So, at the last, she made him strong and confident in hopes for the future, because God is love, and the circumstances that separated them were of His ordering. And Christine would think no ill of God, she was sure that life and death, and all things God ordained, were divinely good; and her influence overarched and enveloped Cluny, and perhaps for the first time, the real meaning of life and its difficulties pealed through his heart and brain.

Then as they were talking, Ruleson returned, and Ruleson, liking Cluny well, was rejoiced to see him, and they talked together with the greatest interest, while Christine placed upon the table the simple luxuries she had prepared for this anticipated meal. It was indeed a wonderfully happy meal, prolonged by interesting conversation till nearly midnight, for Ruleson wanted to hear all Cluny could tell about the Mediterranean, and Cluny was pleased to listen to Ruleson’s enthusiastic description of the good work the school was doing.

When Cluny at length rose to depart, Ruleson asked the date of his ship’s next visit to Glasgow, and then promised to meet him there, and to bring Christine with him for a two or three days’ pleasuring. Cluny was delighted, for though Christine only shook her head and smiled, he believed that in some way or other the visit could be managed. And Margot was enthusiastic about it. She said Christine must ask Faith to come and stay with her, and Norman would come to her through the night in case of trouble, and the Domine would call and see her, and wee Jamie was comfort and help baith. “Forbye,” she added, “I’m wanting to hear a’ about Neil and his wife, and their way o’ living, Christine, and if you’ll just make them an hour’s passing call, you can gie me a vera clear idea o’ the same.”

So the hastily projected trip became an anticipatory pleasure for which there was constant preparation going on. It was a wonderful prospect to Christine, who had never been five miles from her home, and Margot entered heartily into the scheme for making it a notable affair. She said the time was a lucky ordering, for it was near enough Easter to warrant a new spring suit, and she gave Christine a five-pound note, and sent her into the town to buy one. “You’ll get your ain choice, lassie,” she said, “but I’m thinking, if it should be o’ a light pearly-gray, it would suit you weel, and get your gloves and parasol o’ the same shade, as near as may be, but buy your bonnet in Glasgow town, for you will hae the height o’ the fashion there, and scores o’ shops to choose from.”

So for nearly a month this pleasant expectation kept the Ruleson cottage busy and happy. Christine’s pearly-gray cashmere dress came home, and was greatly admired, even by the Domine, who also took a great interest in the proposed visit to Glasgow. He advised her to send Neil word, as soon as she arrived there:

“And do as you have always done, Christine, strive for peace and family unity. There have been wrongs, no doubt, but you Rulesons have all nursed one mother’s breast, and learned your prayers at one mother’s knees, so if there is any little trouble between Neil and yourself, Christine, forgive it.”

“I love Neil, I hae loved him all my life, Sir. I intend to go on loving him. Ninety pounds could not part us. No, nor ninety hundred pounds. There’s no money’s-worth, can count love’s-worth.”

How does a young girl feel on the eve of her first pleasure journey, when she has pretty new clothing to wear, and money enough to spend, and is going in the care of an indulgent father to have fresh and unknown entertainments, with a lover who adores her, and whom she admires and truly loves? Is she not happy and joyous, and full of eager anticipation? And it was the last day of waiting. The valise which held her new dress and her father’s best suit, was packed, Faith had readily taken hold of the house duties, and Margot had been, and was, unusually well and active. Ruleson had gone fishing “to pass the time,” he said, and all was ready for the early start they proposed to make in the morning.

Ruleson generally came home in time for his six o’clock meal, but Christine, standing at the open door about four o’clock, saw him making for the harbor. “Father’s just like a bairn,” she thought. “I’m gey uplifted mysel’, but I’m plum steady, to what he is.” Then Margot joined her. “Is that your feyther coming, Christine?”

“Ay, it’s feyther, sure enou’!”

“What for is he coming at this time o’ day?”

“He’s just in a wave o’ excitement, he isna heeding what the clock says.”

“What time is it?”

“Not quite four.”

“Weel, you hed better put on the kettle; he’s used to eating as soon as he comes hame, and if his head is wrang anent the time, his stomach is doubtless wrang anent its eating.”

So the women went inside, and Christine put on the kettle, and Margot began to lay the cloth, and set the china on the table. It took Ruleson about half an hour to walk between his boat and his house, but suddenly Margot noticed that he was overdue, and yet not in sight. She called Christine, and they stood together at the land side door, and watched for him. A sudden silence fell between them, they stopped wondering about his delay, and kept their eyes on the road. The time seemed to stand still. Margot went into the house and sat down. Christine’s life seemed to be in her eyes. Every minute was like an hour. “Feyther, Feyther!” she said in an anxious whisper. “Whatna for are you delaying? What at all is keeping you? Come, Feyther!” And to this strong cry of the Inner Woman, he turned a corner, and was in full view.

Christine saw in a moment that something was wrong. “He isna walking like himsel’! He must hae got hurt some way or ither!” and she ran like a deer to meet him.

“Feyther! Feyther! Whatever’s ailing you?”

He stood still and looked at her, and she was shocked at his appearance.

“Have you hurt yoursel’, Feyther?”

“Something has hurt me. I hae taken a sair cold and shivering. I am ill, lassie. I maun hae a doctor as soon as maybe. I am in a hot and cauld misery. I can hardly draw a breath.”

Margot met them at the door. “Feyther is ill, Mither! Where’s Jamie? He will run and tell the Domine. Get feyther into his bed, and if I canna find Jamie, I’ll away mysel’ for the Domine. Perhaps I had better go to the town for Doctor Fraser.”

“Feyther says no! He wants to see the Domine, particular.”

“Then I’ll waste no time seeking Jamie. I’ll go mysel’ to the manse, and I’ll be back as quick as possible. Keep a brave heart, Mither. There’s only you, till I get back.”

Happily she found the Domine more than halfway on his road to Ruleson’s. He said he had had a feeling an hour ago, that he was wanted there, and he was angry with himself for not obeying the word given him. Then he took Christine’s hand, and they went hurriedly and in silence to the sick man.

“My friend! My dear friend!” he said as he clasped Ruleson’s hot hand and listened to his labored breathing, “I am going as fast as I can for Fraser. This is a trouble beyond my skill, and we want you well for the Easter school exercises. The bairns willna be happy missing you. So I’ll go quick as I can for Fraser.” Then turning to Margot, he said, “Where is Faith Anderson? I thought she was with you.”

“She is, but she went to the village to see some o’ her auld friends. She said she would be back by nine o’clock.”

“And Jamie? He could go wi’ me.”

“Faith took Jamie wi’ her.”

Then he went away, and Margot and Christine stood helplessly beside the suffering man. It grew dark, and no one came, and Christine felt as if she was in some dreadful dream, and could not awaken herself. They expected Norman about seven, but something detained him, and it was after nine when Faith and Jamie were heard on the hill. They were laughing and talking noisily, and Christine ran to meet, and to silence them. The sick man was growing rapidly worse, and there was no sign of the Domine and the doctor. Indeed it was near midnight when they arrived, and by this time Ruleson was unconscious.

Those who know anything of pneumonia will understand the hard, cruel fight that a man in the perfect health and strength of James Ruleson made for his life. Every step of the disease was contested, and it was only when his wonderful resistance gave out, and his strength failed him, that the doctor and the Domine lost hope. At length, one sunny afternoon, the Domine drew up the window shade, and let the light fall on the still, white face for a minute. Christine was at his side, and he turned to her, and said, “I am going back to the manse for the Blessed Cup of Remembrance. Get the table and bread ready, and tell your mother it is the last time! She must try and eat it with him.”

Christine looked at him with her soul in her eyes. She understood all he meant and she merely bowed her head and turned to the dying man. He lay as still as a cradled child. The struggle was over. He had given it up. It was peace at last. Where was James Ruleson at that hour? The Domine had said, “Do not disturb him. We know not what now is passing in his soul. Let him learn in peace whatever God wishes him to learn, in this pause between one life and another.”

Margot was on her bed in another room. Christine knelt down at her side, and said gently, “Mither, the great, wonderful hour has come. The Domine has gane for The Cup. With your ain dear hands you will spread the cloth, and cut the bread, for your last eating wi’ him. And, Mither, you won’t cry out, and weep, as those do who have nae hope o’ meeting again. You will mak’ yoursel’ do as the daughters o’ God do, who call Him ‘Feyther’! You’ll be strong in the Lord, Mither, and bid Feyther ‘good-by,’ like those who are sure they will meet to part no more.”

And Margot whispered, “I was brought low, and He helped me.”

A few hours later, in this simple cottage bedroom, the miracle of Love’s last supper in the upper chamber at Jerusalem, was remembered. With her own hands Margot covered a little table at her husband’s bedside with her finest and whitest linen. She cut the bread into the significant morsels, and when the Domine came, he placed them solemnly on the silver plate of the consecrated service, and poured wine into the holy vessel of The Communion. All was then ready, and they sat down to wait for that lightening which so often comes when the struggle is over and the end near.

They waited long. Ruleson’s deep sleep lasted for hours, and the Domine began to hope it might be that life-giving sleep which often introduces the apparently dying to a new lease of life.

He awoke after midnight, with the word “Margot” on his lips, and Margot slipped her hand into his, and kissed him.

“We are going to have supper with the Lord Christ. Will you join us, Ruleson?”

“Ay, will – I – gladly!”

After the simple rite Ruleson was quite happy. He said a few words privately to the Domine, asked for his grandson, and told him to be a good man, and a minister of God, and promised if it was in God’s will he would watch o’er him, and then blessed and sent him away.

“I might hae another struggle at the last. I dinna want him to see it.”

“The struggle is over, James,” answered the Domine. “Be still, and wait for the salvation of the Lord.”

And for some hours, even until the day broke, and the shadows began to flee away, that dying room was in a strange peace. Margot and Christine sat almost motionless, watching their loved one’s face growing more and more calm and content, and the Domine stood or sat at the foot of the bed, and all was intensely still.

“Great things are passing in the soul now,” he said to the women. “It is contemplating the past. It is judging itself. It is bearing witness to the righteousness and mercy of its Maker. Pray that it may come from this great assize justified through Christ.” Soon after, he added “The tide has turned, he will go out with the tide. Stand near him now, and sing softly with me his last human prayer:

“Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly;
While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is nigh:
Hide me, oh my Saviour, hide!
Till the storm of life is past,
Safe into the haven guide,
Oh receive my soul at last!”

Once the dying man opened his eyes, once he smiled, but ere the last line was finished, James Ruleson had

Gone on that long voyage all men take,
And with angelic help, had once again,
By unknown waters, entered a new world.

Time waits neither for the living nor the dead, and when a month had come and gone, Margot and Christine had accepted, in some measure, their inevitable condition. Ruleson had left his small affairs beyond all dispute. His cottage was bequeathed entirely to his wife and daughter, “for all the days of their lives.” His boat was to be sold, and the proceeds given to his widow. The two hundred cash he had in the bank was also Margot’s, and the few acres of land he owned he gave to his eldest son, Norman, who had stood faithfully by his side through all his good and evil days. No one was dissatisfied except Norman’s wife, who said her man, being the eldest born, had a full right to house and cash, and a’ there was, saving Margot’s lawful widow right. She said this so often that she positively convinced herself of its rightness and justice, “and some day,” she frequently added, “I will let Mistress and Miss Ruleson know the ground on which they stand.” To Norman, she was more explicit and denunciatory – and he let her talk.

It had been very positively stated in the adoption of James Ruleson, the younger, that the simple decease of his grandfather made him the adopted son of the Domine, and it was thought best to carry out this provision without delay. Margot had been seriously ill after the funeral, and she said calmly now, that she was only waiting until her change came. But life still struggled bravely within her for its promised length, and the Domine said Death would have to take her at unawares, if he succeeded yet awhile. This was the truth. The desire to live was still strong in Margot’s heart, she really wished earnestly to live out all her days.

Now, public sympathy soon wears out. The village which had gone en masse to weep at James Ruleson’s funeral, had in two weeks chosen Peter Brodie to fill his place. The women who were now busy with their spring cleaning, and their preparations for the coming herring season, could not afford to weep any longer with “thae set-up Rulesons.” Neil had ignored all of them at the funeral, Margot’s sorrow they judged to be “a vera dry manifestation,” and Christine would not talk about her father’s last hours. The women generally disapproved of a grief that was so dry-eyed and silent.

So gradually the little house on the hill became very solitary. Jamie ran up from the school at the noon hour, and sometimes he stayed an hour or two with them after the school was closed. Then the Domine came for him, and they all had tea together. But as the evening twilight lengthened, the games in the playground lengthened, and the Domine encouraged the lad in all physical exercises likely to increase his stature and his strength.

Then the herring season came, and the Rulesons had nothing to do with it, and so they gradually lost their long preëminence. Everyone was busy from early to late with his own affairs. And the Rulesons? “Had they not their gentleman son, Neil? And their four lads wearing the Henderson uniform? And the Domine? And the lad Cluny Macpherson? Did he care for any human creature but Christine Ruleson?”

With these sentiments influencing the village society, it was no wonder that Margot complained that her friends had deserted her. She had been the leader of the village women in their protective and social societies, and there was no doubt she had been authoritative, and even at times tyrannical. But Margot did not believe she had ever gone too far. She was sure that her leniency and consideration were her great failing.

So the winter came again, and Christine looked exceedingly weary. While Ruleson lived, Margot had relied on him, she was sure that he would be sufficient, but after his death, she encouraged an unreasonable trial of various highly reputed physicians. They came to her from Edinburgh and Aberdeen, and she believed that every fresh physician was the right one. The expense of this method was far beyond the profit obtained. Yet Christine could not bear to make any protest.

And the weeks went on, and there appeared to be neither profit nor pleasure in them. The Domine watched Christine with wonder, and in the second year of her vigil, with great anxiety. “Christine will break down soon, Margot,” he said one day to the sick woman. “Look at the black shadows under her eyes. And her eyes are losing all their beauty, her figure droops, and her walk lags and stumbles. Could you not do with Faith for a few days, and let Christine get away for a change? You’ll hae a sick daughter, if you don’t do something, and that soon.”

“I canna stand Faith Anderson. She’s o’er set up wi’ hersel’. I am that full o’ pain and sorrow that Faith’s bouncing happiness is a parfect blow in a body’s face.”

“The schoolmaster’s wife?”

“I’m no a bairn, Domine; and she treats auld and young as if they were bairns. She would want to teach me my alphabet, and my catechism o’er again.”

“There’s Nannie Brodie. She is a gentle little thing. She will do all Christine does for a few shillings a week.”

“What are you thinking of, Domine? I couldna afford a few shillings a week. I hae wonderfu’ expenses wi’ doctors and medicines, and my purse feels gey light in my hand.”

“I see, Margot, that my advice will come to little. Yet consider, Margot, if Christine falls sick, who will nurse her? And what will become o’ yourself?”

He went away with the words, and he found Christine sitting on the doorstep, watching the sea, as she used to watch it for her father’s boat. She looked tired, but she smiled brightly when he called her name.

“My dear lassie,” he said, “you ought to have some new thoughts, since you are not likely to get new scenes. Have you any nice books to read?”

“No, sir. Mither stopped Chambers Magazine and The Scotsman, and I ken a’ the books we hae, as if they were school books. Some o’ them are Neil’s old readers.”

“You dear, lonely lassie! This day I will send you some grand novels, and some books of travel. Try and lose yourself and your weariness in them.”

“O, Sir! If you would do this, I can bear everything! I can do everything!”

“I’ll go home this hour, and the books will be here before dark. Get as much fresh air as you can, and fill your mind with fresh pictures, and fresh ideas, and I wouldn’t wonder if you win back your spirits, and your beauty. Your mother is a great care, lassie!”

“Ay, Doctor, but she is in God’s care. I hae naething to do but help and pleasure her, when she’s waking. She sleeps much o’ her time now. I think the medicine o’ the last doctor frae Aberdeen, is the because o’ her sleepiness. I was going to ask you to take a look at it.”

He did so, and said in reply, “There’s no harm in it, but it would be well enough to give it with a double portion of water.”

Then the Domine went away, and Christine did not know that this hour was really the turning point of her life. And it is perhaps well for the majority that this important crisis is seldom recognized on its arrival. There might be interferences, and blunderings of all kinds. But a destiny that is not realized, or meddled with, goes without let or hindrance to its appointed end.

Christine rose with a new strength in her heart and went to her mother. “Come here, dear lass,” said Margot. “The Domine was telling me thou art sick wi’ the nursing o’ me, and that thou must hae a change.”

“The Domine had no right to say such a thing. I am quite well, Mither. I should be sick, if I was one mile from you. I have no work and no pleasure away from your side, dear, dear Mither! I am sorry the Domine judged me sae hardly.”

“The Domine is an interfering auld man. He is getting outside his pulpit. When I was saying I missed wee Jamie, and I wished him to come mair often to see me, you should hae watched him bridle up. ‘James must be more under control,’ he said, in a vera pompous manner. I answered, ‘The laddie is quite biddable, Doctor,’ and he said, ‘Mistress, that belongs to his years. He is yet under authority, and I cannot allow him too much freedom.’ And the bairn is my ain! My ain grandchild! Too much freedom wi’ his sick grandmother! Heard ye ever the like?”

“Weel, Mither, he was right in a way. Jamie has been a bit stiff-necked and self-willed lately.”

“There isna a thing wrang wi’ the laddie.”

“Weel, he behaves better wi’ you than wi’ any other person. The Domine is making a fine lad o’ him.”

“He was a’ that, before the Domine kent him at a’. I wasna carin’ for the reverend this afternoon. I dinna wonder the village women are saying he has his fingers in everyone’s pie.”

“It is for everyone’s good, Mither, if it be true; but you ken fine how little the village say-so can be trusted; and less now, than ever; for since you arena able to sort their clashes, they say what they like.”

“Nae doubt o’ it, Christine.”

“The Domine promised to send me some books to read. You see, Mither, the pain you hae wearies you sae that you sleep a great deal, and I am glad o’ it, for the sleep builds up what the pain pulls down, so that you hold up your ain side better than might be.”

“That’s a plain truth, dearie.”

“Then when you sleep, I am lonely, and I get to thinking and worrying anent this and that, and so I look tired when there’s naething wrang. But if I had books to read, when I hadna yoursel’ to talk wi’, I would be gey happy, and maybe full o’ wonderfuls to tell you as you lie wakin’ and wearyful.”

“It is a maybe, and you hae to give maybes a trial.”

“You see, Mither, we gave up our Chambers Magazine and The Scotsman when Feyther left us alane.”

“It was right to do sae; there was sae many expenses, what wi’ the burying, and wi’ my sickness, the last item being a constant outgo.”

“You must hae the medicines, and we be to gie up all expenses, if so be it was needed for that end.”

“Weel, if I was to stay here, and be a troubler much langer, that might be needed, but I hae a few pounds left yet.”

“It will never be needed. The children o’ the righteous hae a sure claim on the God o’ the righteous, and He is bound and ready to answer it. Those were almost the last words Feyther said to me. I was wearying for books, and you see, He has sent them to me, without plack or bawbee.”

“Weel, lassie, if books will mak’ you happy, I am glad they are coming to you. Whiles you can read a short story out o’ Chambers to mysel’. I used to like thae little love tales, when you read one sometimes to us by the fireside. Anyway, they were mair sensible than the village clash-ma-clavers; maist o’ which are black, burning lees.”

“Dear Mither, we’ll hae many a happy hour yet, wi’ the tales I shall read to you.”

“Nae doubt o’ it. They’ll all o’ them be lees – made up lees – but the lees won’t be anent folks we ken, and think weel of, or anent oursel’s.”

“They won’t be anent anybody, Mither. The men who write the stories make up the men and women, and then make up the things they set them to do, and to say. It is all make-believe, ye ken, but many a good lesson is learned by good stories. They can teach, as well as sermons. Folks that won’t go and hear a sermon will maybe read a good story.”

“You wadna daur to read them in a kirk, for they arena the truth.”

“Weel, there are many other things you wouldna care to read in the kirk – a perfectly honest love letter, for instance.”

“When did you hear frae Cluny?”

“Yesterday. He is kept vera close to his business, and he is studying navigation, so that helps him to get the long hours in foreign ports over. He’s hoping to get a step higher at the New Year, and to be transferred to the Atlantic boats. Then he can perhaps get awa’ a little oftener. Mither, I was thinking when you got strong enough, we might move to Glasgow. You would hae a’ your lads, but Norman, mair at your hand then.”

“Ay, but Norman is worth a’ the lave o’ them, and beside if I left this dear auld hame, Norman would want to come here, and I couldna thole the thought o’ that ill luck. Yet it would be gey hard to refuse him, if he asked me, and harder still to think night and day o’ his big, blundering, rough lads, among my flower beds, and destroying everything in baith house and bounds. I couldna think o’ it! Your feyther brought me here when the house was naething at a’ but a but and a ben. A bed and a table, a few chairs, and a handfu’ o’ crockery was a’ we had in the wide warld – save and forbye, as I hae often told you, my gold wedding ring.” And Margot held up her white, shrunken hand, and looked at it with tears streaming down her face. And oh, how tenderly Christine kissed her hand and her face, and said she was right, and she did not wonder she feared Norman’s boys. They were a rough-and-tumble lot, but would make fine men, every one o’ them being born for the sea, and the fishing.

“Just sae, Christine. They’ll do fine in a fishing boat, among nets and sails. But here! Nay, nay! And then there’s the mither o’ them! That woman in my place! Can you think o’ it, lassie?”

“We’ll never speak again o’ the matter. I ken how you feel, Mither. It would be too cruel! it would be mair than you could bear.”

Then there was a man’s voice heard in the living room, and Christine went to answer the call. It was the Domine’s messenger, with his arms full of books. And Christine had them taken into her mother’s room, and for a whole hour sat beside her and showed her books full of pictures, and read short anecdotes from the magazine volume, and Margot for a while seemed interested, but finally said with an air of great weariness: “Tak’ them all awa’, dearie. Ye can hae the best bedroom for them.”

“Dear Mither, will you let me hae the use o’ it? I will keep a’ in order, and it is sae near to yoursel’, I could hear you if you only spoke my name.”

“Tak’ the room and welcome. Neil had it for many a year. It has a feeling o’ books and lesson-larning in it.”

So that night, when her mother was in her first sleep, Christine took her books into this large, silent room. It faced the sea. It had an atmosphere different from that of any other room in the house, and no one but herself was likely to enter it. There was a broad sill to the largest window, and Christine arranged the Domine’s books on it. In the dozen or more volumes there was a pleasant variety – history, poetry and the popular novels of the time – especially the best work of George Eliot, Miss Braddon, Thackeray, and Dickens.

It was all so wonderful to Christine, she could hardly believe it. She touched them lovingly, she could have kissed them. For in those days in Scotland, good literature was yet a sort of luxury. A person in a country place who had a good novel, and was willing to loan it, was a benefactor. Christine had borrowed from the schoolmaster’s wife all she had to lend, and for several weeks had been without mental food and mental outlook. Was there any wonder that she was depressed and weary-looking?

Now all quickly changed. The housework went with her as if it were paid to do so. She sang as she worked. She was running in and out of Mither’s room with unfailing cheerfulness, and Margot caught her happy tone, and they were sufficient for each other. Mother and books would have been sufficient alone, but they had also many outside ties and interests. The Domine allowed Jamie to go to grandmother’s once a day. There were Cluny and Neil, and all the rest of the boys, the Domine and the villagers, the kirk and the school; and always Jamie came in the afternoon, and brought with him the daily Glasgow Herald. It was the Domine’s way. At first he had not consciously recognized what Christine required, but as soon as the situation was evident to him, he hasted to perform the good work, and he did the duty liberally, and wearied not in it.

So the days came and went, and neither Margot nor Christine counted them, and Cluny came whenever he could by any travel get a few hours with Christine. And the herring season came and went again, and was not very successful. Margot and Christine were sorry, but it was no longer a matter of supreme importance. Still, the gossip concerning the fishing always interested Margot, and someone generally brought it to her. If no one did, she frankly asked the Domine what was going on, for he always knew everything affecting the people who sat in Culraine Kirk of Scotland.

Certainly he watched Christine’s improvement with the greatest interest and pleasure. In six months she was a far more beautiful woman than she had ever before been. Her soul was developing on the finest lines, and it was constantly beautifying its fleshly abode. The work was like that of a lapidary who, day by day, cuts and polishes a gem of great value. Even Margot occasionally looked intently at her daughter, and said wonderingly, “You are growing very bonnie, Christine, the Domine must hae lost his sight, when he thought you were sick and wearying for a change.”

“I’m never sick, Mither. Whiles, when I was worrying mysel’ anent Angus Ballister, I used to hae a dowie weariness come o’er me; but since feyther went awa’ I havena had as much as a headache. Now if it suits you, Mither, I’ll gie you your knitting, I’m wanting to go and write down something.”

“Weel, gie me the needles, and gie my love to Cluny, and tell him to bring me ane o’ them white fuchsia plants he saw in a Glasgow window.”

“I hae given that word already, Mither.”

“Do it again, lassie. Any man bides twice telling.”

But the writing Christine wished to do was not a letter to her lover. It was some lines that had been running through her mind for an hour, and she knew that the only way in which she could lay their persistency, was to write them down. She had just finished this work, when the door was opened, and the Domine came in, with a gust of wind, that blew the paper on which she was writing across the room. He caught it first, and he smiled when he saw it was poetry.