice of you to think about me--not

that I believe for a moment you really did. But, indeed, indeed, I

can't take it----"

The face of John Charles Morrison fell. His jaw, a singularly

determined one, began to square itself.

"Very well," he said, flirting the ribbon out of the clasp and throwing

the box on the ground, "do you see that pond down there? As sure as

daith" (he used the old school-boy oath of asseveration) "I'll throw it

in that pond if ye dinna tak' it!"

Something very like a sob came into the lad's throat.

"And I worked so hard for it. And I thought you would have liked it!"

"I do like it--I do--I do!" cried Carnation, agonised and affrayed.

"No, you don't!"

"Give it me, then--don't look!"

She turned her back upon him, and for a long moment her fingers were

busy about her neck.

"_Now!_"

She faced about, the light of a showery April in her eyes. She was

smiling and blushing at the same time. There was just a faint gleam of

blue ribbon where the division of the white collar came in front of her

throat.

John Charles recognised that the moment for which he had striven all

through the winter had come. He stooped and kissed her where she stood.

Then he turned on his heel and walked silently away, leaving her three

times Carnation and a school-girl no more.

She watched him out of sight, the vivid blush slowly fading from her

face, and then went demurely within.

"Where gat ye that ribbon wi' the wee guinea piece at the end o't?" said

guardian Tibbie that night, suggestively.

"I know; but I promised not to tell!" quoth the witch, who indeed,

twisted the shrewish-tongued old woman round her finger.

"But I think I can guess," said Tibbie shrewdly; "gin that blue ribbon

wasna coft in Edinbra toon, I'se string anither gowden guinea upon it!"

But Carnation Maybold only smiled and pouted her lips, as if at a

pleasant memory.

* * * * *

From sixteen to twenty-six is more than a full half of the period of

life to which we give the name of girlhood. But at twenty-six Carnation

Maybold was Carnation Maybold still. Yet there had been no breaking

off, no failure in the steadfastness of that early affection which had

sent John Charles along the dusty road to carry the school-bag of green

baize.

But the medallist never returned to college. During the early falling

twilight of the next Hint-o'-Hairst (or end of harvest), his father,

Gawain Morrison, driving homeward from market all too mellow, brake

neck-bone over the crags of the Witch's pool.

So, his mother being a feeble woman, though still young and buxom, John

Charles had perforce to bide at home and shoulder the responsibilities

of a farm of two thousand pastoral acres and a rent of L800, payable

twice a year in Cairn Edward town.

It was a sore burden for such young shoulders, but John Charles had grit

in him, and, what made his heart glad, he could do most of his work, by

lea rig and pasturage, within sight of a certain cottage where dwelt the

maid with a ribbon of blue about her neck.

There was no possibility of any marriage, nor, indeed, talk of any

between them, and that for two good reasons: Gawain Morrison had died in

debt. He was "behindhand at the Bank," and his farm and stock were left

to his widow at her own disposition, unless she should marry again, in

which case they were willed to his son John Charles Morrison, presently

student of arts in the University of Edinburgh. The will had been made

during the one winter that son had spent away from home.

John Charles' bitter hour in the bank at Cairn Edward was sweetened by

the sympathy and kindliness of Henry Marchbanks, who, being one of the

best judges of character in Scotland, saw cause to give this young man a

chance to discharge his father's liabilities.

At twenty-five John Charles was once more a free man, and there was a

substantial balance to his mother's credit in the bank of Cairn Edward.

Penny of his own he had not received one for all his five years' work.

But Mrs. Morrison was that most foolish of womankind--an old woman

striving to appear young. She had taken a strong dislike to the girl

mistress of the white cottage at her gates, and was never tired of

railing at her pretensions to beauty, at her lightheadedness, and at the

suitors who stayed their horses for a word or a flower from across the

cropped yew hedge of Carnation Maybold's cottage.

But John Charles, steadfast in all things, was particularly admirable in

his silences. He let his mother rail on, and then, at the quiet hour of

e'en stole down to the dyke-side for a "word." He never entered

Carnation's dwelling, nor did he even pass the girdling hedge of yew and

privet. But there was one place where the defences were worn low.

Behind the well curb occurred this breach of continuity in the dead

engineer's hedges, and to this place night after night through the

years, that quiet steadfast lover, John Charles Morrison, came to touch

the hand of his mistress.

She did not always meet him. Sometimes she had girl friends with her in

the cottage, sometimes she had been carried off to a merry-making in

Cairn Edward, to return under suitable escort in the evening.

But even then Carnation had a comfortable sense of safety, for ever

since one unforgotten night, Carnation knew that in any danger she had

only to raise her voice to bring to her rescue a certain tall

broad-shouldered ghost, which with attendant collies haunted the gray

hillsides.

That night was one on which a tramp, denied an alms, had seized the girl

by the arm within half a mile of her home. And at the voice of her

sharp crying, a different John Charles from any she had ever seen had

swung himself over the hillside dyke, and descended like an avenging

whirlwind upon the assailant.

Yet so secretive is the country lover, that few save an odd shepherd or

two of his own suspected the comradeship which existed between these

two. Carnation was in great request at concerts and church bazaars in

the little neighbouring town; she even went to a local "assembly" or two

every winter, under the sheltering wing of a school friend who had

married early.

John Charles did not dance, so he was not asked to these. He was

thought, indeed, to be rather a grave young fellow, busied with his farm

and his books. No one connected his name with that of his fair and

sprightly neighbour.

Yet somehow, in spite of many opportunities, Carnation Maybold did not

marry. She was bright, cultivated, winsome, and certainly the prettiest

girl for miles around.

"Are you waiting for a prince?" little Mrs. George Walter, her friend of

the assemblies, had said to her more than once.

"Yes," smiled Carnation, "the true Prince!"

"I suppose that is why you always wear a ribbon of true blue?" retorted

her friend. "Do let me see what is at the end of it--ah, you will not.

I think you are very mean, Carnation. All is over between us from this

moment. I'm sure I came and told _you_ as soon as ever George spoke!"

"But perhaps," said Carnation quietly, "_my_ George has not yet spoken!"

"Well, if he hasn't, why don't you make him," said her friend with

vehemence, "or else why have eyes like those been thrown away upon you?"

"I have worn this nearly ten years!" said Carnation, a little wistfully.

"Carnation Maybold," said her friend indignantly, "you ought to be

ashamed! And so it was for the sake of that school-girl's split

sixpence that you refused Harry Foster, whose father has an estate of

his own, and Kenneth Walker, the surveyor, as well as--oh, I have no

patience with such silly sentiment!"

Carnation smiled even more quietly than usual.

"Gracie," she said, "if I am content, I don't see what difference it can

make to you."

"You ought to be married--you oughtn't to live alone with only an old

woman to look after you. You are wasting the best years of your

life----"

"Gracie, dear," said Carnation, "you mean to be kind; but I ask you not

to say any more about this. There are worse things that may happen to a

woman, than that she should wait and wait--aye, even if she should die

waiting!"

* * * * *

It was the evening of the August day on which Mrs. Walter had spoken

thus to Carnation that John Charles came cottagewards slowly and

gloomily. He had been thinking bitter thoughts, and at last had taken a

resolve that was likely to cost him dear.

In the warm light of evening the girl, who stood at the farther side of

the gap, seemed wondrously beautiful. The school-girl look had long

since passed away. Only the fresh rose on the cheeks, the depths in the

eyes (as if a cloud shadowed them), the lissom bend of the young body

towards him were the same. But the hair was waved and plaited about the

head in a larger and nobler fashion. The contours were a little fuller,

and the lips, perfect as ever in shape, were stiller, and the smile on

them at once more assured and more sedate.

"Carnation, I cannot hold you any longer to your promise!"

"And why not, John; are you tired of me?"

"I am not one of those who grow tired, dear," the young man's voice was

so low none could hear it but the one listener. "I will never grow

tired--you know that. But I waste the best years of your life. You are

beautiful, and the time is passing. You might marry any one----"

"Have you any particular one in your mind?"

The question at once spurred and startled him. He moved his feet on the

soft grass of the meadow with a certain embarrassment.

"Yes, Carnation; my mother was speaking to me to-night of Harry Foster

of Carnsalloch. His father has told her of his love for you. She says I

am keeping you from accepting him. I have come to release you from any

promise, Carnation, spoken or implied."

"There is no promise, John--save that I love you, and will never marry

any one else."

"But if I went away you might--you might change your mind. I am

thinking of West Australia! I am making nothing of it here. All is as

much my mother's as it was the day my father died! I can get her a good

'grieve' to take charge, and go in the spring!"

The girl winced a little, but did not speak for a while.

"Well," she said at last, "you must do as you think best. I shall wait

all the same. Thank God, there is no law against a woman waiting."

"Carnation, do you mean it?"

The gap was a gap still; but both the lovers were on one side of it, and

the night was dark about them. Indeed, they were so close each to the

other that there was no need of light.

"If I go, I shall make a home for you!"

"However long it is, I shall be ready when you want me!"

"Carnation!"

"John!"

And so, as it was in the beginning, the old, old tale was retold beneath

the breathing rustle of the orchard trees.

Yet their hearts were sore when they parted, because the springtime was

so near, and the home they longed for seemed so very far.

* * * * *

Carnation slept in a little garret room with a gable window. She had

chosen it, because she liked to look down on John Charles' fields and on

the low place in the hedge where he always stood waiting for her.

The waning moon had risen late, and Carnation undressed without a

candle. Having said her prayers, she stole into bed. But sleep would

not come, and, her heart being right sore within her, the tears forced

up her eyelids instead, as it is woman's safety that they should.

She lay and sobbed her heart out because John was going away. But

through the tears that wet her pillow certain words she had been singing

in the choir on Sunday forced themselves:--

"Weeping may endure for a night,

But joy cometh in the morning."

Nevertheless, Carnation must have sobbed herself to sleep, for it was

nigh the dawn when she was awakened by something that flicked her

lattice at regular intervals. It could not be a bird. It was too sharp

and regular for that.

Could it be----?

Impossible!

He had never come before at such a time! If it were indeed he, there

must be some terrible news to tell.

Carnation rose hastily, and threw a loose cloak about her shoulders.

Then she went and opened the little French lattice with the criss-cross

diamond panes. The dawn was coming slowly up out of the east, and the

gray fields were turning rosy beneath her.

A dark figure filled up the low place in the hedge.

"Carnation, I had something to tell you!"

"Is it bad news? I cannot bear it, if it is."

"No, the best of news! I am not going at Whitsunday to Australia. My

mother told me last night that she is to be married at the New Year. He

is a rich man--Harry Foster's father. She is going to live at

Carnsalloch."

"Well?" said Carnation, doubtfully, not seeing all that this sudden

change meant to them both.

"Why, then, dearest," the voice of John Charles Morrison shook with

emotion, "we can be married as soon as we like after that. The farm and

everything on it is ours--yours and mine!"

Carnation's brain reeled, and she found herself without a word to say.

Only the sound of the happy singing ran in her head:

"_Joy cometh in the morning--joy cometh in the morning!_"

"Why don't you speak, Carnation? Are you not glad?"

The voice down at the gap was anxious now.

"I am too far away from you to say anything, but I am glad, very glad,

dear John!"

"You will be ready by Whitsunday?"

"I shall be ready by Whitsunday!"

There was a pause. The light came clearer in the east. John Charles

could see the girl's fresh complexion thrown up by the dark cloak, an

edging of lace, white and dainty, just showing beneath.

"Carnation, I wish I could kiss you!" he said.

"Will this do instead?" she answered him, smiling through the wetness of

her eyes.

And she lifted up the old worn class medal she had carried so long on

its blue ribbon, and kissed it openly.

And that had perforce to "do" John Charles--at least, for that time of

asking.

*JAIMSIE*

As I drove home the other day I saw that old lazybones Jacob Irving

seated in the sun with a whole covey of boys round him. He had his

pocket-knife in his hand, and was busy mending a "gird." The "gird," or

wooden hoop, belonged to Will Bodden, and its precedence in medical

treatment had been secured by Will's fists. There was quite a little

hospital ward behind, of toys all awaiting diagnosis in strict order of

primacy.

Here was Dick Dobie with a new blade to put into his shilling knife. A

shilling knife, Jacob assured him, is not fitted for cutting down

fishing rods. It is however, excellent as a saw when used on smaller

timber. Next came Peter Cheesemonger, who was in waiting with a model

schooner, the rising of which had met with an accident. And there

hurrying down from the cottage on the Brae, was one of the younger Allan

lasses with her mother's "wag-at-the-wa'" clock. The pendulum had

wagged to such purpose that it had swung itself out of its right mind.

After I had left behind me this vision of old Jacob Irving seated on the

wall of the boys' playground at the village school, I fell into a muse

upon the narrowness of the line which in our Scottish parishes, divides

the "Do-Everythings" from the "Do-Nothings."

I could give myself the more completely to this train of thought that I

had finished my rounds for the day, and had now nothing to do except to

look forward to seeing Nance, and to the excellent dinner for which the

shrewd airs of the moorland were providing internal accommodation of

quite a superior character.

The conditions of Scottish life are generally so strenuous, and the

compulsions of "He that will not work, neither shall he eat" so absolute

that we cannot afford more than one local Do-Nothing in a village or

rural community. Equally certainly, however, one is necessary. The

business of the commonwealth could not be carried on without him.

Besides, he is needed to point the indispensable moral.

"There's that guid-for-naething Jacob Irvin' sittin' wi' a' the

misleared boys o' the neighbourhood aboot him!" I can hear a douce

goodwife say to her gossip. "Guid peety his puir wife and bairns!

Guidman, lay ye doon that paper an awa' to your wark, or ye'll sune be

nae better--wi' your Gledstane and your speeches and your smokin'!

Think shame o' yersel', guidman."

As the community grows larger, however, there is less and less room for

the amiable Do-Nothing. He is, indeed, only seen to perfection in a

village or rural parish. In Cairn Edward, for instance which thinks

itself quite a town, he does not attain the general esteem and almost

affectionate reprobation which, in my native Whinnyliggate, follow Jacob

Irving about like his shadow.

In a town like Cairn Edward a local Do-Nothing is apt to attach himself

to a livery stable, and there to acquire a fine coppery nose and a

permanent "dither" about the knees. He is spoken of curtly and even

disrespectfully as "that waister Jock Bell." In cities he becomes a

mere matter for the police, and the facetious reporter chronicles his

two-hundredth appearance before the magistrate.

But in Whinnyliggate, in Dullarg, in Crosspatrick, and in the

surrounding parishes, the conditions for the growth of the Do-Nothing

approach as near perfection as anything merely mundane can be expected

to do. Jacob Irving is hardly a typical specimen, for he has a trade.

The genuine Do-Nothing should have none. It is true that Jacob's

children might reply, like the boy when asked if his father were a

Christian, "Yes, but he does not work at it much!"

Jacob is a shoe-maker--or rather shoe-mender. For I have never yet been

able to trace an entire pair of Jacob's foot-gear on any human

extremities. It does not fit his humour to be so utilitarian. He has,

however, made an excellent toy pair for the feet of little Jessie

Lockhart's doll, with soles, heels, uppers, tongues, and lacing gear all

complete. He spent, to my personal knowledge, an entire morning in

showing her (on the front step of her father's manse) how to take them

off and put them on again. And in the future he will never meet Jessie

on the King's highway without stopping and gravely asking her if any

repairs are yet requisite. When such are necessary they will, without

doubt, receive his best attention.

I had not, however, made a study of Jacob Irving for any considerable

period without exploding the vulgar opinion that the parish Do-Nothing

is an idle or a lazy man. Nay, to repeat my initial paradox, the

Do-Nothing is the only genuine Do-Everything.

When on a recent occasion I gave Jacob, in return for the pleasure of

his conversation, a "lift" in my doctor's gig, he talked to me very

confidentially of his "rounds." At first I imagined in my ignorance

that, like the tailors of the parishes round about, he went from farm to

farm prosecuting his calling and cobbling the shoes of half the

countryside. I was buttressed in this opinion by his expressed pity or

contempt for wearers of "clogs."

"Here's anither puir body wi' a pair o' clogs on his feet," Jacob would

say; "and to think that for verra little mair than the craitur paid for

them, I wad fit him wi' as soond a pair o' leather-soled shoon as were

ever ta'en frae amang tanners' bark!"

I had also seen him start out with a thin-bladed cobbler's knife and the

statutory piece of "roset" or resin wrapped in a palm's-breadth of soft

leather. But, alas, all was a vain show. The knife was to be used in

delicate surgical work upon the deceased at a pig-killing, and the resin

was for splicing fishing-rods.

After a while I began by severe study to get to the bottom of a

Do-Nothing's philosophy. To do the appointed task for the performance

of which duty calls, man waits, and money will be paid, that is work to

be avoided by every means--by procrastination, by fallacious promise, by

prevarication, and (sad to have to say it) by the plainest of plain

lying.

Whatever brings in money in the exercise of a trade, whatever must be

finished within a given time, that needs the co-operation of others or

prolonged and consecutive effort on his own part, is merely anathema to

the Do-Nothing.

On the other hand, no house in the parish is too distant for him to

attend at the "settin' o' the yaird" (the delving must, however, be done

previously). On such occasions the Do-Nothing revels in long wooden

pins with string wrapped mysteriously about them. He can turn you out

the neatest shaped bed of "onions" and "syboes," the straightest rows of

cabbages, and potato drills so level that the whole household feels that

it must walk the straight path in order not to shame them. The wayfaring

man though a fool, looks over the dyke, and says: "Thae dreels are

Jacob's--there's nane like them in the countryside!"

This at least is Jacob's way of it.

But though all this is by the way of introduction to the particular

Do-Nothing I have in my eye, it is not of Jacob that I am going to

write. Jacob is indeed an enticing subject, and from the point of view

of his wife, might be treated very racily. But, though I afterwards

made Margate Irving's acquaintance (and may one day put her opinions on

record), I have other and higher game in my mind.

This is none other than the Reverend James Tacksman, B.A., licentiate of

the Original Marrow Kirk of Scotland. In fact, a clerical Do-Nothing of

the highest class.

Now, to begin with, I will aver that there is no scorn in all this.

"Jaimsie" is more to me than many worthy religious publicists,

beneficed, parished, churched, stipended, and sustentationed to the

eyes. He was not a very great man. He was in no sense a successful

man, but--he was "Jaimsie."

I admit that my zeal is that of the pervert. It was not always thus

with me when "Jaimsie" was alive, and perhaps my enthusiasm is so

full-bodied from a sense that it is impossible for the gentle

probationer to come and quarter himself upon Nance and myself for (say)

a period of three months in the winter season, a thing he was quite

capable of doing when in the flesh.

In the days before I was converted to higher views of human nature as

represented in the person of "Jaimsie," I was even as the vulgar with

regard to him. I admit it. I even openly scoffed, and retailed to many

the story of Jamie and my father, Saunders McQuhirr of Drumquhat, with

which I shall conclude. I used to tell it rather well at college, the

men said. At least they laughed sufficiently. But now I shall not try

to add, alter, amend, or extenuate, as is the story-teller's wont with

his favourites. For in sackcloth and ashes I have repented me, and am

at present engaged in making my honourable amend to "Jaimsie."

For almost as long as I can remember the Reverend James Tacksman, B.A.,

was in the habit of coming to my father's house, and the news that he

was in view on the "far brae-face" used to put my mother into such a

temper that "dauded" heads and cuffed ears were the order of the day.

The larger fry of us cleared out promptly to the barn and stack-yard

till the first burst of the storm was over. Even my father, accustomed

as he was to carry all matters ecclesiastical with a high hand, found it

convenient to have some harness to clean in the stable, or the lynch-pin

of a cart to replace in the little joiner's shop where he passed so much

of his time.

"I'll no hae the craitur aboot the hoose," my mother would cry; "I

telled ye sae the last time he was here--sax weeks in harvest it

was--and then had maist to be shown the door. (Haud oot o' my road,

weans! Can ye no keep frae rinnin' amang my feet like sae mony collie

whaulps? Tak' ye that!) Hear ye this, guidman, if ye willna speak to

the man, by my faith I wull. Mary McQuhirr is no gaun to hae the bread

ta'en oot o' the mooths o' her innocent bairns----(Where in the name o'

fortune, Alec, are ye gaun wi' that soda bannock? Pit it doon this

meenit, or I'll tak' the tings to ye!). Na, nor I will be run aff my

feet to pleesure ony sic useless, guid-for-naething seefer as Jaimsie

Tacksman!"

At this moment a faint rapping made itself audible at the front door,

never opened except on the highest state occasions, as when the minister

called, and at funerals.

My mother (I can see her now) gave a hasty "tidy" to her gray hair and

adjusted her white-frilled "mutch" about her still winsome brow.

"_And hoo are ye the day, Maister Tacksman, an' it's a lang, lang season

since we've had the pleasure o' a veesit frae you!_"

Could that indeed be my mother's voice, so lately upraised in

denunciation over a stricken and cowering world? I could not understand

it then, and to tell the truth I don't quite yet. I have, however,

asked her to explain, and this is what she says:

"Weel, ye see, Alec, it was this way" (she is pleased when I require any

points for my "scribin'," though publicly she scoffs at them and

declares it will ruin my practice if the thing becomes known), "ye see I

had it in my mind to the last minute to deny the craitur. But when I

gaed to open the door, there stood Jaimsie wi' his wee bit shakin' hand

oot an' his threadbare coatie hingin' laich aboot his peetifu' spindle

shanks, and his weel-brushit hat, an' the white neck-claith that wanted

doin' up. And I kenned that naebody could laundry it as weel as me. My

fingers juist fair yeukit (itched) to be at the starchin' o't. And

faith, maybes there was something aboot the craitur too--he was sae

cruppen in upon himsel', sae wee-bookit, sae waesome and yet kindly

aboot the e'en, that I juist couldna say him nay."

That is my mother's report of her feelings in the matter. She does not

add that the ten minutes or quarter of an hour in which she had been

able to give the fullest and most public expression to her feelings had

allowed most of the steam of indignation to blow itself off. My father,

who was a good judge, gave me, early in my married life, some excellent

advice on this very point, which I subjoin for the edification of the

general public.

"Never bottle a woman up, Alec," he said, meditatively. "What Vesuvius

and Etna and thae ither volcanoes are to this worl', the legeetimate

exercise o' her tongue is to a woman. It's a naitural function, Alec.

Ye may bridle the ass or the mule, but--gie the tongue o' a woman (as it

were) plenty o' elbow-room! Gang oot o' the hoose--like Moses to the

backside o' the wilderness gin ye like, and when ye come in she will be

as quaite as pussy; and if ever ye hae to contradick your mairried wife,

Alec, let it be in deeds, no in words. Gang your road gin ye hae made

up your mind, immovable like the sun, the mune, and the stars o' heeven

in their courses--but, as ye value peace dinna be aye crying' 'Aye,'

when your wife cries 'No'!"

Which things may be wisdom. But to the tale of our Jaimsie.

Sometimes, moreover, even the natural man in my kindly and

long-suffering father uprose against the preacher. Jaimsie knew when he

was comfortable, and no mere hint of any delicate sort would make him

curtail his visit by one day. I can remember him creeping about the farm

of Drumquhat all that summer, a book in his hand, contemplating the

works of God as witnessed chiefly in the growth of the "grosarts." (We

always blamed him--quite unjustly, I believe--for eating the

"silver-gray" gooseberries on the sly.) Now he would stand half an hour

and gaze up among the branches of an elm, where a cushat was tirelessly

_coorooring_ to his mate. Anon you would see him apparently deeply

engaged in counting the sugar-plums in the orchard. After a little he

would be found seated on the red shaft of a cart in the stackyard,

jotting down in a shabby notebook ideas for the illustrations of sermons

never to be written; or if written, doomed never to be preached. His

hat was always curled up at the back and pulled down at the front, and

till my mother made down an old pair of my father's Sunday trousers for

him (and put them beside his bed while he slept), you could see in a

good light the reflection of your hand on the knees of his "blacks." It

is scarcely necessary to say that Jaimsie never referred to the

transposition, nor, indeed, in all probability, so much as discovered

it.

Jaimsie was used to conduct family worship morning and evening in the

house of his sojourn, as a kind of quit-rent for his meal of meat and

his prophet's chamber. To the ordinary reading of the Word he was wont

to subjoin an "exposeetion" of some disputed or prophetical passage. The

whole exercises never took less than an hour, if Jaimsie were left to

the freedom of his own will--which, as may be inferred, was extremely

awkward in a busy season when the corn was dry in the stock or when the

scythes flashed rhythmically like level silver flames among the lush

meadow grass.

Finally, therefore, a compromise had to be effected. My father took the

morning diet of worship, but Jaimsie had his will of us in the evening.

I can see them yet--those weariful sederunts, when even my father

wrestled with sleep like Samson with the Philistines, while my mother

periodically nodded forward with a lurch, and, recovering herself with a

start, the next moment looked round haughtily to see which of us was

misbehaving. Meanwhile the kitchen was all dark, save where before

Jaimsie the great Bible lay open between two candles, and on the hearth

the last peat of the evening glowed red.

Many is the fine game of draughts I have had with my brother Rob and

Christie Wilson our herd lad, by putting the "dam-brod" behind the

chimney jamb where my father and mother could not see it, and moving the

pieces by the light of the red peat ash. I am ashamed to think on it

now, but then it seemed the only thing to do which would keep us from

sleep.

And meantime Jaimsie prosed on, his gentle sing-song working its wicked

work on mother like a lullaby, and my father sending his nails into the

palms of his hands that he might not be shamed before us all.

I remember particularly how Jaimsie addressed us for a whole week on his

favourite text in he Psalms, "The hill of God is as the hill of

Bashan--an high hill, as the hill of Bashan."

And in the pauses of crowning our men and scuffling for the next place

at the draught board, we could catch strange words and phrases which

come to me yet with a curious wistful thrilling of the heart. Such are

"White as snow on Salmon"--"That mount Sinai in Arabia"--"Ye mountains

of Gilboa, let there be no dew, neither let there be rain upon you, nor

fields of offering."

And as a concluding of the whole matter we sang this verse out of

Francis Roos's psalter:

"Ye mountains great, wherefore was it

That ye did skip like rams?

And wherefore was it, little hills,

That ye did leap like lambs?"

It was all double-Dutch to me then, but now I can see that Jaimsie must

have been marshalling the mountains of Scripture to bear solemn witness

against an evil and exceedingly somnolent generation.

Once when my mother snored audibly Jaimsie looked up, but at that very

moment she awoke, and with great and remarkable presence of mind

promptly cuffed Rob, who in his turn knocked the draught-board endways,

just as I had his last man cornered, to our everlasting disgrace.

My mother asked us next day pointedly where we thought we were going to,

and if we were of opinion that there would be any dam-brods in hell. I

offered no remarks, but Rob--who was always an impudent boy--got on the

other side of the dyke from my mother and answered that there would be

no snorers there either.

From an early age he was a lad of singularly sound judgments, my brother

Rob. He stayed out in the barn till after my mother was asleep that

night.

At last, however, even my father grew tired of Jaimsie. He stayed full

three months on this occasion. Autumnal harvest fields were bared of

stooks, the frost began to glisten on the stiff turnip shaws, the

wreathed nets were put up for the wintering sheep, and still the

indefatigable Jaimsie stayed on.

I remember yet the particular morning when, at long and last, Jaimsie

left us. All night almost there had been in the house the noise as of a

burn running over hollow stones, with short solid interruptions like the

sound of a distant mallet stricken on wood. It came from my father's

and mother's room. I knew well what it meant. The sound like running

water was my mother trying to persuade my father to something against

his will, and the far-away mallet thuds were his mono-syllabic replies.

This time it was my mother who won.

After the harvest bustle was over, Jaimsie had resumed his practice of

taking worship in the mornings, but any of us who had urgent work on

hand could obtain, by proper representation, a dispensing ordinance.

These were much sought after, especially when Jaimsie started to tackle

the Book of Daniel "in his ordinary," as he phrased it.

But this Monday morning, to the general surprise, my father sat down in

the chair of state himself and reached the Bible from the shelf.

"I will take family worship this morning, Mr. Tacksman," he said, with

great sobriety.

Then we knew that something extraordinary was coming, and I was glad I

had not "threeped" to my mother that I had seen some of the Nether Neuk

sheep in our High Park--which would have been quite true, for I had put

them there myself on purpose the night before.

It was during the prayer that the blow fell. My father had a peculiarly

distinct and solemn way with him in supplication; and now the words fell

distinct as hammer strokes on our ear.

He prayed for the Church of God in all covenanted lands; for all

Christian peoples of every creed (here Jaimsie, faithful Abdiel, always

said "Humph"); for the heathen without God and without hope; for the

family now present and for those of the family afar off. Then, as was

his custom, he approached the stranger (who was no stranger) within our

gates.

"And do Thou, Lord, this day vouchsafe journeying mercies to Thy servant

who is about to leave us. Grant him favourable weather for his

departure, good speed on his way, and a safe return to his own country!"

A kind of gasping sigh went all about the kitchen. I knew that my

mother had her eye on my father to keep him to his pledged word of the

night season. So I dared not look round.

But we all ached to know how Jaimsie would take it, and we all joined

fervently in the supplication which promised us a couple of hours more

added to our day.

Then came the Amen, and all rose to their feet. Jaimsie seemed a little

dazed, but took the matter like a scholar and a gentleman.

He held out his hand to my father with his usual benevolent smile.

"I did not know that I had mentioned it," he said, "but I was thinking

of leaving you to-day."

And that was all he said, but forthwith went upstairs to pack his shabby

little black bag.

My father stood a while as if shamed; then, when we heard Jaimsie's feet

trotting overhead, he turned somewhat grimly to my mother. On his face

was an expression as if he had just taken physic.

"Well," he said, "you will be easier in your mind now, Mary." This he

said, well knowing that the rat of remorse was already getting his

incisors to work upon his wife's conscience. She stamped her foot.

"Saunders McQuhirr," she said in suppressed tones, "to be a Christian

man, ye are the maist aggrevatin'----"

But at that moment my father went out through the door, saying no

further word.

My mother shooed us all out of the house like intrusive chickens, and I

do not know for certain what she did next. But Rob, looking through the

blind of the little room where she kept her house-money, saw her

fumbling with her purse. And when at last Jaimsie, having addressed his

bag to be sent with the Carsphairn carrier into Ayrshire (where dwelt

the friends next on his visiting list), came out with his staff in one

hand, he was dabbing his eyes with a clean handkerchief.

Then, after that, all that I remember is the pathetic figure of the

little probationer lifting up a hand in silent blessing upon the house

which had sheltered him so long; and so taking his lonely way over the

hillside towards the northern coach road.

When my father came in from the sheep at mid-day, he waited till grace

was over, and then, looking directly at my mother, he said: "Weel, Mary,

how mony o' your pound notes did he carry away in his briest-pocket this

time?"

I shall never forget the return and counter retort which followed. My

mother was vexed--one of the few times that I can remember seeing her

truly angered with her husband.

"I would give you one advice, Saunders McQuhirr," she said, "and that

is, from this forth, to be mindful of your own business."

"I will tak' that advice, Mary," he answered slowly; "but my heart is

still sore within me this day because I took the last advice you gied

me!"

* * * * *

And it was destined to be yet sorer for that same cause. Jaimsie never

was within our doors again. He abode in Ayrshire and the Upper Ward all

that winter and spring, and it was not till the following back-end, and

in reply to a letter and direct invitation from my conscience-stricken

father, that he announced that, all being well and the Lord gracious, he

would be with us the following Friday.

But on the Thursday night a great snow storm came on, and the drift

continued long unabated. We all said that Jaimsie would doubtless be

safely housed, and we did not look for him to arrive upon the day of his

promise. However, by Monday, when the coach was again running, my

mother began to be anxious, and all the younger of us went forth to try

and get news of him. We heard that he had left Carsphairn late on the

Thursday forenoon, meaning to stop overnight at the shepherd's shieling

at the southern end of Loch Dee. But equally certainly he had never

reached it.

It was not till Tuesday morning early that Jaimsie was found under a

rock near the very summit of the Dungeon hill, his plaid about him and

his frozen hand clasping his pocket Bible. It was open, and his

favourite text was thrice underscored.

"_The hill of God is as the hill of Bashan; an high hill, as the hill of

Bashan._"

Well, there is no doubt that the little forlorn "servant of God" has

indeed gotten some new light shed upon the text, since the dark hour

when he sat down to rest his weary limbs upon the snow-clad summit of

the Dungeon of Buchan.

*BEADLE AND MARTYR*

I sometimes give it as a reason for a certain lack of uniformity in

church attendance, that I cannot away with the new-fangled organs,

hymns, and chaunts one meets with there. I love them not, in

comparison, that is, with the old psalm tunes. They do not make the

heart beat quicker and more proudly, like Kilmarnock and Coleshill, Duke

Street and Old 124th.

Nance, however, is so far left to herself as to say that this is only an

excuse, and that my real reason is the pleasure I have in thinking that

all the people must perforce listen to a sermon, while I can put my feet

upon another chair and read anything I like. This, however, is rank

insult, such as only wives long wedded dare to indulge in. Besides, it

shows, by its imputation of motives, to what lengths a sordid and

ill-regulated imagination will go.

Moreover, I have never grown accustomed to the hours of town churches,

and I consider, both from a medical and from a spiritual point of view,

that afternoon services in town churches are directly responsible for

the spread of indigestion, as well as of a spirit of religious

infidelity throughout our beloved land.

(Nance is properly scandalised at this last remark, and says that she

hopes people will understand that I only believe about half of what I

put down on paper when I get a pen in my hand. She complains that she

is often asked to explain some of my positions at afternoon teas. I say

it serves her right for attending such gatherings of irresponsible

gossip, tempered with boiled tannin. It is easy to have the last word

with Nance--here.)

But after all the chief thing that I miss when I go to church is just

Willie McNair.

The sermon is nowadays both shorter and better. The singing is good of

its kind, and I can always read a psalm or a paraphrase if the hymn

prove too long, or, as is often the case, rather washy in sentiment.

The children's address is really designed for children, and the prayers

do not exceed five minutes in length. But--I look in vain for Willie

McNair.

Alas! Willie lies out yonder on the green knowe, his wife Betty by his

side, and four feet of good black mould over his coffin-lid.

Willie was just our beadle, and he had a story. When I am setting down

so many old things, if I forget thee, Willie McNair, may my right hand

forget his cunning.

Ah, Willie, though you never were a "church-officer," though you never

heard the Word, it is you, you alone that I miss. I just cannot think

of the kirk without you. Grizzled, gnarled, bow-shouldered of

week-days, what a dignity of port, what a solemnising awe, what a

processional tread was thine on Sabbaths! We had only one service in

the Kirk on the Hill in my youth. But, speaking in the vulgar tongue,

that one was a "starcher."

It included the "prefacing" of a psalm, often extending over quite as

long a period of time as an ordinary modern sermon, a "lecture," which

as a rule (if "himsel'" was in fettle) lasted about three quarters of an

hour. Then after that the sermon proper was begun without loss of time.

Now I cannot say, speaking "from the heart to the heart" (a favourite

expression of Willie's), that I regret the loss of all this. I was but

a boy, and the torment of having to sit still for from two hours and a

half to three hours on a hard seat, close-packed and well-watched to

keep me out of mischief, has made even matrimony seem light and easy.

How mere Episcopalians and other untrained persons get through the

sorrows and disappointments incident to human life I do not know.

It was not till the opening of the Sabbath-school by Mr. Osbourne,

however, that I came to know Willie well. Hitherto he had been as

inaccessible and awestriking as the minister's neckcloth. And of that I

have a story to tell. I think what made me a sort of advanced thinker

in these early days, was once being sent by my father to the lodgings of

the minister who was to "supply" on a certain Sabbath morning. The

manse must have been shut for repairs and "himsel'" on his holidays. At

any rate, the minister was stopping with Miss Bella McBriar in the

little white house below the Calmstone Brig. Miss Bella showed me in

with my missive, and there, on the morning of the Holy Day, before a

common unsanctified glass tacked to a wall, with a lathery razor in his

hand, in profane shirt-sleeves, stood the minister, shaving himself!

His neckcloth, that was to appear and shine so glorious above the

cushions of the pulpit, hung limp and ignominious over the back of a

chair. A clay pipe lay across the ends of it.

This was the beginning of the mischief, and if I ever take to a criminal

career, here was the first and primal cause.

Shortly after I went to Sabbath-school, and having been well trained by

my father in controversial divinity, and drilled by my mother in the

Catechism, I found myself in a fair way of distinguishing myself; but

for all that, I cannot truly say that I ever got over the neckcloth on

the back of Miss McBriar's chair. When I aired my free-thinking

opinions before my father, and he shut me off by an appeal to authority,

I kept silence and hugged myself.

"That may be a good enough argument," I said to myself, "but--I have

seen a minister's neckcloth hung over the back of a chair, and

shaving-soap on his chafts on Sabbath morning. How can you believe in

revealed religion after that?"

But I had so much of solid common-sense, even in these my salad days,

that I refrained from saying these things to my father. Indeed, I would

not dare to say them now, even if I believed them, Willie McNair

regarded the Sabbath-school much as I did. To both of us it was simply

an imposition.

Willie thought so for two reasons--first and generally, because it was

an innovation; and secondly, because he had to clean up the kirk after

it. I agreed with him, because I was compelled to attend--the farm cert

being delayed a whole hour in order that I might have the privilege of

religious instruction by the senior licensed grocer of the little town.

This gentleman had only one way of imparting knowledge. That was with

the brass-edged binding of his pocket Bible. Even at that time I

preferred the limp Oxford morocco. And so would you, if something so

unsympathetic as brass corners were applied to the sides of your head

two or three times every Sunday afternoon.

After several years of this experience, I passed into Henry Marchbank's

class and was happy. But that is quite another chapter, and has nothing

to do with Willie McNair.

Now, Sabbath-school was over about three o'clock, and our conveyance did

not start till four. That is the way I became attached to Willie. I

used to stay and help him to clean the kirk. This is the way he did it.

First, he unfrocked himself of his broadcloth dignity by hanging his

coat upon a nail in the vestry. Then he put on an apron which covered

him from gray chin-beard to the cracks in the uppers of his shining

shoes. Into the breast of this envelope he thrust a duster large enough

for a sheet. It was, in fact, a section of a departed pulpit swathing.

Then, muttering quite scriptural maledictions, and couching them in

language entirely Biblical, Willie proceeded to visit the pews occupied

by each class, restoring the "buiks" he had previously piled at the head

of each seat to their proper places on the book-board in front, and

scrutinising the woodwork for inscriptions in lead-pencil. Then he

swept the crumbs and apple-cores carefully off the floor and delivered

judgment at large.

"I dinna ken what Maister Osbourne was thinkin' on to begin sic a Popish

whigmaleery as this Sabbath-schule! A disgrace an' a mockin' in the

hoose o' God! What kens the like o' Sammle Borthwick aboot the divine

decrees? When I, mysel', that has heard them treated on for forty year

under a' the Elect Ministers o' the Land, can do no more than barely

understand them to this day! And a wheen silly lasses, wi' gum-floo'ers

in their bonnets to listen to bairns hummerin' ower 'Man's Chief End'!

It's eneuch to gar decent Doctor Syminton turn in his grave! 'Man's

Chief End'--faith--it's wumman's chief end that they're thinkin' on, the

madams; they think I dinna see them shakin' their gum-floo'ers and

glancing their e'en in the direction o' the onmarriet teacher

bodies----"

"And such are all they that put their trust in them!" concluded Willie,

somewhat irrelevantly.

"Laddie, come doon out o' the pulpit. I canna lippen (trust) ony body

to dust that, bena mysel'! Gang and pick up the conversation lozengers

aff the floor o' the Young Weemen's Bible Cless!"

Printed words can give small indication of the intense bitterness and

mordant satire of Willie's speech as he uttered these last words.

Yet Willie was far from being a hater of women kind. Indeed, the end of

all his moralising was ever the same.

"There's my ain guid wife--was there ever a woman like her? Snod as a

new preen, yet nocht gaudy, naething ken-speckle. If only the young

weemen nooadays were like Betty, they wad hae nae need o' gum-floo'ers

an' ither abominations. Na, nor yet Bible clesses! Faith, set them up!

It wad better become them to sit them doon wi' their Bibles in their

laps and the grace o' God in their hearts, an' tak' a lesson to

themsel's oot o' Paaal!"

Here Willie dusted the pulpit cushions, vigorously shaking them as a

terrier does a rat, and then carefully brushing them all in one

direction, in order that, as he said, "the fell may a' lie the yae way."

Willie was no eye servant. No spider took hold with her hands and was

in the Palace of Willie's King. Dust had no habitation there, and if a

man did not clean his boots on the mat before entering, Willie went to

him personally and told him his probable chances of a happy hereafter.

These were but few and evil.

Then having got the "shine" to fall as he wanted it, and the dark purple

velvet overhang, pride of his heart, to sit to a nicety, Willie lifted

up the heavy tassels, and at the same time resumed the thread of his

discourse, standing there in the pulpit with the very port of a

minister, and in his speech a point and pith that was all his own.

"Aye, Paul," (he always pronounced it _Paaal_)--"aye, Paaal, it's a

peety ye never marriet and left nae faim'ly that we ken o'. For we hae

sair need o' ye in thae days. But ye kenned better than to taigle

yersel' wi' silly lasses. It was you that bade the young weemen to be

keepers at hame--nae Bible clesses for Paaal--na, na!

"And you mind Peter--oh, Peter was juist as soond on gum-floo'ers an'

weemen's falderals as Paaal, 'Whose adorning, let it not be the outward

adorning of plaiting the hair, and wearing of gold, and putting on of

apparel, but the ornament of a meek and quiet speerit----'"

He stopped in the height of his discourse and waggled his hand down at

me.

"Here, boy!" he cried, "what did ye do wi' thae conversation lozengers?"

I indicated that I had them still in my pocket, for I had meant to

solace the long road home with the cleaner of them.

"Let me see them!"

Somewhat unwillingly I handed them up to Willie as he stood in the

pulpit, a different Willie, an accusing Willie, Nathan the Prophet with

a large cloth-brush under his arm.

"When this you see, remember me!"

He read the printed words through his glasses deliberately.

"Aye," he sneered, "that wad be Mag Kinstrey. I saw Rob Cuthbert

smirkin' ower at her when the minister was lookin' up yon reference to

Melchisadek. Aye, Meg, I'll remember ye--I'll no forgot ye. And if ye

mend not your ways----"

Willie did not conclude the sentence, but instead, he shook his head in

the direction of the door of the Session house.

He picked out another.

"The rose is red--the violet's blue,

But fairer far, my love, are you!"

Willie opened the door of the pulpit.

"Preserve me, what am I doin'? It's fair profanation to be readin' sic

balderdash in a place like this. Laddie, hear ye this, whatever ye hae

to say to a lass, gang ye and say it to hersel', by yoursel'. For

valenteens are a vain thing, and conversation lozengers a mock and an

abomination."

Willie threatened me a moment with uplifted finger, and then added his

stereotyped conclusion: "And so are all such as put their trust in

them!"

And through life I have acted strictly on Willie's advice, and I am

bound to admit that I have found it good.

About this period, also, I began to take tea, not infrequently, with

Willie, and occasionally, but not often, I saw his wife, the

incomparable Betty, whose praises Willie was never tired of singing. I

am forced to say that, after these harangues, Betty disappointed me.

She sat dumb and appeared singularly stupid, and this to a lad

accustomed to a housewife like my mother, with her woman's wit keen as a

razor, and a speech pointed to needle fineness, appeared more than

strange.

But Willie's affection was certainly both lovely and lovable. He was a

gnarled grey old man with a grim mouth, but for Betty he ran like a

young lover, and served her with meat and drink, as it had been on

bended knee. His smile was ready whenever she looked at him, and he

watched her with anxious eyes, dwelling on her every word and movement

with a curious perturbation. If she happened not to be in when he came

to the door, he would fall to trembling like a leaf, and the bleached

look on his face was sad to see.

Willie McNair dwelt in a rickety old house at the bottom of the kirk

hill, separated from the other village dwellings by the breadth of a

field. There was a garden behind it, and a heathery common behind that,

with whins growing to the very dyke of Willie's kail yard.

The first time that Betty was not in the house when we went home, it was

to the hill behind that Willie ran first. Under a broom bush he found

her, after a long search, and lifting her up in his arms he carried her

to the house.

"Poor Betty," he cried over his shoulder as he went before me down the

walk; "she shouldna gang oot on sic a warm day. The sun has been ower

muckle for her. See, boy, rin doon to the Tinkler's well for some

caller water. The can's at the gable end."

When I returned Betty was quietly in bed; and Willie had made the tea

with ordinary water. He was somewhat more composed, but I could see his

hand shake when he tried to pour out the first cup. He "skailed" it all

over the cloth, and then was angered with himself for what he called his

"trimlin' auld banes."

But I never knew or suspected Willie's secret till that awful Sabbath

day, when the cross that he had borne so long hidden from the eyes of

men, was suddenly lifted high in air.

Then all at once Willie towered like a giant, and the bowed shoulders

seemed to support a grey head about which had become visible an apparent

aureole.

It was the day of High Communion, and the solemn services were drawing

to a yet more solemn close. The elements had been dispensed and the

elders were back again in their places. Mr. Osbourne had Dr.

Landsborough of Portmarnock assisting him that day--a tall man with a

gracious manner, and the only man who could give an after-communion

address without his words being resented as an intrusion.

"It is always difficult," he said, "to disturb the peculiarly sacred

pause which succeeds the act of communion by any words of man----"

He had got no farther when he stopped, and the congregation regarded him

with the strained attention which a beautiful voice always compels. The

beadle was sitting in all the reasonable pride of his dignity in the

first pew to the right of the Session. When Dr. Landsborough stopped,

the congregation followed the direction of his eyes.

The door at the back of the kirk was seen to be open and a woman stood

there, dishevelled, wild-eyed, a black bottle in her shaking hand, a red

shawl about her head.

It was Betty McNair.

"Willie!" she cried aloud in the awful silence, "Willie, come forth--you

that lockit me in the back kitchin, an' thocht to stop me frae the

saicrament--I hae deceived ye, Willie McNair, clever man as ye think

yersel'!"

I was in the corner pew opposite Willie (being, of course, a

non-communicant at that date), so that I could see his face. At the

first sound of that voice his countenance worked as if it would change

its shape, but in a moment I saw him grip the book-board and stand up.

Then he went quietly down the aisle to where his wife stood, gabbling

wild and wicked words, and laughing till it turned the blood cold to

hear her in that sacred place, and upon that solemn occasion.

Firmly, but very gently, Willie took the woman by the arm, and led her

out. She went like a lamb. He closed the door behind him, and after a

quaking and dreadful pause, Dr. Landsborough took up the interrupted

burden of his discourse.

I was a great lad of twelve or thirteen at the time and unused to tears

for many years. But I know that I wept all the time till the service

was ended, thinking of Willie and wondering where he was and what he

would be doing.

That same night I heard my father telling my mother about what came

next.

The Session were in their little square room after the service, counting

the tokens. The minister was sitting in his chair waiting to dismiss

them with the benediction, when a rap came to the door. My father

opened it, being nearest, and there without stood Willie McNair.

"I wish to speak with the Session," he said, firmly.

"Come in--come your ways in, William," said the minister, kindly, and

the elders resumed their seats, not knowing what was to happen.

"Moderator and ruling elders of this congregation," said Willie, who had

not served tables so long without knowing the respect due to his

spiritual superiors, "I have come before you in the day of my shame to

demit the office I have held so long among you. Gentlemen, I do not

complain, I own I am well punished. These twenty years I have lived for

my pride. I have lied to each one of you--to the minister, to you the

elders, and to the hale congregation, making a roose of my wife, and

sticking at nothing to hide the shame of my house.

"Sirs, for these lying words, it behoves that ye deal strictly with me,

and I will submit willingly. But believe me, sirs, it was through a

godly jealousy that I did it, that the Kirk of the New Testament might

not be made ashamed through me and mine. But for a' that I have done

wrong, grievous wrong. I aye kenned in my heart that it would

come--though, God helping me, I never thocht that it would be like this!

"But noo I maun gang awa'," here he broke into dialect, "for I could

never bear to see anither man carry up the Buiks and open the door for

you, sir, to enter in. Forty years has William McNair been a hewer of

wood and a drawer of water in this tabernacle. Let there be pity in

your hearts for him this day. He hath borne himself with pride, and for

that the Lord hath brought him very low. And, oh! sirs, pray for

her--flesh of my flesh, and bone of my bone, come to what ye saw this

day! Tell me that He will forgie--be sure to tell me that He will

forgie Betty--for what she has dune this day!"

The minister reassured him in affectionate words, and the whole Session

tried to get Willie to withdraw his decision. But in vain. The old man

was firm.

"No," he said, "Betty is noo my chairge. The husband of a drunkard is

not a fit person to serve tables in the clean and halesome sanctuary. I

will never leave Betty till the day she dees!"

* * * * *

And neither he did. It was not long. Willie nursed his wife with

unremitting tenderness, breaking himself down as he did so. I did not

see him again till the day of Betty's funeral. I went with my father,

feeling very important, as it was the first function I had been at in my

new character of a man.

When they were filling in the grave, Willie stood at the head with his

hat in his hand, and his grey locks waving in the moderate wind. His

lips were tremulous, but I do not think there were tears in his eyes.

I went up to try to say something that might comfort him. I knew no

better then. But I think he did not wish me to speak about Betty, for

with a strange uncertain kind of smile he lifted up his eyes till they

rested upon the golden fields of ripening corn all about the little

kirkyard.

"I think it will be an early harvest," he said, in a commonplace tone.

Then all suddenly he broke into a kind of eager sobbing cry--a

heart-prayer of ultimate agony.

"Oh, my God! my God! send that it be an early harvest to puir Willie

McNair."

* * * * *

And it was, for before a sheaf of that heartsome yellow corn was

gathered into barn, they laid Willie beside the woman he had watched so

long, and sheltered so faithfully behind the barriers of his love.

*THE BLUE EYES OF AILIE*

When first I went to Cairn Edward as a medical man on my own account, I

had little to do with the district of Glenkells. For one thing, there

was a resident doctor there, Dr. Campbell--Ignatius Campbell--and in

those days professional boundaries were more strictly observed than they

have been in more recent years. But in time, whether owing to the

natural spread of my practice, or through some small name which I got in

the countryside, owing to a successful treatment of tubercular cases, I

found myself oftener and oftener in the Glenkells. And, indeed, ever

since I began to be able to keep a stated assistant, it has been my

custom to take day about with him on the Glenkells round.

But in what follows I speak of the very early years when I had still

little actual connection with the district. The Glenkells folk are

always in the habit of referring to themselves as a community apart.

They may, indeed, in extreme cases include the rest of the United

Kingdom--but, as it were, casually. Thus, "If the storm continues it

will be a sair winter in Glenkells, _and the rest o' the country_!"

Or when some statesman conspicuously blundered, or a foreign nation

involved themselves in superfluous difficulties, you could not go into a

farmhouse or traverse the length of the main street of the Clachan

without hearing the words: "The like o' that could never hae happened i'

the Glenkells!"

So there arose a proverb which, though of local origin, was not without

a certain wider acceptation: "As conceity as Glenkells," or, in a more

diffuse form: "Glenkells cocks craw aye croosest an' on a muckler

midden!"

But Glenkells wotted little of such slurs, or if it minded at all took

them for compliments with a solid and irrefutable foundation. On the

other hand, it retorted upon the rest of the world in characteristic

fashion, visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the

third and fourth generation. As thus: "Tak' care o' him. He's no to be

trustit. His grandfaither cam' frae Borgue!" Or, more allusively:

"Aye, a Nicholson aye needs watchin'. They a' come frae Kirkcudbright,

_where the jail is_!"

One peculiarity of the speech of this country within a country struck me

more than all the others--perhaps because it came in the line of my own

profession.

More than once an applicant for my services would say, in answer to my

question: "Have you called in the doctor?" "Oh, no, it has no been so

serious as that!" Succeedantly I would find that Dr. Ignatius Campbell

had been in attendance for some time, and that I ought to have consulted

with him before, as it were, jumping his claim.

Dr. Campbell was a queer, dusty, smoky old man who, when seen abroad,

sat low in a kind of basket-phaeton--as it were, on the small of his

back, and visited his patients in a kind of dreamy exaltation which many

put down to drink. They were wrong. The doctor was something much

harder to cure--an habitual opium-eater. Somehow Dr. Campbell had never

taken the position in the Glenkells to which his abilities entitled him.

He came from the North, and that was against him. More than that, he

sent in his bills promptly, and saw that they were settled. Worst of

all, he took no interest in imaginary diseases.

He openly laughed at calomel--which in the Glenkells was looked upon as

a kind of blaspheming of the Trinity. But he was a duly certified

graduate of Edinburgh like myself. His name was on the Medical List,

and only his unfortunate habit and the dreamy idleness engendered by it

kept him from making a very considerable name for himself in his

profession. I found, for instance, after his death (he left his books,

papers, and instruments to me) that he had actually anticipated in his

vague theoretical way some of the most applauded discoveries of more

recent times, and that he was well versed in all the foreign literature

of such subjects as interested him.

But Dr. Ignatius Campbell with his great pipe, his low-crowned hat, his

seedy black clothes with the fluff sticking here and there upon them,

was not the man to impress the Glenkells. For in Galloway the minister

may go about in fishing-boots, shooting-jacket, and deerstalker if he

will--nobody thinks the worse of him for it. The lawyer may look as if

he bought his clothes from a slopshop. The country gentleman may wear a

suit of tweeds for ten years, till the leather gun-patch on the shoulder

threatens to pervade the whole man, back and front. But the doctor, if

he would be successful, must perforce dress strictly by rule. Sunday

and Saturday he must go buttoned up in his well-fitting surtout. His

hat must be glossy, no matter what the weather may be (for myself I

always kept a spare one in the box of the gig), and the whole man upon

entering a sick-room must bring with him the fragrance of clean linen,

good clothes, and personal exactitude. And though naturally a little

rebellious at first, I hereby subscribe to the Galloway view of the

case.

Nance converted me.

"Is that a clean collar?--no, sir, you don't! Take it off this instant!

I think this tie will suit you better. It is a dull day and something

light becomes you. I have ironed your other hat. See that you put it

on! Let me look at your cuffs. Mind that you turn down your trousers

before you come in sight of the house. John" (this to my driver), "see

that Dr. McQuhirr turns down his trousers and puts on his hat right side

first. There is a dint at the back that I cannot quite get out!"

It is no wonder that I succeeded in Galloway, having such a--I mean

being endowed with such professional talents!

I had not, however, been long in Glenkells before I found out that there

was another medical adviser on the scene--a kind of Brownie who did Dr.

Campbell's work while he slept or dreamed his life away over his pipe

and his coloured diagrams, whose very name was never mentioned, to me at

least--perhaps from some idea that as an orthodox professional man I

might resent the Brownie's intrusion.

But matters came to a head one day when I found the bottle of medicine I

had sent up from the Cairn Edward apothecary standing untouched on the

mantelpiece, while another and wholly unlicensed phial stood at the

bed-head with a glass beside it, in which lingered a few drops of

something which I knew well that I had not prescribed.

"What is this?" I demanded. "Why have you not administered the medicine

I sent you?"

The woman put her apron to her lips in some embarrassment.

"Oh, doctor--ye see the way o't was this," she said. "Jeems was ta'en

that bad in the nicht that I had to caa' in--a neebour o' oors--an' he

brocht this wi' him."