"What's the matter with the Hempie?" I said.
"Matter with the Hempie?" repeated Nance, trying vainly to look blank.
"Why, what should be the matter with the Hempie?"
"Don't try that on with me, you little fraud. There _is_ something!
What is it?"
"I have not the least idea."
"Have you kissed her?"
"No, she never looked at me--only at the baby, _of course_."
"Then go and kiss her."
Nance went off obediently, and the sisters walked a while together.
Presently the baby took the red thumb out of his mouth, and through the
orifice thus created issued a bellow. The nurse came running. Nance
took him in her arms, replaced the thumb, and all was well. Then she
handed him back to the Hempie and kissed her as she did so. The Hempie
raised her head into position naturally, like one well accustomed to the
operation.
Nance came slowly back and rejoined me. She was unusually thoughtful.
"Well?" I said.
She nodded gravely and shook her head.
"It _is_ true," she murmured, as if convinced against her will; "there
is something. She is different."
"Nance," said I, triumphantly, for I was pleased with myself, "the
Hempie is in love at last. You must find out all about it and tell me."
She looked at me scornfully.
"I will do no such thing----" she began.
"It is not curiosity--as you seem to think," I remarked with dignity.
"It is entirely in the interests of science," I said.
"Rats!" cried Nance, rudely.
As I have had occasion to remark more than once before, she does not
show that deference to her husband to which his sterling worth and many
merits entitle him. Indeed, few wives do--if any.
"Well, I will find out for myself," I said, carelessly.
"_You!_"
Scorn, derision, challenge were never more briefly expressed.
"Yes, I."
"I'll wager you a new riding-whip out of my house money that you don't
find out anything about it!"
"Done!" said I.
For I remembered about the little wall-press where I kept my microscope.
Not that I am by nature an eavesdropper; but, after all, a scientific
purpose--and a new riding-whip, make some difference.
I was busy mounting my slides when I heard them come in. Instantly I
needed some Canada balsam out of the wall-press--in the interests of
science. I heard Nance go to the door to listen "if baby was asleep."
I have often represented to her that she does not require to do this,
because the instant baby is awake he advertises the fact to the whole
neighbourhood, as effectually as if he had been specially designed with
a steam whistle attachment for the purpose. But I have never succeeded.
"You think you are a doctor, Alec," is the answer, "but you know nothing
about babies! You know you don't!"
Which shows that I must have spent a considerable part of my medical
curriculum in vain.
There ensued the soft muffled hush of chairs being pushed into the
window. Then came the first _click-click, jiggity-click_ of a
rocking-chair, which Nance had bought for me "when you are tired,
dear"--and has used ever since herself. I did not regret this, for it
left the deep-seated chintz-covered one free. They are useless things,
anyway: a man cannot go to sleep on a rocking-chair, or strike a match
under the seat, or stand on it to put up a picture--or, in fact, do any
of the things for which chairs are really designed.
Now when a woman goes to sleep in a chair, she always wakes up cross.
All that stuff in romances about kissing the beloved awake in the dear
old rose-scented parlour, and about the lids rising sweetly from off
loving and happy eyes, is, scientifically considered, pure nonsense.
Believe me, if she greets you that way the lady has not been asleep at
all, and was waiting for you to do it.
But when she, on the other hand, wakes with a start and opens her eyes
so promptly that you step back quickly (having had experience); when she
speaks words like these, "Alec, I have a great mind to give you a sound
box on the ear--coming waking me up like that, when you know I didn't
have more than an hour's good sleep last night!"--this is the genuine
article. The lady was asleep that time. The other kind may be pretty
enough to read about, but that is its only merit.
It was Nance who spoke first. I heard her drop the scissors and stoop
to pick them up. I also gathered from the tone of her first words that
she had a pin in her mouth. Yet she goes into a fit if baby tries to
imitate her, and wonders where he can learn such habits. This also is
incomprehensible.
"Have you left Craignesslin for good?" said Nance, using a foolish
expression for which I have often reproved her.
"I am going back," said the Hempie. I am not so well acquainted with
the _nuances_ of the Hempie's voice and habit as I am with those of her
sister, but I should say that she was leaning back in her chair with her
hands clasped behind her head, and staring contentedly out at the
window.
"I thought perhaps the death of the old major would make a difference to
you," said Nance. I knew by the mumbling sound that she was biting a
thread.
"It does make a difference," said the Hempie, dreamily, "and it will
make a greater difference before all be done!"
Nance was silent for a while. I knew she was hurt at her sister's lack
of communicativeness. The rocking-chair was suddenly hitched sideways,
and the stroking rose from fifty in the minute to about sixty or
sixty-five, according, as it were, to the pressure on the boiler.
Still the Hempie did not speak a word.
The rocking-chair was doing a good seventy now--but it was a spurt, and
could not last.
"Elizabeth," said Nance, suddenly, "I did not think you could be so
mean. I never behaved like this to you."
"No?" said the Hempie, with serene interrogation, but did not move, so
far as I could make out. The rocking-chair ceased. There was a pause,
painful even to me in my little den. The strain on the other side of
the wall must have been enormous.
When Nance spoke it was in a curiously altered voice. It sounded even
pleading. I wish the Hempie would teach me her secret.
"Who is it?--tell me, Hempie," said Nance, softly.
I did not catch the answer, though obviously one was given. But the
next moment I heard the unbalanced clatter of the abandoned rocker, and
then Nance's voice saying: "No, it is impossible!"
Apparently it was not, however, for presently I heard the sound of more
than one kiss, and I knew that my dear Mistress Impulsive had her sister
in her arms.
"Then you know all about it now, Hempie?"
"All about what?"
"Don't pretend,--about love. You do love him very much, don't you?"
"I don't know. I have never told him so!"
"Hempie!"
"It is true, Nance!"
"Then why have you come home?"
"To get married!" said the Hempie, calmly.
*THE HEMPIE'S LOVE STORY*
This is the somewhat remarkable story the Hempie told my wife as she sat
sewing in the little parlour overlooking the garden, the day Master
Alexander McQuhirr, Tertius, cut his first tooth.[#]
[#] This, however, was not discovered till afterwards, and was then
acclaimed as the reason why he cried so much on the arrival of his aunt
Elizabeth. To his nearest relative on the father's side, however, the
young gentleman's performances seemed entirely normal.--A. McQ.
Elizabeth Chrystie was a free-spoken young woman, and she told her tale
generally in the English of the schools, but sometimes in the plain
countryside talk she had spoken when, a barefoot bare-legged lass, she
had scrieved the hills, the companion of every questing collie and
scapegrace herd lad, 'twixt the Bennan and the Butt o' Benerick.
"When I first got to Craignesslin," said the Hempie, "I thought I had
better turn me about and come right back again. And if it had not been
for pride, that is just what I should have done."
"Were they not kind to you?" asked Nance.
"Kind? Oh, kind enough--it was not that. I could easily have put an
end to any unkindness by walking over the hill. But I could not. To
tell the truth, the place took hold of me from the first hour.
"Craignesslin, you know, is a great house, with many of the rooms
unoccupied, sitting high up on the hills, a place where all the winds
blow, and where the trees are mostly scrubby scrunts of thorn, turning
up their branches like skeleton hands asking for alms, or shrivelled
birches and cowering firs all bent away from the west.
"When first I saw the place I thought that I could never bide there a
day--and now it looks as if I were going to live there all my life.
"The hired man from the livery stables in Drumfern set my box down on
the step of the front door, and drove off as fast as he could. He had a
long way before him, he said, the first five miles with not so much as a
cottage by the wayside. He meant a public-house.
"He was a rude boor. And when I told him so he only laughed and said:
'For a' that ye'll maybe be glad to see me the next time I come--even if
I bring a hearse for ye to ride to the kirkyaird in!'
"And with that he cracked his whip and drove out of sight. I was left
alone on the doorstep of the old House of Craignesslin. I looked up at
the small windows set deep in the walls. Above one of them I made out
the date 1658, and over the door were carven the letters W.F.
"Then I minded the tales my father used to tell in the winter
forenights, of Wicked Wat Fergus of Craignesslin, how he used to rise
from his bed and blow his horn and ride off to the Whig-hunting with Lag
and Heughan, how he kept a tally on his bed-post of the men he had slain
on the moors, making a bigger notch all the way round for such as were
preachers.
"And while I was thinking all this, I stood knocking for admission. I
could not hear a living thing move about the place. The bell would not
ring. At the first touch the brass pull came away in my hands, and hung
by the wire almost to the ground.
"Yet there was something pleasant about the place too, and if it had not
been for the uncanny silence, I would have liked it well enough. The
hills ran steeply up on both sides, brown with heather on the dryer
knolls, and the bogs yellow and green with bracken and moss. The sheep
wandered everywhere, creeping white against the hill-breast or standing
black against the skyline. The whaups cried far and near. Snipe
whinnied up in the lift. Magpies shot from thorn-bush to thorn-bush,
and in the rose-bush by the door-cheek a goldfinch had built her nest.
"Still no one answered my knocking, and at last I opened the door and
went in. The door closed of its own accord behind me, and I found
myself in a great hall with tapestries all round, dim and rough, the
bright colours tarnished with age and damp. There were suits of armour
on the wall, old leathern coats, broad-swords basket-hiked and
tasselled, not made into trophies, but depending from nails as if they
might be needed the next moment. Two ancient saddles hung on huge pins,
one on either side of the antique eight-day clock, which ticked on and
on with a solemn sound in that still place.
"I did not see a single thing of modern sort anywhere except an empty
tin which had held McDowall's Sheep Dip.
"Nance, you cannot think how that simple thing reassured me. I opened
the door again and pulled my box within. Then I turned into the first
room on the right. I could see the doors of several other rooms, but
they were all dark and looked cavernous and threatening as the mouths of
cannon.
"But the room to the right was bright and filled with the sunshine from
end to end, though the furniture was old, the huge chairs uncovered and
polished only by use, and the great oak table in the centre hacked and
chipped. From the window I could see an oblong of hillside with sheep
coming and going upon it. I opened the lattice and looked out. There
came from somewhere far underneath, the scent of bees and honeycombs. I
began to grow lonesome and eerie. Yet somehow I dared not for the life
of me explore further.
"It was a strange feeling to have in the daytime, and you know, Nance, I
used to go up to the muir or down past the kirkyaird at any hour of the
night.
"I did not take off my things. I did not sit down, though there were
many chairs, all of plain oak, massive and ancient, standing about at
all sorts of angles. One had been overturned by the great empty
fireplace, and a man's worn riding-glove lay beside it.
"So I stood by the mantelpiece, wondering idly if this could be Major
Fergus's glove, and what scuffle there had been in this strange place to
overturn that heavy chair, when I heard a stirring somewhere in the
house. It was a curious shuffling tread, halting and slow. A faint
tinkling sound accompanied it, like nothing in the world so much as the
old glass chandelier in the room at Nether Neuk, when we danced in the
parlour above.
"The sound of that shuffling tread came nearer, and I grew so terrified,
that I think if I had been sure that the way to the door was clear, I
should have bolted there and then. But just at that moment I heard the
foot trip. There was a muffled sound as of someone falling forward. The
jingling sound became momentarily louder than ever, to which succeeded a
rasping and a fumbling. Something or someone had tripped over my box,
and was now examining it in a blind way.
"I stood turned to stone, with one hand on the cold mantelpiece and the
other on my heart to still the painful beating.
"Then I heard the shuffling coming nearer again, and presently the door
lurched forward violently. It did not open as an intelligent being
would have opened a door. The passage was gloomy without, and at first
I saw nothing. But in a moment, out of the darkness, there emerged the
face and figure of an old woman. She wore a white cap or 'mutch,' and
had a broad and perfectly dead-white face. Her eyes also were white--or
rather the colour of china ware--as though she had turned them up in
agony and had never been able to get them back again. At her waist
dangled a bundle of keys; and that was the reason of the faint musical
tinkling I had heard. She was muttering rapidly to herself in an
undertone as she shuffled forward. She felt with her hands till she
touched the great oaken table in the centre.
"As soon as she had done so, she turned towards the window, and with a
much brisker step she went towards it. I think she felt the fresh
breeze blow in from the heather. Her groping hand went through the
little hinged lattice I had opened. She started back.
"'Who has opened the window?' she said. 'Surely he has not been here!
Perhaps he has escaped! Walter--Walter Fergus--come oot!' she cried.
'Ah, I see you, you are under the table!'
"And with surprising activity the blind old woman bent down and
scrambled under the table. She ran hither and thither like a cat after a
mouse, beating the floor with her hands and colliding with the legs of
the table as she did so.
"Once as she passed she rolled a wall-white eye up at me. Nance, I
declare it was as if the week-old dead had looked at you!
"Then she darted back to the door, opened it, and with her fingers to
her mouth, whistled shrilly. A great surly-looking dog of a brown
colour lumbered in.
"'Here, Lagwine, he's lost. Seek him, Lagwine! Seek him, Lagwine!'
"And now, indeed, I thought, 'Bess Chrystie, your last hour is come.'
But though the dog must have scented me--nay, though he passed me within
a foot, his nose down as if on a hot trail--he never so much as glanced
in my direction, but took round the room over the tumbled chairs, and
with a dreadful bay, ran out at the door. The old woman followed him,
but most unfortunately (or, as it might be, fortunately) at that moment
my foot slipped from the fender, and she turned upon me with a sharp
cry.
"'Lagwine, Lagwine, he is here! He is here!' she cried.
"And still on all fours, like a beast, she rushed across the floor
straight at me. She laid her hand on my shoe, and, as it were, ran up
me like a cat, till her skinny hands fastened themselves about my
throat. Then I gave a great cry and fainted.
* * * * *
"At least, I must have done so, for when I came to myself a young man
was bending over me, with a white and anxious face. He had on velveteen
knickerbockers, and a jacket with a strap round the waist.
"'Where is that dreadful old woman?' I cried, for I was still in mortal
terror."
"_I_ should have died," said Nance. And from the sound of her voice I
judged that she had given up the attempt to continue her seam in order
to listen to the Hempie's tale, which not the most remarkable exposition
of scientific truth on my part could induce her to do for a moment.
"'It's all my fault--all my fault for not being at home to meet the
trap,' I heard him murmur, as I sank vaguely back again into
semi-unconsciousness. When I opened my eyes I found myself in a
pleasant room, with modern furniture and engravings on the wall of the
'Death of Nelson' and 'Washington crossing the Delaware.'
"As soon as I could speak I asked where I was, and if the horrible old
woman with the white eyes would come back. The young man did not answer
me directly, but called out over his shoulder, 'Mother, she is coming
to.'
"And the next moment a placid, comfortable-looking lady entered, with
the air of one who has just left the room for a moment.
"'My poor lassie,' she said, bending over me, 'this is a rough
home-coming you have got to the house of Craignesslin. But when you are
better I will tell you all. You are not fit to hear it now.'
"But I sat up and protested that I was--that I must hear it all at once,
and be done with it."
"Of course," cried Nance, "you felt that you could not stay unless you
knew. And I would not have stopped another minute--not if they had
brought down the Angel Gabriel to explain."
"Not if Alec had been there?" queried the Hempie, smiling.
"Alec!" cried Nance, in great contempt. "Indeed, if Alec had been in
such a place, I would have made Alec come away inside of three
minutes--yes, and take me with him if he had to carry me out on his
back! Stop there for Alec's sake? No fear!"
That is the way my married wife speaks of me behind my back. But, so
far as I can see, there is no legal remedy.
"Go on, Hempie; you are dreadfully slow."
"So," continued the Hempie, placidly, "the nice matronly woman bade me
lie down on a sofa, and put lavender-water on my head. She petted me as
if I had been a baby, and I lay there curiously content--me, Elizabeth
Chrystie, that never before let man or woman lay a hand on me----"
"Exactly," said Nance; "was he very nice-looking?"
"Who?"
"The young man in the velveteen suit, of course."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I mean, was he better-looking than Alec?"
"Better-looking than Alec? Why, of course, Alec isn't a bit----"
"_Hempie!_"
There was a pause, and then, to relieve the strain, the Hempie laughed.
"Are you never going to get over it, Nance?"
"Get on with your story, and be sensible." I could hear a thread bitten
through.
"So the lady began to talk to me in a quiet hushed tone, like a minister
beside a sick bed. She told me how some years ago her poor husband,
Major Fergus, had hart a dreadful accident. He was not only disfigured,
but the shock had affected his brain.
"'At first,' she said, 'we thought of sending him to an asylum, but we
could not find one exactly suited to his case. Besides which, his old
nurse, Betty Hearseman, who had always had great influence with him, was
wild to be allowed to look after him. She is not quite right in the
head herself, but most faithful and kind. She cried out night and day
that they were abusing him in the asylum. So at last he was brought
here and placed in the old wing of the house, into which you penetrated
by misadventure to-day.'
"'But the dog?' I asked; 'do they hunt the patient with a fierce dog
like that?'
"'Ah, poor Lagwine,' she sighed, 'he is devoted to his old master. He
would not hurt a hair of his head or of anybody's head. Only sometimes,
when he finds the door open, my poor Roger will slip out, and then
nobody else can find him on these weariful hills.'
"Then I asked her of the younger children whom I had been engaged to
teach.
"'They are my grandchildren,' she said; 'you can hear them upstairs.'
"And through the clamour of voices, that of the young man I had seen
rang loudest of all.
"'They are playing with their father?' I said.
"She shook her head. 'They are the children of my daughter Isobel,' she
said. 'She married Captain Fergus, of the Engineers, her own cousin,
and died on her way out to the West Indies. So Algernon brought them
home, and here they are settled on us. And what with my husband's
wastefulness before he was laid aside, and the poor rents of the hill
farms nowadays, I know not what we shall do. Indeed, if it were not for
my dear son Harry we could not live. He takes care of everything, and
is most scrupulous and saving.'
"So when she had told me all this, I lay still and thought. And the
lady's hand went slower and slower across my head till it ceased
altogether.
"'I cannot expect you to remain with us after this, Miss Chrystie,' she
said, 'and yet I know not what I shall do without you. I think we
should have loved one another.'
"I told her that I was not going away--that I was not afraid at all.
"'But, to tell you the truth, my dear,' she said, 'I do not rightly see
where your wages are to come from.'
"'That does not matter in the least, if I like the place in other ways,'
I said to her."
"He must be _very_ good-looking!" interjected Nance.
"So I told her I would like to see the children. She went up to call
them, and presently down they came--a girl of six and a little boy of
four. They had been having a rough-and-tumble, and their hair was all
about their faces. So in a little we were great friends. They went up
to the nursery with their grandmother, and I was following more slowly,
when all at once, Harry--I mean the young man--came hurrying in,
carrying a tray. He had an apron tied about him, and the bottom hem of
it was tucked into the string at the waist. As soon as he saw me he
blushed, and nearly dropped the tray he was carrying. I think he
expected me to laugh, but I did not----"
"Of course not," coincided Nance, with decision.
"I just opened the top drawer in the sideboard and took out the cloth
and spread it, while he stood with the tray still in his arms, not
knowing, in his surprise, what to do with it.
"'I thought you had gone upstairs with my mother,' he said. 'Old John
Hearseman is out on the hill with the lambs, and we have no other
servants except the children's little nurse.'
"And so--and so," said the Hempie, falteringly, "that is how it began."
I could hear a little scuffle--which, being interpreted, meant that
Nance had dropped her workbasket and sewing on the floor in a heap and
had clasped her sister in her arms.
"Darling, cry all you want to!" My heart would know that tone through
six feet of kirkyard mould--aye, and leap to answer it.
"I am not crying--I don't want to cry." It was the Hempie's voice, but
I had never heard it sound like that before. Then it took a stronger
tone, with little pauses where the tears were wiped away.
"And I found out that night from the children how good he was--how
helpful and strong. He had to be out before break of day on the hills
after the sheep. Often, with a game-bag over his shoulder, he would
bring in all that there was for next day's dinner. Then when Betsy, the
small maid, was busy with his mother, he would bath Algie and Madge, and
put them to bed. For Mrs. Fergus, though a kind woman in her way, had
been accustomed all her life to be waited on, and accepted everything
from her son's hands without so much as 'Thank you.'
"So I did not say a word, but got up early next morning and went
downstairs. And what do you think I found that blessed Harry
doing--_blacking my boots_!"
There was again a sound like kissing and quiet crying, though I cannot
for the life of me tell why there should have been. Perhaps the women
who read this will know. And then the Hempie's voice began again,
striving after its kind to be master of itself.
"So, of course, what could I do when his father died? He and I were
with him night and day. For Betty Hearseman being blind could not
handle him at all, and Harry's mother was of no use. Indeed, we did not
say anything to alarm her till the very last morning. No, I cannot tell
even you, Nance what it was like. But we came through it together. That
is all."
Nance had not gone back to her sewing. So I could not make out what was
her next question. It was spoken too near the Hempie's ear. But I heard
the answer plainly enough.
"A month next Wednesday was what we thought of. It ought to be soon,
for the children's sake, poor little things."
"Oh, yes," echoed Nance, meaningly, "for the children's sake, of
course."
The Hempie ignored the tone of this remark.
"Harry is having the house done up. The old part is to be made into a
kitchen. Old John and Betty Hearseman are to have a cottage down the
glen."
"And you are to be all alone," cried Nance, clapping her hands, "with
only the old lady to look after. That will be like playing at house."
"Yes," said the Hempie, ironically, "it would--without the playing. Oh
no, I am going to have a pair of decent moorland lasses to train to my
ways, and Harry will have a first-rate herd to help him on the hill."
Then she laughed a little, very low, to herself.
"The best of it is that he still thinks I am poor," she said. "I have
never told him about mother's money, and I mean to ask father to give me
as much as he gave you and Grace."
"Of course," said Nance, promptly. "I'll come up and help you to make
him."
There was a cheerful prospect in front of Mr. Peter Chrystie, of Nether
Neuk, if he did not put his hand in his breeches' pocket to some
purpose.
"Will Alec let you come?" queried the Hempie, doubtfully. "He will miss
you."
"Oh, I'll tell him it is for the sake of baby's health," said Nance;
"and, besides, husbands are all the better for being left alone
occasionally. They are so nice when they get you back again."
"What!" cried the Hempie, "you don't mean to say that Alec has fits of
temper? I never would have believed it of him."
"Hush!" said Nance. There was again that irritating whispered converse,
from which emerged the Hempie's clear voice:
"Oh, but my Harry will never be like that."
"Wait--only wait," said Nance. "Hempie, they are all alike. And
besides, they write you such nice letters when they are away. I suppose
you get one every day? Yes, of course. What, he walks six miles over
the hill to post it? That is nice of him. Alec once came all the way
from Edinburgh, and went back the next day, just because he thought I
was cross with him----"
"Oh, but my Harry never, never----"
(Left speaking.)
*THE LITTLE FAIR MAN.*
*I.--SEED SOWN BY THE WAYSIDE*
Notable among my father's papers was one bundle quite by itself which he
had always looked upon with peculiar veneration. The manuscripts which
composed it were written in crabbed handwriting on ancient paper, very
much creased at the folds, and bearing the marks of diligent perusal in
days past. My father could not read these, but had much reverence for
them because of the great names which could be deciphered here and
there, such as "Mr. D. Dickson," "Mr. G. Gillespie," and in especial
"Mr. Samuel Rutherfurd."
How these came into the possession of my father's forbears, I have no
information. They were always known in the family as "Peden's Papers,"
though so far as I can now make out, that celebrated Covenanter had
nothing to do with them--or, at least, is never mentioned in them by
name. On the other hand I find from the family Bible, written as a note
over against the entry of my great-grandmother's death, "Aprile the
seventeene, 1731," the words, "Cozin to Mr. Patrick Walker, chapman, of
Bristo Port, Edinburgh."
The letters and narratives are in many hands and vary considerably in
date, some being as early as the high days of Presbytery, about 1638,
whilst others in a plainer hand have manifestly been copied or rewritten
in the first decade of last century.
Now after I came from college and before my marriage, I had sometimes
long forenights with little to do. So having got some insight into
ancient handwriting from my friend Mr. James Robb, of the College of
Saint Mary, an expert in the same--a good golfer also, and a better
fellow--I set me to work to decipher these manuscripts both for my own
satisfaction and for the further pleasure of reading them to my father
on Saturday nights, when I was in the habit of driving over to see my
mother at Drumquhat on my way from visiting my patients in the Glen of
Kells.
That which follows is from the first of these documents which I read to
my father. He was so much taken by it that he begged me to publish it,
as he said, "as a corrective to the sinful compliances and shameless
defections of the times." And though I am little sanguine of any good
it may do from a high ecclesiastic point of view, the facts narrated are
interesting enough in themselves. The manuscript is clearly written out
in a tall copy-book of stout bluish paper, without ruled lines, and is
bound in a kind of grey sheepskin. The name "Harry Wedderburn" is upon
the cover here and there, and within is a definitive title in floreated
capitals, very ornately inscribed:
[Illustration: Inscription]
"The Story of the Turning of me, Harry Wedderburn, from Darkness to
Light, by the means and instrument of Mr. Samuel Rutherfurd of Anwoth,
Servant of God."