i Mt T /""* I T n. r r^ 
 
 UNSW1NE
 
 'A* 
 
 V/. SMITH & SON. fcftfitf rfTfrt I
 
 SUNSHINE 
 
 AND HAAR 
 
 SOME FURTHER GLIMPSES OF 
 LIFE AT BARNCRAIG 
 
 By 
 
 GABRIEL 
 
 LONDON 
 
 BLISS, SANDS & CO 
 
 1898
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. RED-LETTER DAYS . . . . ... i 
 
 II. THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN' 28 
 
 III. ROB ALLAN'S FIRST-FOOT . . . 52 
 
 IV. TAMMY'S REVENGE 73 
 
 V. THE RETURN OF BIG WULL .... 93 
 
 VI. THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM . . . .114 
 
 VII. EKKY'S ROAD ....... 136 
 
 VIII. DOD 160 
 
 IX. LOWRIE AND LINTY. In Eight Chapters. 
 
 I. A Letter to Swankey . ... 178 
 
 II. The Walk to Santserfs . . . 197 
 
 III. Wee Milne Demands an Explanation . 216 
 
 IV. Lowrie Pays a Visit .... 239 
 V. Minister and Dominie .... 266 
 
 VI. The Talk of the Town . . . .285 
 
 VII. The Old Order Changeth . . .301 
 
 VIII. Swankey at the Kirk .... 321 
 
 2138211
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 IN coming before the public with a second 
 book, it is a duty and a very pleasant one 
 to acknowledge the encouragement and praise 
 so freely accorded to the first by the critics 
 of a new and unknown writer. Their kind- 
 ness has not been without its influence in 
 the making of the present book, even al- 
 though some part of it was already written 
 before the publication of Barncraig. To that 
 work the present one is intended to be some- 
 thing of a sequel and something of a supple- 
 ment. 
 
 What was attempted in the earlier book 
 was to give an impression of the everyday, 
 even uneventful, life of Barncraig. But 
 villages, even more than their grown-up 
 neighbours, have their times of collective 
 rejoicing, and their seasons of collective 
 sorrow, when, for a space, the individual
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 ceases and with one voice of lamentation or 
 of joy the whole community lives one pas- 
 sionate life. 
 
 There are days of sunshine when the voice 
 of the sea is echoed from the wood and the 
 songs of birds are heard of the waves 
 on the shore. Again, there are days when 
 a haar coming up from the east hangs heavy 
 about the melancholy street, creeping cold 
 and clammy from the gloomy gates of the 
 kirkyard to the desolate seat at the Cox'l. 
 
 It is its days of sunshine and its days of 
 haar that Barncraig whether the outside 
 world think them significant or trivial never 
 forgets ; making of them a kind of Calendar, 
 and reckoning therefrom the movement of 
 the years. And it is the story of some of 
 these days that this book seeks to tell. 
 
 The second part of the book, while dealing 
 with an episode which was, perhaps, as much 
 as any an event in the annals of the village, 
 is offered as, frankly, a continuation of a 
 sketch, which some will remember, " What 
 Santa Claus brought to the Poet ". By the
 
 PREFACE. vii 
 
 many critics and readers who asked to hear 
 more of Lowrie and Linty, it may, per- 
 chance, be welcomed as a gracious finish to 
 the more sombre procession of the present 
 book. 
 
 G. S. 
 
 BARNCRAIG, Feb., 1895.
 
 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 
 
 Hansel Monday's comin' on ; 
 
 We'll get pies an' porter. 
 Guess what the fiddle says 
 
 "Winter's growin' shorter". 
 
 Old Rhyme. 
 
 IT was told of Peter Gordon, a carter in Barn- 
 craig, that he reckoned time in horses and pigs. 
 The names of five horses ticked off on the fingers 
 of his left hand took him back to the days of his 
 youth ; if he wished to go further back he named 
 " a horse o' his faither afore him," indicating it 
 with the proper ringer on his right hand. The 
 sequence of more recent events was told in the 
 tale of his pigs. But Peter was eccentric, and the 
 miners spoke of him as a character; they smiled 
 when he made mention of the days " when Jewel 
 was but a foal, wearin' on for twenty year syne ". 
 Not that they recognised anything wrong in his
 
 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 method the system was sound but simply 
 because it mystified them. It was quite as 
 bewildering as Nell Reid's genealogies, branching 
 to the third and fourth cousins of uncles and 
 grand-uncles. In their own words, " they got 
 wuld amon' his horses, an' could never be certain 
 whether he was i' the forties or fifties ". Against 
 the principle they had nothing to urge. Their 
 own reckonings ran on identical lines : the dif- 
 ference lay in the character of the details ; they 
 tabled coins where he used tokens; while Peter 
 counted the years of life from the commonplace 
 contingencies of his calling, his neighbours counted 
 from great events in the annals of the village, 
 approximating dates by a reference to one or other 
 of the high days and holidays of the year. 
 
 The year resolved itself into periods, arid the 
 days which marked the divisions were red-letter 
 days in the Calendar of Barncraig. From New 
 Year's Day and Hansel Monday to the Market 
 and the Flower Show ; from the Flower Show to 
 Hallowe'en; from Hallowe'en to Hogmanay, and 
 the year was at an end. To some of the old folks 
 who had " done their darg," and now were only 
 waiting the call of the Master, the year was 
 summed up in the Sabbaths from Sacrament to
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 
 
 Sacrament, from Fast Day to Fast Day. But that 
 was a personal affair entirely, and they liked to 
 hear their bairns and their bairns' bairns talking 
 of Hansel Monday and the Market. For the 
 children, every week had red-letter days, of which 
 Saturday and Sunday were not the only ones. 
 
 " I wonder if you know anything at all," the 
 master, wearied with much questioning, once said 
 to a very dull boy in school. " Can you tell me 
 what day this is ? " 
 
 The boy smartened up, interested at once. 
 There was some sense in the master's questions 
 after all. " Ay," he said, " it's the pay." And 
 his eyes brightened as he answered. On pay day 
 his father always gives him a penny. 
 
 Nor were the pay day pennies spent im- 
 mediately. Dropped into the " purlie " they 
 grew into sixpences and shillings against the next 
 brg holiday, which they were bringing nearer 
 week by week. 
 
 It is only within recent times that New Year's 
 Day has come to be a holiday in Barncraig ; but 
 it has always been a red-letter day. The first 
 Monday of the year used to be the holiday, and on 
 that account had a gaiety and a glory all its own. 
 But the dawn of the year did not pass without
 
 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 observance. Though the villagers waited till 
 Monday for hansels and caking, they did not for- 
 get to usher in the year with good wishes and 
 first-footing. Christmas might come and go un- 
 noticed, but the postman was busy on the first 
 of January. 
 
 The good folks, however, did not set much store 
 by New Year cards. Those that were received 
 came from absent friends, whose thoughts, as they 
 paused on the threshold of the year, turned to 
 their " ain folk and their native toun ". It was a 
 poor substitute for wishes by "word o' mou' " this 
 " bittie o' printed pasteboard like love i' the dead- 
 thraws ". For, as the villagers sing of themselves, 
 " They dinna like the love ava' that's written on a 
 caird ". But circumstances excused it. It was 
 gracefully meant and gratefully accepted. So it 
 was not a castle of cards that they built in their 
 dreams of the coming year and of all that it would 
 bring them. The cards that were received on 
 New Years morning, " they ta'en as they cam','' 
 just as they would have accepted a ticket for a 
 concert or an invitation to tea. On the other 
 hand, what they did look forward to, for weeks 
 beforehand, with expectations now hopeful and 
 now apprehensive, was the first-footing. Who
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 
 
 \vould be their first-foot ? Would he bring luck 
 to the house, or would his coming be a foreboding 
 of evil ? These were the questions they asked of 
 themselves, waiting and wondering what answer 
 the event would give. It was a momentous 
 matter, affecting not merely the one day itself 
 but the whole three hundred and sixty-five 
 days of the year ; and the shadow of an unlucky 
 first-foot lay on the house from January to 
 December. 
 
 The ideal first-foot was tall, dark and handsome. 
 Barncraig " liket wise-like men, neither shilpit nor 
 shauchled," and dark by preference. A fair first- 
 foot always boded ill ; and knock knees or splay 
 feet were the forerunners of unimagined calami- 
 ties. Squint eyes had the baneful influence of evil 
 stars ; a woman or a cripple was a curse, and a 
 borrower was the worst of all. But the chief considera- 
 tion was that he should come with " fu' hands". 
 It was expected that he should bring both food 
 and drink : three varieties of food, currant loaf, 
 shortbread and cheese ; one quality of drink, 
 whisky ; no more was needed, and nothing better 
 could have been substituted. These were offered 
 and accepted as a pledge and a promise of plenty 
 during the year.
 
 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 So New Year's Day was not only the first, but 
 the most significant red-letter day in the villagers' 
 calendar, since it came to them so pregnant with 
 issues for the whole twelve months. 
 
 There were few of the young men who did not 
 make a practice of first-footing ; but of those few 
 Geordy Marshall was one. He was tall enough, 
 certainly, but, unfortunately, he was red-headed 
 and lanky. Yet when he became engaged to 
 Alison Fernie he thought it would be a graceful 
 thing on his part to first-foot her folks, the more 
 especially as Alison herself might expect him. 
 Looking at the matter in this light Geordy went, 
 forgetful of his fairness ; or, if he did think any- 
 thing about it at all, he must have trusted to the 
 virtue of a double supply, for he went well provided. 
 His knock at the door shortly after twelve o'clock 
 was answered by the goodwife herself demanding 
 who was there. 
 
 " It's me," he answered meekly. 
 
 " Geordy Marshall ? " There was no mistaking 
 her astonishment, the tone was almost indignant. 
 " Na, Geordy, na ; ye canna come in here. Ye 
 ken what way as weel as I do no that we blame 
 ye for't, ye canna help it." 
 
 " But I've twa bottles," Geordy urged ; " ane in
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 
 
 ilka pouch, an' a curran' loaf no broken on, an' a 
 side o' shortbread, an' cheese forby." 
 
 But Mrs. Fernie was inexorable. " No, no, 
 Geordy. It's your hair, if ye will ha'e me tell 
 ye." 
 
 Presently was heard the voice of the old man 
 himself. 
 
 " Twa bottles did ye say, Geordy ? Twa ? " 
 
 " Ay," he repeated, " o' the best ; curran' loaf an' 
 shortbread an' cheese, an' a wheen luck pennies 
 for the bairns' purlies." Watty seemed to be in 
 a quandary, and he spoke like one scratching his 
 head to stimulate reflection. " Man, that's a pity ! 
 Twa bottles o' the best ? Could ye no get hud o' 
 some black-a-vised chap an' let him come in 
 first ? " The happy thought had come. 
 
 " Would that do, think ye ? " There was both 
 anxiety and hope in the question. 
 
 " I dinna see what's to hinder it," the wife said. 
 
 Geordy did not wait to hear more. Hurrying 
 along the street he caught hold of Black Tarn, 
 standing solitary at Haw Head. " Come on, 
 Tarn," he cried, " an' first-foot Watty Fernie wi' 
 me. Here's a bottle o' whisky for ye. I've an- 
 ither ane i' my pouch. You can carry the loaf 
 an' I'll tak 1 the shortbread."
 
 8 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Tarn assented at once. " I'm your man," he 
 answered. " If I'd ha'en a bottle o' my ain I 
 wouldna be stan'in' here." 
 
 Away they went, and Geordy w r as successful 
 this time. Tarn entered first. " Folk say I'm 
 nobody's enemy but my ain," was his greeting ; 
 " so I suppose I'll bode luck for a' body but 
 mysel'. A guid New Year to ye." 
 
 Geordy felt a little sore about his red hair for a 
 time ; till soon Alison came " but," and his troubles 
 vere forgotten. 
 
 '' That was a lucky year for us a'," Mrs. Fernie 
 remarked long afterwards. " That was the year 
 Watty wrought the Branxton, when ilka fortnight 
 keepit itsel' an' maybe a pickle to the good. We 
 wanted for neither meat nor cla'es, an' the doctor 
 never darkened our door frae the ae year's end to 
 the t'other. It was i' the summer o' the same 
 year too that Ailsie was married, an' a good man 
 Geordy has been till her." 
 
 But it was Black Tarn who got the credit. 
 
 Although, as might be expected, it was only the 
 young men who kept up from year to year the 
 first-footing customs, occasionally the figure of a 
 man bent with age might be seen toiling along the 
 street in the early hours of New Year's morning.
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 
 
 But he was making his way to the house of a 
 neighbour as old as himself ; " for they had been 
 at the school thegether, an' couldna hope to see 
 another year ower their head ". 
 
 When old Robbie Reid " creepit alang " to first- 
 foot Dauvit Fairley one New Year's morning he 
 found Dauvit propped up in his arm-chair await- 
 ing him : " He expec'ed Robbie would ca' ". 
 
 Rising as Robbie entered, he gripped the out- 
 stretched hand, trembling like his own, and the 
 two old fellows stood for a time gazing into each 
 other's filmy eyes. But the words they wished 
 to say stuck in their throats, and they sat down. 
 It was not till his daughter Mary had brought a 
 couple of tumblers, and they had both had a 
 tasting from Robbie's bottle, that Dauvit spoke. 
 
 " He's spared us to see another, Robbie," was 
 the first word of welcome which broke the impres- 
 sive silence. 
 
 " Ay, Dauvit, ay; a guid New Year." 
 
 " An' mony may ye see ! " Mary cheerily added. 
 
 Robbie turned to her with solemn countenance. 
 " No that, Mary lass, no, no ! That wish is for 
 the young and strong that see a lang lease o' life 
 afore them ; but no for the auld whose ' strength 
 is but labour and sorrow '. The lines ha'e
 
 io SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 been cast for us in pleasant places, Dauvit ; but 
 we're ayont the threescore an' ten, an' waitin' 
 His ca'. An' we'll no be sweir to gang hame, 
 Dauvit." 
 
 " Amen, Robbie, Amen ! " 
 
 Before the next New Year came round they had 
 both gone home. 
 
 Long ere daylight had come, first-footing was 
 ended, for the miners have to be at work. They 
 have brought in the year according to the custom 
 of their fathers and their forefathers. Libations 
 have been poured ; and now may the Fates be 
 propitious and Fortune kind ! There is nothing 
 more to be done, and already the village is 
 looking forward to and preparing for Hansel 
 Monday. 
 
 This was as much a red-letter day in Barncraig 
 as the first of the year, but in a different sense. 
 The dawn of a New Year was impressive. Even 
 the most matter-of-fact individual in the village 
 held by the superstitions of this season, giving 
 something of a solemn significance to the first- 
 footing customs, as if they were the remnant of 
 an old religious rite. But Hansel Monday was 
 a day of gaiety and rejoicing, when the whole 
 village was out to enjoy itself. There were no
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 
 
 organised amusements, no programme whatever 
 of the day's proceedings. The hours were passed in 
 visiting and caking, in " gettin' an' giein' ". Now 
 it was that family feuds might be ended, and peace 
 established with the breaking of bread and the 
 giving of wine the wine of the country ; and now 
 it was that gifts should be given. Neighbours 
 interchanging tokens became guest-friends for the 
 year, which gave goodwives the privilege of making, 
 without question or apology, an afternoon call and 
 gossiping over a cup of tea. 
 
 The custom of raffling used to be a particular 
 feature of Hansel Monday in Barncraig. Those 
 who were bird-fanciers brought their cages to 
 Little Ekky's pend, and there for a penny might 
 one win a canary, or, venturing a sixpence, become 
 the happy possessor of a prize bird. Currant 
 loaves were raffled for at the bake-house, and pigs, 
 in halves and quarters, under Peter Gordon's shed. 
 This was the only one day in the year on which 
 raffles were held in Barncraig ; and now-a-days 
 there are no such things, even on Hansel Monday. 
 A provident morality cursed them as an evil thing 
 and preached the gospel of thrift. The villagers, 
 simple folk, were slow in recognising how pernici- 
 ous a thing raffling was. To them it was only a
 
 12 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 phase of that " gettin' an' giein' " which gave 
 Hansel Monday its name. 
 
 In such wise did the older folks pass the time, 
 but it was the children who made the most of 
 Hansel Monday. They got their singing cakes 
 from the grocer and baker, and slices of currant 
 loaf from all their friends. And, besides, having 
 pennies of their own to spend, for their purlies 
 were always opened on the morning of a holiday, 
 they could treat one another to hansels, and give 
 presents even as their fathers and mothers did. 
 It was for them a day of song. They marched 
 along the street in bands, east and west, chanting 
 old rhymes and verses of folk-lore now almost for- 
 gotten, singing themselves weary till night came 
 with its stars and dreamland and rest, and hushed 
 them all to sleep. 
 
 Yet, though Hansel Monday is over, the revels 
 are only begun. The whole week was a time of 
 festivity and dancing. First came the town 
 council supper ; for Barncraig could boast of 
 bailies and councillors. They met twice a year, 
 and discussed, principally, pies and porter ; 
 certainly it was not the water supply. Then 
 there were the different balls, the colliers' ball, 
 the volunteers' ball, the golfers' ball, with a concert
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 13 
 
 in the schoolroom on Saturday night as a fitting 
 close for their season of gaiety. Next week work 
 will be going on as usual ; for life has flown so 
 fast since Hansel Monday morning, and the days 
 have been so full of excitement, that the year 
 seems ageing already. Men and women and 
 children will again settle down to their work-a-day 
 routine, and think no more of holidays for a long 
 time to come. 
 
 Spring time has come and gone, and summer is 
 with them, laughing and lilting in the wood be- 
 hind and singing in the sea, ere they begin to 
 think of the market. And the market was a great 
 event, more exacting in the matter of preparation 
 than New Year's Day or Hansel Monday itself. 
 For these days fall as the sun and the stars 
 decree ; but the market might be held in July or 
 in August according as they themselves decided. 
 The only limitation was that it should be held on 
 a Friday, and by preference in July. Consequently, 
 there were many preliminary meetings and much 
 serious discussion. A general meeting held early 
 in June appointed a committee whose duty it was 
 to collect subscriptions, draw out a programme of 
 events, and fix a date. 
 
 But this was only part of a great scheme of
 
 14 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 preparation. First of all have the villagers to 
 bethink themselves of what they shall put on and 
 wherewithal they shall be clothed. For on the 
 market day when absent friends, and strangers 
 too, may be expected to pay them a visit, " folk 
 maun look decent an' dress respectable". But 
 tile hats and Sunday suits are not for holiday 
 wear, and now it is, in the long summer evenings 
 at the Cox'l, that they begin to notice their tweeds 
 looking threadbare and shabby. So, for a few 
 weeks, the tailor is kept busy "workin' late an' 
 early," he says, " an' never out the drag". For a 
 season too the dressmaker's workroom is not a mere 
 centre of gossip; and Eben Reid himself occasion- 
 ally misses a meeting at the Cox'l, which is a 
 " sair loss ". The hum of conversation, snapped 
 at times with bursts of laughter, reaches him, 
 slaving at his stool ; but he dare not go out. 
 These men are his customers, and will " listen to 
 no parley till their boots are done ". He is only 
 consoled by the entrance now and again of a 
 deputation submitting some knotty point and 
 waiting his deliverance. 
 
 Thus the time passes, keeping many bus)- and 
 all excited ; and now that the day is at hand they 
 turn their attention to the town itself, which must
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 15 
 
 be made to look its best on The Market. Indoors, 
 housewives are scouring and scrubbing ; plasterers 
 are at work outside. The town hall has to be 
 whitewashed; for bunting would look out of place 
 fluttering from a grimy and grey steeple. By 
 Thursday afternoon all this was finished, and then 
 began what was called the " redding up ". The 
 street was swept as bare as brush could make it, 
 and then watered. Wynds and closes were raked 
 and cleared till the sweepers themselves hardly 
 knew them ; and there was a great trundling of 
 barrows to be emptied of their loads below 7 high- 
 water mark, and brought back filled with shingle 
 or sand ; the shingle for the courts and closes, and 
 the sand for outside stairs and doorsteps. Barn- 
 craig is ready for its market-day at last; and now 
 may the weather be fair and fine ! 
 
 Surely might it be accounted a great red-letter 
 day, which was the culmination of the hopes and 
 the happiness of months. 
 
 After the children have got dressed and rush out 
 into the street, jingling their pence in their pockets 
 and shouting with excitement, w r hat a sight it is 
 they see ! The town has been changed in the night. 
 The whole street is a stretch of " stands," shaded 
 with canvas awnings glistening in the morning
 
 16 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 sun, and groaning under their weight of good things. 
 When there is so much to buy and so many tempt- 
 ing things passively waiting a purchaser, the 
 cautious ones walk warily looking about them, 
 while the pockets of others are emptied before they 
 are half-way along the street. Trumpets, drums, 
 pistols, jumping Jacks, and Punches in boxes, 
 gingerbread, nuts, sweeties of all kinds, sugar 
 hands and sugar hearts, and last, but not least, 
 sway boats and hobby horses on the Cross. Could 
 any child wish for more ? 
 
 About ten o'clock there is a blare of music, and 
 the Barncraig brass band comes marching to the 
 town hall, headed by the bailies and councillors. 
 Proud men are they when the market brings round 
 their second yearly meeting, and they go marching 
 to the town hall with such pomp and ceremony. 
 The meeting now is only a formal mustering of 
 council and committee, to see that everything is in 
 readiness, so that there shall be no hitch in the 
 day's proceedings. At night, when their labours 
 are over, they will re-assemble for supper. Mean- 
 time the first part of their programme is that they 
 pay their respects at the Big House, and then lead 
 the way to the park, where the games are held. 
 
 By mid-day the park is crowded ; for every man,
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 17 
 
 woman, and child who is able to walk must watch 
 the contest and cheer the victors. What excite- 
 ment there is ! This beats the boat race, which 
 they had watched earlier in the day. For in the 
 boat race they could only cheer the men rowing 
 into the Hine after it was all over : but the in- 
 terest in foot racing, vaulting with the pole, run- 
 ning high leap, putting with the stone, and 
 dancing is much keener. They are near enough 
 to know all their friends and shout encouragement 
 to the favourites, cheering with frantic energy 
 over exceptionally high leaps or at some neck-and- 
 neck finish in a foot race. 
 
 It is all over at length, the games ended and 
 the prizes awarded. The crowds turn homewards, 
 gesticulating, shouting, talking with a fluency and 
 rapidity that was amazing in people usually so 
 slow of thought and saving of speech. They were 
 completely carried away with the excitement of 
 the games, and waxed eloquent till they reached 
 home and allowed their voice a rest. There is a 
 lull for an hour or so while the town is at tea ; but 
 the day is not yet done. In the evening they will 
 meet again on the Cross, where young men and 
 maidens will foot it merrily to the music of the 
 band. Dancing will go on till it is quite dark, and
 
 l8 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 the naphtha lamps beginning to flare and sputter 
 outside the shooting galleries proclaim the near- 
 ness of other attractions. Then the quick sharp 
 sound of shot begins. The young fellows are 
 missing the bell, and explaining to the groups of 
 damsels laughing at their ineffectual attempts 
 "that ane might as weel fire wi' an auld blunder- 
 buss" ; the truth of which is made more obvious 
 by every fresh attempt. 
 
 Gradually the screaming from girls in the sway 
 boats, the shouting from boys 'on the hobby horses 
 dies down, and the old folks and children slip 
 away home to bed. Then the shooting begins to 
 be irregular and intermittent as the maidens turn 
 away one by one, followed by their devoted ad- 
 mirers eager to give a fairing to their lady-loves, 
 and, it may be, to whisper in their ears a tale that 
 the day's excitement has lent them the courage to 
 tell. 
 
 By and by the naphtha lamps have spluttered 
 themselves out, and the stands which had looked 
 so fair beneath their canvas awnings are reduced 
 to bundles of boards and spars. Carts and vans, 
 winding round by the Cox'l, turn " up the road " 
 and rumble away into the darkness. The stars 
 are again blinking on the sleepy street, deserted
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 
 
 save for the shadowy forms of some happy lovers 
 drawing dreamily homewards. The great market- 
 day is over, and half of the glory of summer is 
 gone. 
 
 The Flower Show, which was always held a 
 week or two later, allowed the village to settle 
 gently down into the routine of daily work. For 
 flower and vegetable competitions are a mild 
 excitement to those fresh from witnessing the 
 contests of athletes and gymnasts. 
 
 Again were there stands on the street, but not 
 many ; for, as yet, purlies are almost penniless, and, 
 besides, this was not a general holiday, only a 
 Saturday afternoon set apart by the villagers for 
 their yearly festival of flowers and fruit. The 
 gardens and grounds of the Big House were open 
 to the public on this day, and in a tent set up in 
 the Lily Park the Barncraig Horticultural Society 
 held its annual exhibition. Those of the miners 
 who made a hobby of gardening were men of con- 
 sequence here, and carried themselves with an air 
 of authority. A rosette of blue ribbon in their 
 buttonholes was their distinguishing badge ; others 
 less interested in flowers were content with a rose 
 or a pansy. 
 
 Little Ekky was always to the front on this day.
 
 20 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 He was an authority on window boxes, and could 
 prove to any one willing to listen that the judges 
 must have missed the best points in one of his not 
 in the prize-list. Calceolarias and lobelia were 
 his strong point ; there was a sonorous quality in 
 the names that ordinary roses and pansies lacked. 
 He also affected convolvulus and hydrangea for a 
 like reason ; and he strongly objected to any one 
 speaking of antirrhinum as " frog's mouth ". 
 Others, again, eschewing flowers as frivolities, made 
 a specialty of turnips, potatoes, and onions. Old 
 Briggs was always disappointed if he did not lift 
 the prize for the best basket of vegetables. " He 
 liket hotch-potch himsel','' he said, " an' he kent 
 as weel as ony what to put intill't." His neigh- 
 bour Sandy Burt, again, still less catholic in taste, 
 was great on the growth of leeks and rhubarb. 
 Sandy had been known to exhibit leeks six feet in 
 length, laying a couple of yard measures alongside 
 of them for ocular demonstration ; and he could 
 produce rhubarb that made one's mouth water to 
 see. Andrew Morrison, precise and mathematical, 
 always went in for designing flower gardens, and, 
 as often as not, had the competition to himself. 
 There was a great deal of trouble in drawing out 
 the plan in clay, and then filling in the miniature
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 21 
 
 beds with bloom. " It needed a nat'ral taste to 
 ha'e a' the colours blendin'," Andrew himself said ; 
 Dav Allan, who made a hobby of bouquets, said, 
 " It was an awfu' waste o' flo'ers ". But, what- 
 ever the individual taste, or whatever specialty 
 was followed, every one of them took an interest in 
 everything that was in the show. Through the 
 long afternoon they kept wandering round and 
 round the tent, finding ever in the stream of 
 visitors coming and going some who were willing to 
 listen to their discursive remarks on geraniums or 
 roses, cauliflowers or carrots. Their talk was not 
 of stamens or pistils, rather was it of the 
 seasons and their characteristics, the ever-changing 
 panorama of the year, of the earth and the fulness 
 thereof. But they were unlettered folks after all, 
 and had never heard of phenology. 
 
 But there were other attractions besides fifteen- 
 pound cabbages and twelve-inch beans. Old 
 folks may sun themselves in the Gardens and 
 dream of a fairer land ; and in those same Gardens 
 there be shady walks and sheltering arbours that 
 no lover should miss. Just outside the tent, 
 again, on the freshly trimmed grass, dancers are 
 disporting themselves in reels and quadrilles to 
 the music of the band. And the hours slip by
 
 22 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 with pleasures for old and young. In the evening, 
 after the show is closed, the band leads the way 
 to the Cross, where, as on the market-day, the 
 young couples dance themselves weary, carrying 
 on the enjoyment far into the mellow August 
 night. 
 
 "Just another, Jean," the young swain may be 
 heard pleading. " We'll no hae the chance for a 
 lang time to come now." 
 
 And, moved by this consideration, Jean takes 
 his arm, and presently there they are again, whirl- 
 ing in the very thick of it. There will be no more 
 dancing in the open air till summer brings the 
 great market-day round again ; the more reason 
 to make the most of it while they may. 
 
 Long after the old folks have gone home, and 
 the children have been washed and put to bed, the 
 dancing continues. In the houses round about 
 the Cross first one and then another of the lit'-up 
 windows suddenly darkens ; and the dancers begin 
 to slip away in couples. The sound of jest and 
 laughter grows fainter, and now there is little 
 heart in the "houghing". The very music 
 becomes melancholy now that the human sounds 
 are silenced that strove with it in rivalry. For 
 the players are tired, and soon they too will sling 

 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 23 
 
 their instruments over their arms and, yawning, 
 " homeward wend their weary way ". To-morrow 
 is the Sabbath, and it behoves respectable folks 
 to be in bed betimes. By midnight the village 
 is so still that the chiming of the clocks may 
 be heard like voices in the night answering 
 the one to the other across the silent street. 
 
 With the Flower Show summer seemed to end, 
 giving place to the quieter and mellower days of 
 autumn. August, September, and October unevent- 
 fully come and go before another red-letter day 
 dawns on Barncraig. And though Hallowe'en 
 was not a holiday, that did not interfere with its 
 traditional observances. For it was only in the 
 evening when work was done that its mysterious 
 rites were solemnised : before darkness came oh 
 there was nothing to distinguish the " ninth free 
 night afore the term " from any other working day. 
 But as soon as the stars are twinkling overhead, 
 the voices of the children are heard in the street : 
 
 This is the night o' Hallowe'en, 
 When a' the witches are to be seen, 
 Some o' them red an' some o' them green. 
 
 To the school children, however, Hallowe'en 
 was little more than an apple-feast and a night 
 of tricks and practical jokes played on such as
 
 24 SUNSHIXE AND HAAR. 
 
 seemed to them to take life too seriously. The 
 Lord of Misrule of old-fashioned times must have 
 held court in Barncraig about the time of the 
 winter term ; or, it may be that the witches were 
 to blame for the wild observances of Hallowe'en. 
 People did not like to be smoked out of their 
 houses with burning tow and cayenne pepper ; 
 nor would the boys have thought of such a trick 
 on any other night of the year. It was only on 
 Hallowe'en too that they tied the snecks of doors 
 together with a rope, compelling the folks who 
 lived but and ben to crawl out by the windows to 
 set matters right. 
 
 But such primitive pranks are all dying down. 
 The very rites and ceremonies peculiar to this 
 night, when witches and warlocks were abroad, are 
 now-a-days rarely observed. Young folk do not 
 seek, as they were wont not so many years ago, to 
 see in the burn where three lands meet, the face 
 of their future spouse. Nor do they blindfolded 
 scramble on the floor for the bowl that holds their 
 fortune or misfortune. There is no more steal- 
 ing out in the darkness "to pu' kail-runts" in 
 eerie backyards; and the sowing of hemp at such 
 an unearthly hour, to say nothing of the season, 
 has been wisely demitted. Hallowe'en is now left
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 25 
 
 almost entirely to the children, who burn nuts and 
 duck for apples. The quaint verses which their 
 fathers and grandfathers sang when they were 
 children, so long, long ago it already seems, have 
 been discarded or altogether forgotten. For the 
 day of witches is gone, and charms and incanta- 
 tions are no more in vogue than cauls in an 
 Atlantic liner. 
 
 It may be that in a year or two Hallowe'en 
 will be dropped from the Calendar of Barncraig 
 altogether, leaving the period from the Flower 
 Show to the New Year uneventful save for the 
 Term Day and the Winter Sacrament. For 
 the Church has done away with the Fast, and 
 Hogmanay itself is not looked forward to now 
 as it was wont to be in Barncraig, when every 
 house had its yule log and every child was sure 
 of his cakes. 
 
 My feet's cauld, my shoon's thin, 
 Gie's my cakes an' let me rin. 
 
 So they sang, and there was always some kind 
 Christian ready to take pity on their dramatic 
 destitution. 
 
 New Year's Day has taken such a prominent 
 place in the Calendar that Hogmanay is nothing 
 of itself, it only leads to the first of the year, a
 
 26 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 holiday now, and happiness. The village is even 
 losing its hold on Hansel Monday. Only the old 
 folks keep up the caking customs, and, over a cup 
 of kindness, talk of the grand old times that have 
 passed away. 
 
 So do red-letter days slip by, their obser- 
 vance becoming little more than a shadow of 
 what it once was. It may be that in time to 
 come Christmas will be a big day in Barncraig, 
 and the first of January pass unobserved. But 
 the villagers cling fondly to the Market and the 
 Flower Show. Long may they retain both, if only 
 for the sake of the children ! 
 
 The days, however, which are never forgotten 
 are the days of destiny, days that mark crises in 
 the great drama of life and death. Such are the 
 days round which Barncraig groups the ordinary 
 incidents of its prosaic existence ; and of such 
 days also the villagers have tales to tell. But 
 they tell them only amongst themselves ; for, 
 reserved at all times, they are especially reticent 
 about the events which have moved them most. 
 
 It is when the winter winds are whistling 
 through the solitary street and the wynds are 
 wet with the surf of the angry sea, that the 
 villagers bar their doors and talk of the dead.
 
 RED-LETTER DAYS. 27 
 
 Then, and only then, do the old folks tell with 
 bated breath of the great things that have hap- 
 pened in Barncraig; and the children crouch 
 around the fire listening intently, and hearing, 
 above the shrieking of the wind, the agonised 
 moan of a fog-horn and the ominous thud of the 
 waves on the shore.
 
 28 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN'. 
 
 Blessin' on the stormy faem 
 
 That wrought the ship a wrack ; 
 
 An' masses for the souls o' them 
 That never mair cam' back. 
 
 A Sorry Sea -Sang. 
 
 IT was a " cauld sour day," nothing but drizzle 
 from morning to night, and everything looked 
 cheerless. From the mast-head of the solitary 
 schooner lying alongside the pier, a flag hung 
 like a dirty rag, limp and unfluttering. Every 
 cord and stay of the rigging looked clammy ; 
 the coils of rope beside the windlass were black 
 and sodden. What little wind there was only 
 came in fitful sobs, wretchedly cold. From six in 
 the morning the shoremen had been working in 
 oilskins and sou'westers, and they were not in 
 the best of temper. In spite of their oilskins 
 they were wet to the skin ; and, wretched as the 
 weather was, the skipper had not been very free 
 with the refreshments. They did not blame him ; 
 for they knew Matthew Saunders to be as open-
 
 THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN\ 29 
 
 handed a man as lived in Barncraig. But Simon 
 Ballingall, the owner, a retired ship-chandler who 
 dabbled in ships and shipping, was stingy, and 
 Matthew's supply was not calculated on lines of 
 generosity. " Matthie had just to cut accordin' 
 to his cloth," they admitted, but there was nothing 
 in that to allay a man's thirst ; and when there 
 is no one in particular to bear the brunt of their 
 wrath, aggrieved men can only find relief in swear- 
 ing at large. That day the shoremen had damned 
 promiscuously, chiefly the weather. 
 
 Their work had been very hard, too ; for the 
 owner would not have the spout to be used in 
 loading the Nancy, and they had sweated at the 
 crane the whole day through. 
 
 " He's feared ye ding the boddom out o' her," 
 Sandy Fernie, who was at that time assistant 
 pilot, informed the men. 
 
 " It wouldna be ill to do," one of them sulkily 
 answered. " It's temptin' Providence to sail in 
 her." 
 
 " She was a good enough craft too," Lumsden, 
 the pilot, commented, " in her day." 
 
 "An' so was your father in his, Stephen," was 
 Dav Allan's blunt rejoinder, " when he sailed her. 
 An' whaur is he now ? "
 
 30 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Stephen shook his head in deprecation of the 
 analogy; but Dav was " neither to hud nor bind " 
 to-day. He was angry at everything, and would 
 be sombre at all hazards. 
 
 " She'll be gaun whaur he gaed afore her," he 
 continued. " I'm thinkin', when she turns the 
 pier-head at high water the night, we've seen the 
 last o' the Nancy." 
 
 " Simon maun ha'e stood little for refreshments 
 the day, Dav." 
 
 " As muckle as for putty an' paint, onyway, an' 
 caulkin' the seams o' her," Dav replied ; " an' it's 
 no hiz that's geisand." 
 
 " Ye'll ha'e her ready by seven ? " Stephen 
 asked. " Simon was at me to get her awa' wi' 
 the next tide." 
 
 Dav snorted and turned to the crane, jerking his 
 answer out in spasmodics, as his body rose and 
 fell with the turning of the cog-wheel. " It's the 
 night or never. Gin she lie a tide load she'll 
 split i' the mud frae stem to stern." 
 
 " Dav's risen on his wrang side this mornin'," 
 the pilot muttered to Sandy as they walked 
 away. He was rather afraid that there was 
 good reason for Dav's foreboding, but he tried 
 to persuade himself against believing it.
 
 THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN'. 31 
 
 " If he'd been down the hold trimmin' her, as 
 I've been," Dav soliloquised over the dripping 
 handle, "he'd ken what kind o' hulk the crew's 
 riskin' their lives in." 
 
 But Stephen did not hear his muttering ; and 
 Geordy Marshall, who bobbed and becked at the 
 other handle of the crane, was too disgusted with 
 the work and the weather to take any notice of 
 Dav's grumblings. He was soaking from head to 
 heel, and in spite of the hard work felt cold. All 
 he could think about was a table set for tea in a 
 cosy kitchen, the kettle singing over a " rousin' ' ; 
 fire and his young wife waiting to receive him. 
 And this only made the weather more uncomfort- 
 able ; and worse still, when he reflected that he 
 would be working on till seven o'clock. They 
 must all work overtime if the Nancy was to sail 
 next tide. 
 
 About five o'clock Rob Harris from Santserfs, 
 who had been engaged as mate, came down to 
 join the vessel, and, after a talk with the skipper, 
 lounged around the deck examining everything. 
 He did not appear to be pleased with what he 
 saw, and Dav took note of his dour and dogged 
 look when he stepped ashore again. As he passed, 
 Dav touched his arm and nodded to him signifi-
 
 32 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 cantly. " Ye didna bring your kit in wi' ye, I 
 noticed." 
 
 Rob scowled as at a spy. " Mind your ain 
 business," he said with set teeth. "My kit's 
 lyin' up i' the lodge waitin'." 
 
 "To be brought aboard ? " Dav queried ; but 
 Rob did not answer. 
 
 Dav's lip curled, and he drew his hand across 
 his grimy forehead. " It's a' right, Rob : I was 
 at the trimmin' o' her.'' 
 
 Rob looked at him keenly, trying to read the 
 smile on his set lips, and spoke in a whisper. 
 " It's no a day for doukin', Dav." 
 
 " No," Dav answered : " a straw-death's kindlier. 
 What's the use o' the Foond " (i.e., the Funeral 
 Society Fund) " if ye're to cheat Tammas o' the 
 yirdin' ? " 
 
 " When it comes to the de'il or the deep sea, 
 Dav, I'll risk He closed his hands, placing 
 
 his wrists together. " Ye ken what I mean." 
 
 " Ay, brawly ; ye'll daur Ballingall an' tease 
 oakum, read'lys for some schooner that doesna so 
 muckle need it. Skelly's as wholesome fare as 
 ye'd get i' the fo'c's'le, onyway." 
 
 "She's past caulkin', Dav." 
 
 Rob walked awav, and Dav turned again to his
 
 THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN'. 33 
 
 work. About half an hour afterwards he tugged 
 Geordy Marshall by the sleeve and pointed to the 
 road beyond the Coal Yard. Marshall followed 
 the direction of the finger and gaped in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "It's Rob Harris," he muttered, " awa' hame 
 again wi' his kit." 
 
 " Ay," said Dav briefly. " The Nancy '11 no sail 
 this night." 
 
 But Dav was wrong. Nothing would have 
 pleased him more than to know that the Nancy 
 would have to lie up till next tide ; and he felt 
 assured that if it were to lie in the mud of the 
 harbour, heavily laden as it was, it would never 
 float again. All day long had he been hoping 
 that some accident might prevent its sailing ; and 
 there is hardly a step between hope and belief. 
 But Ballingall was determined to have his vessel 
 sail, and Dav had not reckoned on his resources. 
 Perhaps he also was afraid of waiting a tide. 
 There was much to be gained by sailing at once ; 
 and it would be a severe strain on the very tautest 
 craft to lie, laden to the hatches, high and dry. 
 When he learned that Harris had skulked back to 
 Santserfs his anger was terrible, but he was not to 
 be beaten. There was no time to hunt up the 
 
 3
 
 34 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 culprit and bring him back by force, but he vowed 
 he would make him pay dearly for this desertion. 
 The law was on his side, and he knew it was. At 
 present, however, he had to think of filling his place, 
 and he hurried away to see Morris Lumsden, the 
 brother of the pilot. Morris had retired from a sea- 
 faring life, and set up a shop in " a sma' way o' 
 doin,' " after his miraculous escape from drowning, 
 when the George was wrecked near the Blair Rocks. 
 He was the only one of the crew saved, and those 
 who had helplessly watched him struggle ashore 
 never forgot the picture of Morris rising on the 
 beach and shaking his fist at the retreating wave. 
 " I've cheated ye a second time," were his words ; 
 " but the third time tries a' ; an' ye'll no ha'e peace 
 till ye get me." 
 
 Morris was still a strong and able-bodied man, 
 and he had the reputation of an excellent seaman. 
 His brother Stephen and himself were the only 
 brothers left of an old seafaring family. Their 
 father had been drowned, as was his father before 
 him ; and out of a family of seven brothers five 
 had been lost at sea, two in wrecks, two in vessels 
 that sailed away and were never more heard 
 of, and one in a whaler's boat swamped off the 
 coast of Greenland. And both Stephen and
 
 THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN'. 35 
 
 Morris had a secret conviction that they also 
 would be drowned, since death by drowning was 
 a family tradition. 
 
 " Some night I'll pilot my last schooner," 
 Stephen at times observed to his younger brother ; 
 " an' if I'm no washed ashore, there'll be no 
 funeral expenses." 
 
 " Ay, Steve," Morris would answer, " the sea '11 
 be the last restin'-place o' us both. It's the fate o' 
 the family ; an' though I've gi'en up the sea, it 
 hasna gi'en up hopes o' me yet." 
 
 They did not talk despondently of the death 
 they believed to be awaiting them ; on the con- 
 trary, there was a touch of stoical family pride in 
 their anticipations. 
 
 And now it was to Morris that Ballingall turned 
 in his extremity, thinking it would not be difficult 
 to persuade him to make a voyage, were it but as 
 a break in a life which he was already feeling 
 monotonous. Moreover, a run to Gravelines 
 would be little more than a pleasure-trip to one 
 who had sweltered in the Doldrums and been 
 nearly frozen to death in the Arctic Seas. What 
 arguments he used or what inducements he held 
 out were never known ; but Morris consented to 
 sail as mate, and Harris's place was filled up.
 
 36 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 The shoremen were just finishing their work when 
 little Rob Morrison brought a kit aboard. 
 
 The pilot, who was chatting with Saunders at 
 the time, looked at the initials sewn on the bag, 
 and an expression of dismay came upon his tanned 
 face. 
 ^ " That's Morris's," he said. 
 
 " Simon '11 ha'e gotten him to fill Harris's 
 shoon," the skipper conjectured. 
 
 "Ay." There was something more than assent 
 in the monosyllable. " His time's come, an' 
 he's gaun afore me." 
 
 " Hoots, Steve ! " Matthew uttered almost 
 angrily; "ye're for ever on that string. Will ye 
 mak' him the Jonah o' the ship, an' send us a' to 
 the cod?" 
 
 Stephen did not reply, but he recalled Dav 
 Allan's words that morning, and he thought of 
 the fate of the family. 
 
 It was full tide at half-past seven, but very few 
 came down to see the Nancy sail. The weather 
 had not improved but rather got worse with the 
 darkness, and folks were better at their own fireside 
 on such a night. Ballingall himself was there, 
 muffled against the rain in a heavy overcoat ; and 
 Dav Allan stood silently scowling at the well-
 
 THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN'. 37 
 
 protected figure clearly outlined against the 
 western sky. The harbour-master joined him, 
 and began shouting his orders in a voice that 
 might have been heard at Santserfs. Echo 
 threw it back from the pit buildings, indistinct 
 and ominous on the cold damp air. 
 
 Then the pilot came down and jumped on 
 board. He was visibly in low spirits, and had 
 little to say. 
 
 " An' so ye're gaun, Morris ? " he questioned, 
 with a touch of sadness when he saw his brother 
 on board. 
 
 "Ay, Steve; it's but a short run to Gravelines." 
 
 " It's no short till ye're there, Morris ; " and he 
 said no more to him. 
 
 " Sandy's no comin' down," he informed the 
 skipper. " I'll ha'e to see you aff mysel'. You'll 
 need to steer till I'm back frae the buoy." 
 
 Dropping into his boat he rowed out with a 
 rope to the outer buoy. Dav Allan stepped to the 
 edge of the pier, and saw him, almost hidden in 
 his great sou'wester, rowing away into the dark- 
 ness. While he was standing there a little boy 
 about eight or nine years of age came up 
 and tugged him by the sleeve. It was little 
 Morris.
 
 38 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " I want to see my father sailin' awa'," he said. 
 
 " An' ye'll see that," Dav answered, lifting 
 him up on his shoulder. " Was ye no feared to 
 come down the quay on a dark rainy night like 
 this ? " 
 
 Morris shook his head. He was a serious little 
 fellow, and spoke little. 
 
 After a short silence he pointed across to the pit 
 whence the monotonous noise of the water engine 
 was heard. " D'ye ken what the engine-lum's 
 sayin' ? " he asked. 
 
 Dav, who was in all things practical, tried to 
 explain that it was^ only the waste steam being 
 ejected in puffs, and that it didn't say anything 
 but, "Tchu! tchu!" 
 
 But his explanation did not satisfy Morris, who 
 shook his head again, and looked disappointed. 
 
 " It's speakin' to my father," he said. " That's 
 the engine he wrought last year, an' it's saying, 
 ' Ta-ta ! ta-ta ! '" 
 
 " Eh ! " said Dav, startled into an almost 
 poetical frame of mind. " Is that what ye hear it 
 sayin', Morris?" And then, softly to himself, 
 " That's awfu' ; that's awfu'. I'll no get that out 
 o' my ain head now." 
 
 Then there was silence again, both listening
 
 THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN'. 39 
 
 intently to the engine's farewell, and Dav wait- 
 ing to hear Stephen hallooing from the buoy. 
 
 " Haul away ! " came from the darkness. 
 
 " Holly hoy ! " the sailors answered. 
 
 The rope swished, dripping out of the water, 
 jerked, tightened, and then jerked again ; and 
 the vessel began slow r ly to move from her 
 moorings. 
 
 " That's a by-ordinar' jerk, the now," the 
 harbour-master remarked. "Slack afT there!" 
 he shouted to the skipper, and then walked away 
 to lift the stern rope from the ring. Ballingall 
 was left alone ; and Dav, moving up behind him, 
 talked at his very ear. 
 
 " Insured ? " he asked quietly. 
 
 Ballingall turned sharply as if the word had 
 startled him like an echo. " Oh, it's you, Allan ? 
 Yes, yes ; that's quite safe. The insurance is all 
 right. Mind the fenders there, will ye ? " 
 
 " I thought it would be," Dav answered, grimly 
 suggestive. 
 
 " O yes, Allan. I pride myself on my business 
 capacity. Both schooner and cargo are insured." 
 
 " An' crew ? " 
 
 Simon looked at him and smiled. " Dear me, 
 Allan, is that all you know of business matters ?
 
 40 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 You can't insure the crew. What's wrong with 
 your child ? " 
 
 Morris was reaching out his arms eagerly to 
 his father, whom he saw behind the windlass, and 
 sobbing rather than saying, " Ta-ta ! ta-ta ! " 
 
 "He's no mine," Dav told him; "this is wee 
 Morris, come to see his father aff. Ahoy, Morris!" 
 he called aboard, as the ship was passing, " say 
 good-bye to the youngster." 
 
 The father waved his hand fondly to his child. 
 " Ta-ta, Morris, ta-ta ! Ye're to mind the shop, 
 an' tak' care o' your mother till I come back." 
 
 " Ta-ta ! " came from Dav's shoulder. 
 
 " Here, little one ; here's a penny for you," 
 Ballingall offered, holding up a shilling. 
 
 But Morris did not like Simon's magnanimous 
 manner. He looked wistfully at the coin and 
 shook his head, turning his face to Dav, and then 
 wriggling down. 
 
 " Are ye gaun hame now ? " Dav asked kindly. 
 
 Morris nodded. "I've to tak' care o' my mother 
 an' mind the shop." 
 
 He took off his cap and waved it towards the 
 ship, looking already like a phantom-ship in the 
 darkness. " Ta-ta ! " he cried again, and walked 
 speedily away.
 
 THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN'. 41 
 
 "Ye'll no fa' in, will ye?" Dav cried ; but the 
 child did not answer. He felt himself a man 
 already, and stepped out with an air of purpose 
 about him, thinking of his mother and of the 
 shop. 
 
 Dav turned when he was out of sight and re- 
 sumed the threads of conversation as though there 
 had been no interruption. 
 
 " I suppose ye'll be gaun to buy this new brig 
 that's to be launched at Santserfs soon ? There's 
 little singin' at the windlass this night." 
 
 " Well, Allan, I once thought of it, but - 
 
 " D'ye no think it'll be enough ? " 
 
 Simon gave his questioner a scrutinising look, 
 but could make nothing of Dav's stolid face. 
 " You have as many questions as the Shorter 
 Catechism," he laughed uneasily. 
 
 " The only one I would speir is the sixth com- 
 mandment," Dav observed; "but I daursay ye'll 
 ha'e forgotten them a' but the fourth." 
 
 " I believe you're right, Allan. I do know the 
 fourth, but I forget the order of the others. A 
 short voyage, Matthew ! " he shouted to the dis- 
 appearing schooner. 
 
 " As far as I hear she's to be a braw brig this," 
 Dav resumed, ignoring Simon's words altogether ;
 
 42 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " an', of course, it might no be enough to pay for 
 her." 
 
 " Enough ? " Simon asked testily. " What do 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " The insurance." 
 
 Ballingall started, and he turned his head aside 
 ere he replied. " You're anticipating evil," he 
 remarked with a shake in his voice. 
 
 " That'll put nothing in my pouch," Dav replied, 
 as imperturbable as ever. 
 
 Ballingall turned on him irritably, and answered 
 with a kind of timorous anger, " Look here, Allan. 
 I may as well tell you that I don't mean to buy 
 that brig. I'm getting up in years now, and 
 intend to take life easily. This is my last specu- 
 lation in ships." 
 
 " An' human bein's." 
 
 The words, uttered with such simple directness, 
 touched Ballingall to the quick. 
 
 " Look here, Allan," he said, in a voice shaking 
 partly with fear and partly with anger ; " she's 
 good for a voyage or two yet. But you're in a 
 bad humour to-night. You must come along with 
 me to the inn, and drink success to the voyage. 
 She's off all right now." 
 
 " An' the crew ? "
 
 THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN'. 43 
 
 " Of course, of course, you know that's im- 
 plied." 
 
 " I thought you might mean the owner an' the 
 insurance." 
 
 Ballingall lost his temper completely, and 
 cursed him. "You're trying to insult me," he 
 said ; to which Dav answered that insults were 
 "just as they were ta'en ". 
 
 The quarrel might have gone further, but they 
 were now interrupted by the harbour-master rush- 
 ing past them and mounting the steps at the pier- 
 head light. " There's something wrang out there," 
 he called. 
 
 " Nancy, ahoy ! " he shouted into the misty 
 night. " Ahoy ! what's wrang ? " 
 
 " Is Stephen back ? " It was Matthew's voice 
 through his speaking trumpet. " There's no boat 
 here." 
 
 All three heard the words, and stood for a 
 moment speechless. Then Dav rushed along 
 the quay, and, jumping into the nearest boat, 
 broke it from its moorings, and began rowing as 
 hard as he cculd to the point of the ^pier. The 
 harbour-master and Ballingall laid themselves 
 down and craned over the edge of the stonework, 
 peering out on the sullen water.
 
 44 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 "What's that?" Simon cried, pointing to a 
 black object slowly making harbourwards. 
 
 The harbour-master followed the direction of 
 Simon's arm. " It's Steve himsel'," he whispered 
 brokenly, " swommin' in wi' a' his heavy claes on. 
 He has lost his sou'wester. Quick, Dav, quick, 
 man ! " 
 
 Dav was indeed doing all he could to get to the 
 point of the pier ; but a man can't work miracles, 
 and meantime every second was bringing Stephen, 
 desperately fighting for life, nearer and nearer 
 to death. On he came, struggling bravely. In 
 the light of the lamps they could now see his face, 
 not a yard from the pier head. There he was at 
 length touching the fenders. He had caught hold 
 of the large iron ring he had lost it now he had 
 it again. 
 
 Dauvit Dewar, the harbour-master, was an old 
 man, but he had climbed down by the heavy 
 double chain which hung over the point of the 
 pier, serving for a ladder. Holding by one hand 
 and setting his feet against the rough stones, he 
 reached out to grip the pilot ; but Stephen lost his 
 hold again and sank. In a second or so he was 
 again at the surface, but deeper than ever in the 
 water. Dauvit made a grab at the head as it
 
 THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN\ 45 
 
 appeared, catching hold of the hair ; but Stephen 
 was almost insensible now, and the current was 
 strong. He was swirled out of the old man's 
 grasp, leaving a handful of hair in his hand. 
 
 " My God ! " Dauvit cried brokenly, holding up 
 the hair in his hand ; " I tried my best ; I tried 
 my best, Dav ! " 
 
 The boat was close beside him now, but there 
 were no further signs of Stephen. He had sunk 
 to rise no more ; and another brother had grappled 
 with death in the deep. 
 
 It is wonderful how the news of disaster spreads. 
 There was already quite a crowd on the quay, and 
 every boat in the harbour was manned ; but search 
 was useless. One boat which had put off to the 
 Nancy brought back the rope which it had left 
 attached to the buoy ; but there was no news of 
 the schooner. The wind was in its favour, and 
 by this time it would be well out to sea. 
 
 " Ye ken Matthie couldna lie by there," the 
 harbour-master explained. " He bid to set his 
 sails, an' steer wi' the wind ; an' there's Morris 
 awa' without kennin' his brother's drowned : an' 
 Steve just sayin' to me, no further gone than 
 this afternoon, that Morris was gaun afore him/' 
 
 " He'll no be that lang ahent him," Dav Allan
 
 46 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 commented bitterly. They were on the pier again, 
 and he gave Ballingall a look almost of loathing. 
 - " Rotten wood mak's a saft coffin, an' the sea's a 
 roomy grave." 
 
 " Ssh sh ! " Dewar whispered. " This is no 
 time for hard words." 
 
 Simon turned on Dav livid with rage, and shook 
 his fist in his face ; but he was too much unnerved 
 by passion to speak. He stood for a second or 
 two struggling for words, and then turning on his 
 heel he walked abruptly away. 
 
 The others hung about sad and silent, waiting 
 till the tide receded. Then they found Stephen 
 standing erect against the pier, with his feet fast 
 in the mud, not a yard from where he had sunk. 
 How the boat had capsized was never known. 
 Dauvit Dewar always explained that the rope 
 must have been under its keel when the sailors 
 began to pull the schooner from the harbour. 
 
 It was a gloomy enough town next day. Stephen 
 had been a general favourite, and everybody had 
 lost a friend. But that was not all. His piteous 
 end was accepted as a tragic omen for the voyage 
 of the Nancy. The villagers shook their heads 
 whenever they spoke of the schooner, and, a few 
 days afterwards, when news came that it had
 
 THE WIDOWS' K1RKIN'. 47 
 
 foundered on the Goodwin Sands with all hands, 
 nobody expressed surprise. The town had been 
 waiting to hear of disaster, for it had been a 
 doomed vessel from the hour it sailed. 
 
 " Doomed frae the hour it was load," Dav Allan 
 muttered ; but Dav now kept his thoughts to 
 himself. " It'll just mak' their burden the heavier 
 if I tell the widows and orphans what I think," 
 he philosophised, and whilst cursing Ballingall 
 in his heart he kept silent. 
 
 He was passing along the street on the night 
 of Stephen's funeral day, when he heard the news 
 from Adam Bell. 
 
 " The laddie frae Santserfs that brought the 
 telegram to Ballingall telled me what was in it," 
 Adam explained ; " an' it'll be a' ower the toun 
 by this time." 
 
 " It was a' ower the toun the night it sailed, 
 Adam." 
 
 " Ay," said Adam, " it's an awfu' calamity- 
 five widows i' the toun within a week but no 
 onexpected. An' look, man, look ! " he whispered, 
 pointing to the other side of the street, " there's 
 wee Morris danderin' about, little kennin' he's 
 fatherless." 
 
 Dav turned and called to the boy ere he had
 
 48 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 passed. " Come here, Morris," he said coaxingly 
 "It's ower dark for you to be trailin' about th< 
 streets. Run awa' hame to your mother like i 
 little man. See, here's a penny for ye ; ye'll n< 
 refuse ane frae me ? " 
 
 Morris accepted the gift in some astonishment 
 looked at it, and looked up at Allan. 
 
 " It's a sixpence," he said. 
 
 " Never mind, Morris. Run awa' hame like i 
 good laddie ; your mother's needin' ye." 
 
 The child turned homeward at once ; but half 
 way along the street he met little Ekky Allan, am 
 had to tell him of his good fortune. 
 
 " Look what your uncle ga'e me," he said 
 holding out the sixpence in the palm of his hand. 
 
 "A whole sixpence!" Ekky cried; "but 
 ken what way he ga'e ye it. Do ye no ken ? It' 
 because the Nancy's down, an' your father' 
 drowned." 
 
 Morris looked at Ekky's face, and, child thougl 
 he was, knew that he was speaking the truth ; bu 
 he was too young to know all that the word 
 implied. 
 
 " Will he no come back again ? " 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " Does my mother ken ? "
 
 THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN\ 49 
 
 Ekky shook his head. 
 
 Morris, without another word, walked straight 
 away home. 
 
 When he opened the door he found a few 
 neighbours already gathered, and his mother 
 sitting by the bedside, stunned almost to insensi- 
 bility. They were doing their utmost to comfort 
 her ; and all were weeping, she alone tearless. 
 Morris hung back for a time, till, getting tired of 
 standing by himself and unnoticed, he pressed 
 through the neighbours and placed himself at his 
 mother's knee. But the poor woman was almost 
 unconscious of his presence. Opening the clasped 
 hand lying cold in her lap he placed in it his 
 sixpence, and then began closing the fingers over 
 it again. 
 
 " What's that, Morris ? " They were the first 
 words she had spoken since she had been told 
 she was a widow. 
 
 " It's to you, mother." 
 
 Leaning forward she caught the child up in her 
 arms, and clasping him to her breast, she pressed 
 her face to his, and burst into tears. " My father- 
 less laddie," she sobbed ; " my ain, poor, wee 
 Morris ! " 
 
 The child fell asleep in her arms, and after 
 4
 
 50 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 seeing the mother herself comfortably bedded the 
 neighbours came away. 
 
 " It'll be a waesome kirkin' when it comes," 
 Isa Setoun remarked as they left. "Ay," one of 
 them answered ; " five o' them ; an' they'll a' be 
 kirket i' the same day, the Sabbath after next 
 bein' the Sacrament." 
 
 And an impressive kirking indeed the kirking 
 of the five widows was. The minister chose as 
 his text, " And there was no more sea ; " and the 
 thoughts of the congregation were with the five 
 crape-veiled women sitting in the same pew, as he 
 preached. Simon Ballingall was there, looking 
 religiously affected with the discourse, and in his 
 capacity of senior elder he served the afflicted ones 
 first. It was a touching sight to see him passing 
 them the bread and the wine, his whole bearing 
 seeming to say to the church assembled, " He 
 who is greatest among you, let him be the servant 
 of all ". And Simon felt that he had acquitted 
 himself well. A sacrament is a day of humiliation 
 and prayer ; and he magnanimously made up his 
 mind not to institute proceedings against Rob 
 Harris, knowing that the Lord would remember 
 it to his advantage. 
 
 " I liket to see yon," Dav Allan's wife remarked
 
 THE WIDOWS' KIRKIN\ 51 
 
 when she got home. " I felt an awfu' gulp i' my 
 throat when he handed them the cup. It was 
 awfu' thoughtfu' o' him to serve them first." 
 
 "Ay," Dav answered, talking like one in a 
 reverie, " yon had been weel thought on, I could 
 see. But Simon's a thoughtfu' man, and looket 
 by-ordinar' bethoughted-like the day. He'll no 
 ha'e gotten the insurance yet."
 
 5 2 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 ROB ALLAN'S FIRST-FOOT. 
 
 Ken ye that a beggar loon 
 Cam' this mornin' to the toun, 
 Seekin' meat an' milk an' claes, 
 Socks to hap his hacked taes, 
 Greetin' so that folks were glad 
 To gi'e him a corner o' their bed ? 
 An' now he's snug an' snod inside, 
 The beggar loon has come to bide. 
 
 A Bairnly Ballad. 
 
 IT was New Year's Eve, and the weather was 
 wretched. The wind was whistling and swirling 
 through the street, and rain had been falling in 
 torrents the whole day through. With such a 
 sour and gurly sky above, there was little prospect 
 of a change before morning, and those who had 
 prepared for first-footing were disappointed and 
 sulky. Such weather was enough to put any one 
 out of patience. Even in the months of November 
 and February, when people are prepared for it, they 
 fail to take it philosophically; but at yule-tide, being 
 unseasonable, it cannot but be execrated. At this 
 time of year one looks for frost and snow ; and
 
 ROB ALLAN'S FIRST-FOOT. 53 
 
 blinding rain scudding along on the blasts of an 
 east wind is not only disagreeable in itself but 
 subversive of a time-honoured convention. 
 
 " This is an awfu' day," old Girzie had remarked 
 in the store that very morning. " When the New 
 Year day dawns, I like to see it wauken on a 
 world o' snaw." 
 
 She was not talking sentimentally ; for Girzie 
 was thoroughly practical, and, having seen many 
 New Years come and go, had learned to count on 
 contingencies. " For, when there's snaw on the 
 gr'und," she reasoned, "if folk fa' they both fa' 
 saft an' rise clean." 
 
 But there was neither frost nor snow this 
 Hogmanay, and the street was deserted. There 
 would be first-footing, certainly, when the time 
 came ; for that was an institution to which the 
 weather, good or bad, was only an accessory. But 
 most of the intending first-footers were sitting dis- 
 consolately at home, waiting for twelve o'clock to 
 strike. Had the weather been of the conventional 
 kind they would have gathered together at Haw 
 Head about eleven, and for an hour or so helped 
 the old year away on the wings of song. But this 
 was no night for open-air demonstration; and, even 
 if they had gathered in spite of the rain, it is
 
 54 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 questionable whether they would have had the 
 heart to sing. 
 
 Andrew Allan was sitting at home to-night, and 
 for the last few years Andrew had been a leader 
 amongst first-footers. But in this year of grace 
 he had got married, and it might naturally be 
 expected that his first-footing days were done. 
 
 There was a " rousin' " fire in the kitchen, 
 and on one side sat his wife busily knitting. On 
 the other was Andrew, intent and silent, with his 
 eyes fixed on a watch, which he was holding in 
 his hand. 
 
 " Five minutes," he remarked, without lifting 
 his head; and his wife's wires clicked away as if 
 they were measuring the time in seconds. " Three 
 minutes." 
 
 The wires kept clicking remorsefully, and 
 presently the bell from the town hall began 
 ringing. Some of the young fellows must have 
 got the key, and, defying the storm, ventured out 
 to keep up the ancient custom. 
 
 "They're half a minute fast," Andrew burst 
 out, still keeping his eyes fixed on the watch. " I 
 timed her the day. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty- 
 nine. A guid New Year, Mary !" 
 
 The watch was in his pocket, and he had risen
 
 ROB ALLAN'S FIRST-FOOT. 55 
 
 and was bending over his young wife. Seizing 
 both her hands, he shook them with all his might ; 
 and then, a little awkwardly, as though he were 
 somewhat ashamed of himself, bent down and 
 kissed her lips. 
 
 " A guid New Year, Andrew ! " 
 
 She put away her knitting, and then sat with 
 her hands Folded in her lap, thinking of the year 
 that was gone and all the happiness it had brought 
 her. 
 
 Before sitting down again, Andrew went to the 
 press and brought out two glasses, setting them 
 on the mantelpiece. Then he drew a pint bottle 
 of whisky from his pocket and rilled them. 
 
 " I bought a drap for our New Year, Mary," he 
 said; "an' ye'll need to tak' a tastin' alang wi' me, 
 just for luck." 
 
 Not since they were married had whisky been 
 tasted in their house ; but it would have been 
 carrying temperance to fanaticism to forego a drop 
 on New Year's morning. After he had sat down 
 again, they toasted themselves and all their friends, 
 and then Mary sipped " success to the coming 
 year ". Andrew drained his glass, smiling to see 
 Mary sipping hers so gingerly ; but after putting 
 his empty glass aside, he sat silent for a time
 
 56 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 and evidently ill at ease. He fidgeted in his 
 chair, now gazing abstractedly into the fire, anon 
 looking pleadingly over to his wife. But she only 
 smiled at his too evident distress, asking him 
 what dreadful confession he was about to make. 
 
 " A penny for your thoughts ! " She questioned 
 naively. " Does a wee drappie aye affect ye like 
 that ? " 
 
 Andrew smiled rather lugubriously, and kept 
 rubbing his hands rhythmically over his knees till 
 he had stammered out his confession. 
 
 " I was thinkin' to gang out first-footin'," he 
 shamefacedly began. 
 
 " What ? " cried Mary, in assumed indignation. 
 
 " I'm sure you'll excuse me, Mary lass." He 
 spoke apologetically, but with determination. 
 "I'll no be awa' half an hour, and ye can easy 
 sit up till I come back. It's only to Rob's, an' 
 ye ken he was a good brother to me." 
 
 " Ay was he, Andrew, an' mair ; very near 
 father an' mother both." 
 
 Rob Allan had been left with the entire charge 
 of his younger brothers and sisters when he was 
 only a lad of sixteen, and he had toiled hard to do 
 by them as his parents would have done had they 
 been spared. His two brothers and two sisters
 
 ROB ALLAN'S FIRST-FOOT. 57 
 
 had hardly known what it was to want a father's 
 care ; and Andrew, who was the youngest, had 
 always been Rob's especial favourite. But Rob's 
 own lines had not been cast for him in pleasant 
 places, and latterly it had been a pretty severe 
 struggle to keep a home for his wife and bairns. 
 
 " Ye see he has ha'en a sair year o't," Andrew 
 continued ; " what wi' his accident an' ae thing an' 
 another ; an' it maun be a hard fecht to feed an' 
 cleed his bits o' bairns six o' them now, an' the 
 auldest no left the school yet." 
 
 "Ay," Mary mused, speaking dreamily; "six 
 o' them an' a' She stopped as her eye 
 
 lighted on the knitting she had just laid aside, 
 and her hands began nervously smoothing the 
 apron over her lap. 
 
 But Andrew was contemplating the fire, and 
 thinking of Rob's troubles. 
 
 " Ye see he had an awfu' bad first-foot last 
 year, an' Helen she sets great store by thae things. 
 It's a' havers thegether, but I should just like to 
 gang alang an' first-foot him and her no that I 
 believe in it but just to hearten them up a bit." 
 
 "Havers or no havers," his wife objected, "ye 
 wouldna like to ha'e a bad first-foot yoursel'." 
 
 " I daursay ye're right, Maty ; no Cripple
 
 58 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Kirsty, ony way, borrowin' a maskin' o' tea, an' 
 lettin' fa' the cup she got it in, as she did in Rob's 
 last New Year's mornin'. And she bid to ha'e a 
 second maskin' afore she gaed. No wonder she 
 brought bad luck no that I believe in it at a'." 
 
 " No," said Mary ; " I see that. And you'll be 
 thinkin' ye're to bring them good luck this 
 year." 
 
 " Weel, I'm dark enough," Andrew ventured, 
 " an no' that ill-fa'ured ava." 
 
 " I've seen waur." 
 
 " Ay ? an' ye used to consider me a good-looking 
 chap no that lang syne either." 
 
 " Passable." 
 
 Andrew rose grinning. " Once a man's married 
 he has to sing sma', Mary. It's a grand thing for 
 takin' the conceit out o' him. I'll say no main 
 Ye'd as lief gi'e me a slice o' your loaf an' a tastin' 
 o' cheese, an' I'll awa' alang." 
 
 Mary went ben the room, and returned with a 
 full half of her loaf and a quart bottle of whisky. 
 " Ye're no gaun first-footin' wi' a dribblet like 
 that," she said, nodding at Andrew's bottle, "just 
 to mak' a fool o' folk. Here's a fu' bottle I got in 
 the day, an' ye're to leave it ahent ye, for Rob'll no 
 likely ha'e a drap i' the house. What's left o' the
 
 ROB ALLAN'S FIRST-FOOT. 59 
 
 loaf '11 be a tastin' for the bairns i'the mornin'; it'll 
 no gang far amon' so mony." 
 
 Andrew's hand rested fondly on his wife's 
 shoulder, and he gazed on her with a tender light 
 in his eyes. 
 
 " Did ye ken I was thinkin' o' gaun, Mary ? " 
 
 "I thought ye might be," she answered, "an' 
 
 I think ye should Hoots, awa' wi' ye, an' 
 
 haste ye back." 
 
 He was hardly gone, however, when she came 
 to the door and called to him. 
 
 " Ha'e ye ony coppers for the bairns ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " No, Mary ; that's weel minded. I dinna ha'e 
 a brown bawbee." 
 
 " Stand whaur you are then, an' I'll bring them 
 out. It's bad luck to turn back across the door- 
 stap." 
 
 She emptied some money from a little wooden 
 cap on the mantelpiece and brought it out to him. 
 " Here's some I got the day for them ; " and she 
 counted the money piece by piece into his hand. 
 
 " That's seven ye're gi'ein' me, Mary." 
 
 " Tut ! " she cried impatiently, " they're keen o' 
 a grum'le that grum'le about ower muckle. Ye'll 
 easy get rid o' the seventh if ye want to. Do you
 
 60 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 no ken there's luck in odd numbers ? an' seven's a 
 Bible number, forby. Awa' wi' ye now, an' let me 
 get the door steekit against that wind an' rain." 
 
 The morning was still wet and boisterous, and 
 there were few people about. Several of the 
 windows were lit up, however, and there was the 
 sound of singing all along the street. 
 
 A guid New Year to ane an' a', 
 
 An' mony may ye see, 
 An' durin' a' the year to come 
 
 O happy may ye be ! 
 
 A couple of fellows hailed him with " A guid 
 New Year" as they made a rush, with their heads 
 bent to the wind, from one door to their next 
 house of call. 
 
 "That's Andrew Allan," one said; " ye'd ha'e 
 thought he would be at hame aside the wife." 
 
 "Helen's," his neighbour answered briefly; 
 "Rob's wife." And with that enigmatical reply the 
 other appeared to be perfectly satisfied. 
 
 Andrew was half drenched when he reached his 
 brother's house ; for he was more concerned in 
 keeping the currant loaf dry, than in protecting 
 himself from the rain. Gently opening the out- 
 side door, he was astonished to find the " ben the 
 house " door standing open, as if his brother were
 
 ROB ALLAN'S FIRST-FOOT. 61 
 
 expecting visitors, and Rob himself sitting alone 
 over a smouldering fire. 
 
 " A guid New Year, Rob ! " he cried, seizing his 
 brother's hand and shaking it violently; "an' I 
 hope it'll be a better to ye than the last." 
 
 " It couldna be muckle waur, at ony rate," Rob 
 answered quietly. " A guid New Year, Andrew !" 
 
 Andrew had burst into the room beaming with 
 pleasure, and uttered his wish with the boisterous 
 enthusiasm of a schoolboy. But Rob accepted 
 his greeting in a tone expressionlessly calm, like 
 the voice of one whose mind is preoccupied and 
 who talks mechanically. Then he sat down again, 
 bending himself over the grate and thinking of 
 other things. 
 
 Andrew was disappointed. He thought his 
 brother was low-spirited and not inclined to be 
 talkative, and he felt sorry for him. " He has 
 ha'en a sair struggle this year," Andrew explained 
 to himself, " an' maybe even yet he doesna see his 
 way clear." 
 
 However, there were the good things he had 
 brought along with him waiting to be sampled, and 
 a tasting would do no harm. A drop of whisky 
 might loosen Rob's tongue and help to cheer him 
 up a bit. Andrew himself went to the cupboard
 
 62 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 for a couple of tumblers, and poured out two stiff 
 glasses before he sat down. 
 
 " Here's to better days for ye, Rob ; an' may 
 the mouse never leave your meal poke wi' a tear 
 in its e'e," was his greeting. 
 
 "It may weel ha'e done it i' the past year," 
 Rob dolefully replied ; '' but we'll hope for the best. 
 I'm a' right mysel' now, an' wi' health an' strength 
 we'll win through. Here's to ye, Andrew. I was 
 waitin' on ye." 
 
 " Is Helen bedded ? " Andrew gave a glance at 
 the bed where the three girls were sleeping. 
 
 " Ay ! " 
 
 The answer was short, almost curt, Andrew 
 thought, and then there was silence for a time, 
 while both sat sipping at their whisky. But 
 Andrew had not come along to sit like this. He 
 would grow melancholy himself if he remained 
 much longer without talking, and he made a bold 
 plunge into conversation. 
 
 " I was determined to be your first-foot this 
 year," he said, "an' no let you run the risk o' 
 Cripple Kirsty again." 
 
 Rob looked over at him half smiling, half 
 serious. "It was weel intended, Andrew; but 
 ye're ower late."
 
 ROB ALLAN'S FIRST-FOOT. 63 
 
 "What?" Andrew almost jumped from his 
 seat. " Ye dinna mean to say that ye was first- 
 footed afore I cam' ? " 
 
 " Half an hour syne." 
 
 Andrew fell back in his chair in a cold sweat. 
 This was a terrible disappointment. He had 
 made up his mind a month ago to be his brother's 
 first-foot, and he had been looking forward to it 
 all that time ; yea, and looking further forward 
 too ; seeing the coming year big with blessing for 
 Rob and Helen, with all that was good and all 
 that was prosperous attributed to his lucky in- 
 fluence. Now he had been forestalled, and by 
 only half an hour ! But by what kind of first- 
 foot ? Not one who was likely to bring luck 
 surely, or why should Andrew be looking so sober 
 and thoughtful ? And why was Helen in bed ? 
 Perhaps she had taken the visit too much to 
 heart ; for she attributed all the past year's mis- 
 fortunes to the evil influence of Cripple Kirsty, 
 and another bad first-foot would certainly make 
 her despair altogether. It had been such a sad 
 year ! And she would have accepted a lucky 
 first-foot now Andrew himself, for instance as a 
 promise of happier things to be. This New Year's 
 morning, a propitious first-footing had been as
 
 64 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 cheering to her as an evening rainbow to the 
 shepherd after a long day's storm. He leaned 
 forward, touching Rob's knee with the tips of his 
 fingers, and spoke in a whisper. 
 
 " It wasna Cripple Kirsty again ? " 
 
 " No," Rob answered smiling; " it wasna her." 
 
 Andrew gave a sigh of relief. That was one 
 grain of comfort, at least. 
 
 "Bode luck?" he proceeded more hopefully. 
 
 " Well, that remains to be seen, Andrew." 
 
 " But ye would ha'e some notion yoursel', surely? 
 Dark or fair ? " 
 
 " Fair ! " 
 
 Andrew turned impatiently in his chair and 
 swore at himself. 
 
 "That's awfu', man," he said; "but surely he 
 cam' wi' fu' hands ? " 
 
 " As toom as hands could be, Andrew." 
 
 " Waur an' waur. But ye'll no tell me that it 
 was a borrower again ? It was surely no so bad 
 as that ? " 
 
 " Ay," Rob answered, with the slightest sus- 
 picion of a smile, " seekin' both meat an' claes." 
 
 Andrew started to his feet, and began pacing 
 up and down the floor, swearing at himself for 
 being so laggard, and angry with his brother.
 
 ROB ALLAN'S FIRST-FOOT. 65 
 
 "Man, Rob," he cried; "I'm vexed for ye, an' 
 yet I wonder at ye. If onybody had come to me 
 like that I wouldna ha'e let them across the door- 
 stap. As sure as death I would ha'e clashed the 
 door i' their face." 
 
 " We've just to tak' thae things as they come, 
 Andrew." 
 
 Rob spoke in such a tone of abject resignation 
 that Andrew felt disappointed, almost disgusted 
 with him. 
 
 " Wha was it ? " he demanded. 
 
 " Weel, she was a friend o' your ain." 
 
 Andrew, stopping suddenly, glared angrily at 
 his brother, and came and sat down again in his 
 chair. 
 
 " She, Rob ? she ? " he echoed. " A woman 
 again ? I wonder at ye, man, after sic a year as 
 ye've ha'en ! What way did ye let her in when 
 ye saw she was a woman ? " 
 
 " I didna say it was a woman. An' ye wouldna 
 ha'e me turn a friend to the door ? " 
 
 " Was ye expectin' her ? " 
 
 " Well, she wasna onexpected, although " 
 
 " What's the use o' makin' a' this mystery 
 about it ? " Andrew cried, losing all patience. 
 " What was her name ? " 
 
 5
 
 66 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " Ah ! but ye have me there, Andrew. I'll no 
 ken that till she's christened. What do you 
 think yoursel' ? " 
 
 Andrew lay back in his chair, and looked blankly 
 amazed. " Ye dinna mean ? " 
 
 " Ay, but that's just what I div mean, Andrew. 
 A quarter past twel' this mornin'. Man, I've 
 heard her bit girnie frae but the house twa or 
 three times since ye cam' in." 
 
 " I daursay I heard it mysel'," Andrew acknow- 
 ledged humbly ; " but I ta'en no thought." 
 
 " Ay, man, Andrew, I wonder at you. It's my 
 turn, ye see." Rob grinned over on the face of his 
 crestfallen brother. 
 
 " An' weel ye may, Rob. I'm gey an' dull 
 i' the uptak'." He drew his pipe from his pocket, 
 and presently there was silence as the two sat 
 smoking. 
 
 After a bit Andrew looked up with an expres- 
 sion of wonder on his solemn face. " Man, I 
 believe she kent, though." 
 
 " She ? Wha ? " 
 
 " The wife." 
 
 Rob took his pipe in his fingers and stared at 
 him. 
 
 " Helen ? " he ejaculated.
 
 ROB ALLAN'S FIRST-FOOT. 67 
 
 " Mary." 
 
 " Oh, that's wha ye mean ? I suppose she 
 would." 
 
 " Ye see, at the door as I was comin' awa' she 
 ga'e me some luck pennies for the bairns, an' as 
 sure as death, she ga'e me seven. I couldna un- 
 derstand it at the time, but I see it now; ay, I see it 
 now." He resumed his smoking, shaking his head 
 reflectively. "It's wonderfu' how she kent ; but 
 she's smart ; ay, she's a clever ane is Mary. Ye 
 wouldna believe it." 
 
 " Ye've gotten a good wife, Andrew," Rob said 
 solemnly ; " an' dinna you forget that. If it hadna 
 been for Helen I dinna ken how we would ha'e 
 warstled through the past year. Mony a man has 
 a good wife an' doesna ken what a blessin' she is 
 till she's awa'." 
 
 " Ay, but I'm proud o' Mary," Andrew assured 
 him ; " proud o' her." 
 
 " Ay, she's ane to be proud o', Andrew. Just to 
 think o' her mindin' the very bairns ! It may look 
 a sma' thing that to ye, but it's no. It shows the 
 heart's i' the right place." 
 
 " I have the pennies i' my pouch the now," 
 Andrew answered, fumbling in his trouser pockets, 
 " Here they are." And he began counting them
 
 68 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 out on the table at his side. " Ane, twa, three, 
 
 fou An' I'm damned if ane o' them's no a 
 
 half-crown ! " 
 
 " Do ye say so ? " Rob cried. " So it is, man." 
 
 The brothers had started to their feet and were 
 bending over the table, gaping at the silver piece ; 
 but it did not change to copper under their gaze. 
 It was all right. There was no doubt about it : it 
 was a half-crown. Andrew turned it over gingerly 
 and was convinced. 
 
 " It'll be a mistak'," Rob suggested. 
 
 " Na," Andrew cried, clapping himself down 
 delightedly in his chair ; " it's her mindfu'ness, an' 
 no mistak' about it. Mary's no the ane to mak' 
 mistak's o' that kind. An', forby, she had them a' 
 lyin' ready in a box on the mantelpiece : she's 
 meant this ane for the youngster, I'll wager. Put 
 them i' your pouch," he graciously advised ; " put 
 them i' your pouch the now, an' they can get them 
 when they wauken i' the mornin'." 
 
 Rob took the money and dropped it piece by 
 piece into a box standing on the mantelpiece. 
 
 "She hasna come toom-handed after a'," Andrew 
 cheerily observed ; "for the half-crown was hers 
 afore she was here." 
 
 " It'll be a foundation for the wee thing,
 
 ROB ALLAN'S FIRST-FOOT. 69 
 
 Andrew, an' she'll ne'er be in want as long as she 
 has it." 
 
 " That's so, Rob. It may help to buy some 
 bits o' duds for her. Ye've seven o' them now, ye 
 ken ; an' it was a sair enough fecht wi' the six." 
 
 " A wee drap mair water i' the kail-pat," Rob 
 grimly rejoined. 
 
 Andrew drained his glass, and sat without 
 speaking for some time. It was easy to guess, 
 however, from the violence of his smoking that he 
 was thinking as hard as he could ; but his pipe 
 was empty before he ventured to give the father 
 the benefit of his cogitations. 
 
 " I've been thinkin' it a' out," he began, knock- 
 ing the ashes from his pipe on his thumb nail, "an' 
 I canna see what way she ought to be an unlucky 
 first-foot. It's an uncommon case, no doubt; just 
 minds me o' what Andrew Allison said at our last 
 society meetin', we've no precedent to gang upon; 
 but for a' that it's maybe the best first-footin' ye 
 ever had. An' she may grow up dark," he hope- 
 fully added ; " ye canna tell." 
 
 " Dark or fair," said Rob seriously, " I'm gaun 
 to tak' her as a good omen. She's come to me on 
 the first mornin' o' a new year an' I'll tak' it as 
 the beginnin' o' a new time. I'll do my best both
 
 70 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 to mak' a good father to her an' a good man to 
 her mother." 
 
 " Ye canna do mair, Rob, though ye canna do 
 better than ye've done afore ; ye was a good 
 
 brother 
 
 " A man can but do his best," Rob interrupted, 
 
 "an' leave the rest " He nodded up to 
 
 the ceiling as a fitting finish to his sentence, 
 adding, as if to take away any imputation of 
 sentiment, "That's po'try, Andrew; but never 
 mind ". 
 
 "That's the way to look at it, Rob; an' when 
 ye see it i' that light she's bound to bring ye good 
 luck." 
 
 And the father's pet name for his daughter, 
 " Little Pearl," which clung to her even when she 
 was a girl at school, seemed to imply that she 
 had brought blessing to the house that rainy New 
 Year's morning. Certainly Helen always looked 
 back on that year as the beginning of a happier 
 time in their married lives. " Rob had aye been 
 a good man, but he had been kindness itsel' since 
 that New Year ; neither a hard word nor a harsh 
 look had she ha'en frae him." But she did not
 
 ROB ALLAN'S FIRST-FOOT. 71 
 
 know of a noble resolution which Rob cherished 
 in his heart as a sacred thing. 
 
 When Andrew got home that morning long 
 after the time he had promised he found his wife 
 sitting sewing. Entering with a look of profound 
 importance on his honest face, he stood in the 
 middle of the floor, and looked at her, feeling 
 that he had wonderful news to communicate. 
 But Mary only looked archly up into his face, 
 and anticipated what he was going to tell her. 
 
 " So ye found a use for the seventh after a'," she 
 said. 
 
 "Ay, Maty," he answered proudly; " for the 
 white one ; an' I had no notion at a'. I couldna 
 faddom what ye meant wi' seven, when I only 
 kent o' six. But I'm blind, Mary, blind." 
 
 " Ay," she said, half smilingly, half serious. 
 
 " What made you think o' it ? " 
 
 Mary rose and began very carefully folding her 
 seam which she hung over her left arm, ere she 
 looked straight into her husband's face, blushing 
 proudly. 
 
 Andrew looked into her eyes, and then at the 
 dress hanging over her arm. It was a baby's long 
 white frock.
 
 72 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Taking a step forward he folded her in his great, 
 strong, awkwardly-tender arms. 
 
 " Mary, my wife !" he gulped. 
 
 She nestled to him and pressed her face to his 
 heart. 
 
 " Andrew ! "
 
 73 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 TAMMY'S REVENGE. 
 
 But when he cam' upon the loon, 
 
 An' saw him so helpless lyin' there, 
 He sheathed his sword, an' bendin' down 
 
 He brushed aside the unkempt hair. 
 "Wha kens but what some lady fair 
 
 Is sighin' an' prayin' wi' every breath 
 That God may in His mercy spare 
 
 The life that I had doomed to death ? " 
 
 Bloodless Ballads. 
 
 IT was a case of shebeening, and Tammy had 
 been convicted. The whole village sympathised 
 with him, and there was not one who had a good 
 word to say of the policeman. " Tammy was sic 
 a qui't inoffensive cr'atur'/' they argued; "an' it 
 \vasna like he had been makin' a livin' out o' it." 
 
 But these were considerations outside the scope 
 of the law, and would have weighed little against 
 the unwilling evidence of friendly witnesses, and 
 the sworn testimony of the policeman. 
 
 " I was never a penny the better o' it," Tammy 
 himself explained to his friends. " Ye a' ken fine 
 that it was just now an' than when I got a chance
 
 74 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 o' some good foreign stuff; an' if ye drappet in 
 when I had it, ye got it at what I paid for 
 it." 
 
 " Ay, that's true, Tammy," they told him ; and 
 Tammy was comforted. He knew how much of 
 sympathy the remark covered. 
 
 What the villagers could not understand at all 
 was the action of the policeman in the matter; 
 for Tammy's occasional importations were an 
 open secret in Barncraig, which they thought the 
 policeman must have known. It was taken for 
 granted that such harmless proceedings would be 
 winked at even by a policeman, and so all along 
 they had placed confidence in Donald Mackay, 
 crediting him not only with personal knowledge, 
 but also with a friendly official ignorance of Tammy's 
 transactions. And now it seemed they had been 
 making a mistake. By his action in the matter he 
 had disabused their minds of the high opinion 
 they had of him as a policeman and of the estima- 
 tion in which they held him as a man. Without 
 warning he had stalked in upon Tammy and a 
 few cronies sampling a gallon of brandy, and cal- 
 culating its cost in gills. It was clearly a case of 
 being caught in the act, and the law had to take 
 its course.
 
 TAMMY'S REVENGE. 75 
 
 But Barncraig did not like to be interfered with 
 in transactions of this kind, and the poor police- 
 man's ears tingled with reproaches. After years 
 of familiarity with most of the inhabitants, and 
 friendship with many of them, he had made a 
 case, and the faces of all were against him. 
 
 " It's extraordinar' how he didna ken," Eben 
 observed when the miners met at the Cox'l to 
 sympathise with Tammy after he had paid his 
 fine. "It was a thing ye couldna mention to him, 
 but fora' that I thought he had a notion." 
 
 " I jaloused as muckle mysel'," Tammy said. 
 " It wasna like he ever refused a glass when it 
 was offered him." 
 
 "Ay, ye're right there, Tammy," Andrew 
 Morrison observed ; "a blue coat an' brass buttons 
 is no gauge o' a man's drouth. P'liceman or no 
 p'liceman, Mackay could toom a glass wi' the best 
 o' us." 
 
 " That mak's the case a' the blacker against 
 him," was Pillan's opinion. Pillan was one of 
 those who h^d been compelled to give evidence 
 which told against Tammy, and he felt particularly 
 sore on that account. " If I could ha'e telled a 
 lie to save ye, Tammy, I would ha'e tried it," he 
 pathetically observed ; "but I couldna; no, man,
 
 76 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 I couldna : they never ga'e me the chance. Ye 
 just bid to answer what they speired." 
 
 Tammy shook his head. " No, no, Pillan, I've 
 no grudge against you. We a' did our best ; an', 
 forby, the fine was paid amon' us." 
 
 "That was but right," Eben asserted. "Ye 
 was a' i' the same boat, an' it was just as it 
 happened that Tammy was the skipper." 
 
 This talk, however, was becoming too serious, 
 and tending to be dolorous, as if they had been 
 discussing a funeral. Tammy felt that he was 
 responsible for the solemnity of the proceedings, 
 and braced himself to bring a cheerier tone into 
 the conversation. 
 
 " Man, I thought I would ha'e gotten aff too," 
 he burst out after a .prolonged silence; "ay, I 
 thought it." 
 
 There was something so unexpected in the 
 admission, and such a feeling of heartiness in the 
 voice coming after their disconsolate utterances 
 and sullen headshakings, that the miners turned 
 to him for explanation. They took their pipes 
 from their lips and looked incredulous. 
 
 "Ay?" they said. 
 
 " It was when he said he would tak' it to 
 Abbyssinny "
 
 TAMMY'S REVENGE. 77 
 
 " Avizandum, avizandum," Eben corrected. 
 
 "I believe ye're right, Eben; but I get wandered 
 wi' thae foreign parts. Howsomever, it's no 
 muckle matter whaur he ta'en it ; for it did me no 
 good." 
 
 "It just means," Eben explained, "that he 
 wanted to think it a' out, an' maybe ha'e a 
 consultation about it." 
 
 " Ay, that's a' it means, Tammy," Morrison 
 agreed. 
 
 " I wouldna wonder," Tammy answered simply. 
 " It was my ain thoughts after, that he'd never 
 ta'en it there ava, but just ha'en a crack wi' 
 the wife about it : they say she wears the 
 breeks." 
 
 Eben's explanation had been lost on Tammy ; 
 and the others, who knew more than he did, let 
 the matter pass. He was a decent chap they 
 knew; and it would have been out of place to 
 laugh at him now. A fine of two pounds and 
 costs was no joking matter, they thought. 
 
 There was little more to be said about the case ; 
 and they smoked away in silence, thinking that 
 when Tammy moved along to the inn they would 
 stand him a glass. They were men of few words, 
 and had no other way of testifying their sympathy.
 
 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 But Pillan, usually the quietest of them all, 
 would not allow the subject to drop. 
 
 " An' what have we come to ? " he impatiently 
 demanded. 
 
 The others looked at him in amazement. What 
 could the stolid one mean ? They had met in full 
 force just to show that they deprecated the action 
 of the policeman, and that their sympathies were 
 all with Tammy. What more was there for them 
 to do? 
 
 " I'm thinkin' we've come to the end o't," Eben 
 replied, trying to be jocular, but not succeeding. 
 The company saw that Pillan was very serious, 
 whatever it might be he had in mind. 
 
 " No, man ; ye're wrang, Eben," he said shortly. 
 " We've maybe gotten to the boddom o' it, but we 
 ha'ena seen the end o' it yet." 
 
 " What do ye mean ? " Morrison asked. 
 
 " I mean this," Pillan burst out savagely, and 
 shaking his fist at an imaginary foe; "what's 
 gaun to happen to that damned policeman ? " 
 
 " Weesht, weesht, man ! " Morrison advised ; 
 " dinna let yoursel' be carried awa' like that, or 
 there's no sayin' whaur ye'll land yoursel'." 
 
 Things were looking more serious than they 
 had anticipated, and several of them gathered
 
 TAMMY'S REVENGE. 79 
 
 round Pillan and tried to reason with him. Eben 
 handed him his mull, remarking that it was " easy 
 enough gettin' into the meshes o' the law, but it 
 was a mighty job to get out again". The only 
 one who did not seem to see the serious turn 
 events might take, was Tammy ; which was re- 
 markable. He was sitting with his hands on his 
 knees, chuckling immoderately and nudging Rennie, 
 who sat beside him, solemn and silent, to join in 
 his enjoyment. The miners, having succeeded in 
 calming Pillan, turned to Tammy. 
 
 " What ails ye ? " they asked. 
 
 " I've been thinkin'," Tammy answered. " I've 
 been thinkin' too." 
 
 This was worse and worse. The very fact that 
 Tammy had been thinking was a startling an- 
 nouncement, and they did not know how to treat 
 it. 
 
 " Come awa' alang an' ha'e a glass," Morrison 
 offered. " Ye're upset the day, Tammy." 
 
 " I'll be even wi' him yet, Andrew," he chuckled. 
 
 " Mercy me ! " Eben ejaculated, losing all his 
 judicial calmness ; "this is waur an' waur. Keep 
 a calm sough, Tammy, or it'll maybe no be a fine 
 next time." 
 
 Visions of Tammy falling foul of the policeman
 
 8o SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 floated through Eben's brain. What would Mackay 
 be in his hands ? They were men about the same 
 size ; but Tammy could take the policeman in his 
 arms as he might a child ; for he was as strong as 
 any man in Barncraig. True, he was a simple- 
 minded, good-natured fellow, but that might be 
 all the worse once he was roused. His mind was 
 too slow to foresee consequences ; and he might, in 
 a moment of excitement, act without calculating 
 the cost. Eben was really alarmed about him. 
 
 But Tammy only laughed at Eben's serious 
 face. " Dinna put yoursel' about, Eben, my man. 
 It'll be a grand joke when ye get it, an' once in 
 your hands we'll never hear the end o' it." 
 
 " Come awa' alang an' ha'e a glass," Morrison 
 repeated, " an' say no mair about it." 
 
 " That's it, Andrew. We'll say nothing about 
 it the now. Good-night, Eben. Ay ay," he 
 chuckled as he sauntered along the street, " I've 
 been thinkin', Andrew ; ay, I've been thinkin' too." 
 The company dispersed, and Eben turned to his 
 door. " It'll be an awfu' job if he lands himsel' 
 in gaol," he muttered ; " but I hope Tammy '11 
 ha'e mair sense." 
 
 For the next few days the miners watched 
 Tammy's movements, wondering how he intended
 
 TAMMY'S REVENGE. 8 1 
 
 to be even with Mackay ; but nothing happened. 
 They were beginning almost to forget about his 
 threat, and some had actually begun nodding 
 to the policeman again as they had been wont. 
 About a week afterwards, however, when they 
 were met in conclave at the Cox'l, Tammy turned 
 up, looking so consequential and bearing himself 
 with such an obviously mysterious air that they 
 turned at once to hear his news. 
 
 " I've been bidin' my time, ye see," he began. 
 
 " Ay, man ? an' are ye gaun to be even wi' him 
 at last ? " Dav Allan asked. 
 
 " Ay, Dav, this very night." 
 
 " No sheddin' o' blood, I hope ? " Eben anxiously 
 inquired. 
 
 " He's no drap's blood to me, Eben," Tammy 
 evasively rejoined. " There was mair loss at 
 Sherrimuir than ye'll see the night." 
 
 " Are we to see it, then ? " Morrison questioned. 
 
 "Of course, Andrew; that's the joke o' it. 
 Ye see," he began to explain, "it's just this. He's 
 a\va' on his rounds the day, ca'in' on the farm 
 houses, an' on a frosty day like this he'll read'lys 
 ha'e a glass or twa just to keep out the cauld. 
 Weel, he aye ca's in by the toll-house about six 
 
 o'clock, ye ken what for ; it's his hin'most ca'." 
 
 6
 
 82 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " I see your dodge, Tammy," said Tyler. 
 
 " Ay, man, div ye ? " he cried delightedly. " It's 
 a braw ane, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Tell us mair about it an' we'll see," Allan 
 answered. . 
 
 " Weel, Dav, I'll be at the toll-house an'a' ; 
 Grant's expectin' me. An' if he tak's ae glass on 
 a night like this, he may tak' twa : the frost's a 
 safe excuse. An' if he tak's twa," he cried 
 triumphantly slapping the breast pocket of his 
 coat, " wha's to hinder him takin' three ? Eh ? 
 An' this is the stuff to tak' the feet frae 
 him." 
 
 " It's rale clever, Tammy," Eben remarked, 
 with the slightest suspicion of a sneer, " if " 
 
 " If what, man ? " 
 
 " If it carries." 
 
 " He'll get mair than he can carry, ony way. 
 Just you be here, an' see me leadin' him hame as 
 fu' as a whelk ; an' ye'll a' come an' gi'e a hand to 
 help a poor p'liceman that's awfu' down on she- 
 beenin'." 
 
 Tammy spoke with the enjoyment of a school- 
 boy out for a holiday. 
 
 " When'll you be back, Tammy ? " 
 
 " Ou, man, I was considerin'. It may be eight,
 
 TAMMY'S REVENGE. 83 
 
 an' it may be nine : ye canna say for certain on a 
 job o' this kind." 
 
 The general sidled up to him affectionately. 
 " I think I'll join ye," he said. 
 
 " Na, na, general ; that'll no do. I maun keep 
 the drink safe." 
 
 The general sat down laughing. " Good drink 
 wasted, Tammy." 
 
 " Weel, I'll awa'," he said ; " mind an' be here to 
 see." And Tammy marched bravely up the road. 
 
 Eben smiled to the company when Tammy had 
 gone. " He has gone on a gowk's errand, I'm 
 doubtin'." 
 
 " Ou, dinna be so sure, Eben," Tyler advised 
 him. " We can wait an' see how the bowls row, 
 as ye say yourseF. If Mackay cames hame fu', no 
 ane o' us'll refuse to gi'e him a helpin' hand ; an' 
 you'll no be the hin'most to tell him about it the 
 morn." 
 
 " Weel, it's cauld wark waitin' here the night," 
 Morrison said. " We can while awa' the time 
 at the dam-brod, an' look back about eight." 
 
 He moved away with Eben as he spoke, and a 
 few more daundered eastwards, for that way lay 
 comfort. 
 
 The toll-house was barely a mile from the Cox'l,
 
 84 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 and Mackay was already there when Tammy 
 entered. Sandy Grant, the tollman, was sitting 
 on one side of the fire and the policeman on the 
 other. On a little round table between them were 
 two tumblers of toddy; and Tammy was quick 
 enough to observe a bottle, pretty full, standing on 
 the floor, where Sandy could just reach it without 
 rising. A significant nod to Sandy conveyed the 
 information that there was a second supply, and no 
 need to be sparing. The bottle was therefore lifted 
 to the table and a tumbler was charged for Tammy. 
 
 "An awfu' case this o' yours has been," Sandy 
 observed by way of opening conversation ; for the 
 policeman was silent and evidently ill at ease. 
 
 " Ay, man, he did me clean this time, Sandy." 
 Mackay fidgeted in his chair. He would rather 
 have been at home than sitting facing Tammy 
 just now; but the fire was delightfully warm and 
 the whisky was good. He thought of the frost out- 
 side and sat still. 
 
 " Man, I couldna help it, Tammy," he apologised; 
 "if ye kent " 
 
 " Hoots, man, hud your tongue about it," 
 Tammy said. " Let bygones be bygones. Ye did 
 no mair than your duty." 
 
 Mackay leaned across the table, stretching out
 
 TAMMY'S REVENGE. 85 
 
 an eager hand. " I'm rale glad to hear ye sayin' 
 that, Tammy. It's mair comfort to me than I can 
 tell ; for I've been takin' this awfu' sair to heart. 
 But if ye kent wha - 
 
 Tammy took the proffered hand and shook it 
 heartily. " Say no mair about it, man : the thing's 
 done and by wi'." 
 
 Sandy rubbed his chin and grinned. "This 
 deserves another dram," he swore. " Drink up an' 
 let me fill again." 
 
 Mackay had had too much already, and knew 
 it too ; but the occasion demanded a sacrifice, 
 and he drowned his scruples. Glasses were 
 replenished, and former friendship pledged and 
 renewed. 
 
 " Nobody '11 ever say that Donald Mackay was 
 a hard man," he tearfully assured them; " an' I'm 
 proud to meet you again, Tammy, ower a tumbler 
 o' toddy." 
 
 He had already reached the egotistical stage of 
 inebriation, and the rest was easy work. Tammy's 
 bottle was produced and sampled. 
 
 " We'll no speir how ye cam' by it," Mackay 
 graciously announced. 
 
 "Never look a gi'en horse i' the mouth," said 
 Sandy ; " tak' a' ye get, an' look for mair; " which
 
 86 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 latter injunction the policeman only too literally 
 obeyed. His glass was filled again and again, but 
 he was too far gone to notice that the filling of 
 other glasses was a mere pretence. 
 
 When at length they rose to go the bottles were 
 empty, Mackay carrying the greater part of their 
 contents. Sandy carefully assisted him outside, 
 but the darkness and the sharp night air only 
 intensified his intoxication. Staggering from the 
 door he lurched heavily against Tammy, who took 
 his arm and tried to lead him homewards. But 
 the case was worse than Tammy had bargained 
 for. 
 
 "I didna expect him to be like this," he muttered 
 disappointedly; "at this rate we'll no get hame 
 the night." 
 
 "I'm bad, Tammy; I'm bad," Mackay 
 mumbled. 
 
 " It's me that kens that ; but ye'll need to be 
 puttin' a stap in. It's gaun for ten o'clock, an' 
 they'll a' be hame. Let me get my arms around 
 your shouthers." 
 
 So they struggled on, but they made slow pro- 
 gress. By the time they had got to the white 
 gates ten o'clock struck, and they were only half 
 way home. In the clear frosty air it rang out
 
 TAMMY'S REVENGE. 87 
 
 across the fields from the town-clock of Santserfs, 
 and Tammy swore. " This is awfu'," he said, 
 "most awfu'." 
 
 But swearing made matters worse ; for he lost 
 his grip of Mackay, who reeled from his side and 
 sat down in the corner between the hedge and the 
 gate. Tammy shoved his cap over his ear and 
 scratched his head, looking down on his victim in 
 disappointment and dismay. 
 
 " It aye tak's the legs frae me," the policeman 
 ruefully exclaimed. 
 
 " Ye very near ta'en them frae me too." 
 
 " But I'm sensible drunk, Tammy. It's just 
 my legs." 
 
 " Ay," said Tammy, " that's the worst o't." 
 
 " Gang awa' hame yoursel', Tammy ; I canna 
 manage another stap." 
 
 " But ye canna sit here a' night. Ye'll 
 wauken up i' the mornin' frozen to death." 
 
 He bent down and shook him, half in pity, half 
 in disappointment ; but Mackay wouldn't budge. 
 Was his grand plan going to fail after all ? He 
 was both annoyed and vexed, angry with himself 
 and disappointed in Mackay. " I didna think it 
 would ha'e ta'en him so quick," he mused ; " but 
 I canna leave him here. Ay, an' they may be
 
 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 waitin' yet," he added, with a touch of hope in his 
 tone ; " some o' them may be waitin' yet ; there's 
 aye a chance." 
 
 A gleam of intelligence blinked in Mackay's 
 bleared eyes. 
 
 " Wha'll be waitin 1 , Tammy ? " 
 
 " They'll a' be waitin 1 , man, at the Cox 1 ! ; an" 1 no 
 to see it after a' ! Man, man ! " 
 
 Mackay made an effort to rise, but failed. 
 " They'll tak' the coat aff my back," he whined, 
 "they'll tak' the coat aff my back ; the Queen's 
 uni form." 
 
 " De'il the fear o' them,"" Tammy answered 
 sturdily. " No ane'll daur touch ye."" 
 
 " I'll loss my place, Tammy ; I'll loss my place." 
 
 Tammy started back as if he had been struck. 
 " Mercy me ! Do you say so ? As sure as death, 
 Donal', I never thought o 1 that ; no me." 
 
 " An' my wife an 1 bairns, Tammy." 
 
 " Ay, five o' them an' a' lassies ! This is awfu', 
 most awfu'." 
 
 "The auldest gaun i' ten, Tammy." 
 
 " What's to be done ; what's to be done ? " 
 Tammy cried almost tearfully. " It's a' my fau't ; 
 but as sure as death, Donal', I never thought o' 
 your wife an' bairns."
 
 TAMMY'S REVENGE. 
 
 Poor Tammy felt himself almost a murderer. 
 He stamped up and down the hard footpath, 
 scratching his head and swearing at his folly. 
 After a time he became calmer and stood still. A 
 bright idea had struck him. " I have it," he 
 cried ; " I have it now." 
 
 Bending down over the half-sleeping figure, he 
 began unfastening his tunic. " I'll tak' the coat 
 aff his back mysel'," he chuckled. " We're both 
 about the same build, an' it's ower dark for folk to 
 see.'' 
 
 Mackay was past resistance of any kind, and 
 after a pretty severe handling he was divested of 
 his tunic and dressed in Tammy's coat. Then 
 caps were exchanged, and lastly Tammy buttoned 
 himself up in the policeman's tunic. 
 
 " It's a good thing I've on my blue breeks," he 
 reflected. "A drunk man's a dead weight; but I'll 
 manage." 
 
 The most difficult part of the business was to 
 get Mackay lifted over his shoulders, but it was 
 effected in the end, and they were ready for the 
 road. 
 
 " Now, if ye're sensible drunk, as you say, hud 
 on ; keep your arms about my neck, but dinna 
 choke me."
 
 90 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Such was his advice to the policeman ; and 
 down the road he trudged, not thinking now of 
 revenge, but only of the wife and bairns. 
 
 At the Cox'l most of the miners had waited till 
 they were tired, and then gone home. Pillan and 
 Morrison alone remained, determined to see the 
 end of the adventure ; but they had dropped into 
 Eben's, whence one or other made an occasional 
 excursion to see if there were any signs of Tammy. 
 About eleven o'clock, Pillan having gone out 
 returned almost immediately, shaking with ex- 
 citement. " Come awa', come awa'," he cried, 
 "this is deplorable. Here's the p'liceman carryin' 
 Tammy hame on his back, dead drunk." 
 
 Morrison and Eben threw down the " dam-brod " 
 and were out at once. The three of them followed 
 Tammy and Mackay along the street ; but before 
 they could overtake them, Tammy had got safely 
 home, and his door was locked. 
 
 Andrew tried the door, but an angry voice 
 warned them " that it was time they were awa' 
 hame to their beds ". 
 
 " An' this is the end o' it ? " Pillan ruefully 
 asked, " after a' his bouncin' ! But Tammy has a 
 head like a hen ; a muckle saft-hearted sumph. 
 I'm thinkin' it's the p'liceman that's even wi' him
 
 TAMMY'S REVENGE. 91 
 
 now. If he did Tammy a bad turn, he's done him 
 a good ane to mak' up for it. Come awa' hame, 
 Andrew. Good-night, Eben." 
 
 Eben himself did not immediately turn home- 
 wards. Waiting till they were out of sight, he 
 slipped down the close and round to the back of 
 the house. As he had expected, the blind was not 
 drawn, and the room was lit up. Pressing his 
 face against a pane he saw a strange sight. There 
 was Tammy sitting by the fire dressed in the 
 policeman's tunic, and mopping his reeking fore- 
 head. On the floor lay Mackay in Tammy's coat, 
 dead drunk. 
 
 Eben's curiosity overcame him. He must 
 know the end of this, and he rapped gently on 
 the pane. In a second Tammy had flung up the 
 window, and gripped Eben by the coat-collar. 
 
 " It's you, Eben," he whispered ; " I thought as 
 muckle. But ye dinna get out o' here till ye 
 promise : no a word o' this, mind ye." 
 
 " I promise, Tammy; I promise," Eben gasped, 
 half choked. 
 
 " That's ri^ht, man,'' Tammy answered, some- 
 what mollified. " It's for the wife an' bairns, 
 Eben ; five o' them, an' a' bits o' lassies, the 
 auldest only gaun i' ten."
 
 92 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " I'll no say a word about it, Tammy." 
 
 " Awa' hame then ! " The window slammed 
 down, and the blind was drawn. 
 
 Next day, in the pit, Pillan spoke out his mind 
 to Tammy. " Yon was an awful state to get into, 
 man. A' the toun'll hear about it, an' ye'll just 
 be a laughin'-stock." 
 
 " Ay," Tammy answered meekly ; " I'll just ha'e 
 to thole it. We a' have our failin's, Pillan." 
 
 But after Pillan was gone he " nichered " to 
 himself as he lay at work. " But I ta'en the coat 
 aff his back mysel'," he said ; " an' I was even wi' 
 him after a'."
 
 93 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 THE RETURN OF BIG WULL. 
 
 " Tell us what ye ken, no what you think." 
 
 Quo' Rob : " I've travelled near an' faur ; 
 An' though I've kent the curse o' drink, 
 
 The curse o' love is ten times waur. 
 Yea, an' a man's the slave o' both 
 
 He kneels no mair to cross or cowl ; 
 Red wat wi' blood he'll dance to death : 
 
 An' God ha'e mercy on his soul." 
 
 Bloodless Ballads. 
 
 IT was true they had been sweethearts before he 
 sailed for Australia : but that was an accident of 
 the past, with which the sensible folks of Barn- 
 craig would never have dreamed of taunting her. 
 They had no sentimental notions about constancy 
 in love, and respected it only so long as it was the 
 constancy of two. Even the devotion of a wife to 
 a husband who was unworthy of it, they could 
 only regard as pathetically beautiful. It was like 
 the song of a caged lark, from its withered sod 
 making an illusion of broad green fields, and 
 warbling of the ecstasy of love. 
 
 But in courtship the case was different. If a
 
 94 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 lover proved inconstant, devotion to him was no 
 longer a duty, and constancy became hardly a 
 virtue. It was a weakness, or an affectation, which 
 was worse ; and Barncraig had no sympathy to 
 waste on that sort of thing. 
 
 "When ye neither hear guff nor sty o' a sweet- 
 heart for years," Girzie Bell reasoned to a gather- 
 ing in the store, " an' he doesna think it worth his 
 while to put pen to paper, ye canna be blamed for 
 takin' up wi' another." 
 
 Mag Aird thought that " if she was weel rid o' 
 the first she might ha'e steered clear o' a second". 
 
 But the others were not of Mag's opinion. 
 They were simple folks, and believed in marriage. 
 Probably they also felt that on such a subject a 
 grass-widow might be prejudiced. Be that as it 
 may, they did not approve Mag's sentiment, though 
 they did not contradict it. Contradiction would 
 have given a personal edge to a question which 
 they were rounding into a general truth. True, 
 it was the particular case of Christina Fairley 
 which had given rise to the talk ; but Girzie had 
 placed the issue on broad lines, so that, as Ann 
 Reid phrased it, " it ta'en in mair than Teen ". 
 And to more than one for various reasons this 
 was very soothing.
 
 THE RETURN OF BIG WULL. 95 
 
 Girzie had expressed the general feeling of the 
 village. No one blamed Teen Fairley for taking 
 up with another, especially as that other was 
 Peter Grey. Peter was a favourite in Barncraig, 
 and nobody would ever have dreamed of saying 
 that of Wull Mitchell. 
 
 " She may count hersel' weel rid o' him," was 
 Dav Allan's comment at the Cox'l. " Big Wull 
 had little to recommend him in ony lassie's e'en." 
 
 " Man, there's no accountin' for tastes," Eben 
 moralised ; " an' folk canna explain likes an' 
 dislikes.'' 
 
 " Nobcdy can if Eben canna," Pillan remarked 
 in an expressionless aside ; " onless it be Mag." 
 
 He spoke with his usual stolidity, and no one 
 would have accused him of being sarcastic. 
 
 " Pillan's compliments," Willie Tyler explained 
 to Eben in a whisper," " is a' car-pawed. Like 
 Andrew Cook's quoits, ye canna tell how they're 
 gaun to come, an' ye're safest to jink them." 
 
 If Eben thought the compliment maladroit, he 
 felt that the explanation did not improve it ; and 
 the subject was changed. Besides, although 
 possessed of a temporary interest, it was not for 
 discussion at the Cox'l. Love matters were good 
 enough for Haw Head or the store, but here they
 
 g6 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 had other affairs to settle. Probably it would not 
 have been mentioned at all, had it not happened 
 just when Peter Grey and Teen Fairley were begin- 
 ning to be recognised as sweethearts, that Wull 
 Mitchell returned to Barncraig. He had left the 
 village quite suddenly a little more than four years 
 ago, and now he had come back as unexpectedly 
 as he had gone. That was the circumstance 
 which gave a touch of romance to this love 
 episode, and roused the villagers to interest in its 
 issue. Peter Grey and Teen Fairley might have 
 passed through courtship to marriage and settled 
 down quietly as husband and wife, without causing 
 any exceptional flutter of excitement in the breasts 
 of their virtuous neighbours. But, without warn- 
 ing given, Wull Mitchell had again appeared on 
 the scene, and the times were become critical. 
 
 Here was a complication which curiosity could 
 revel in, and the thoughts of the villagers turned 
 to it almost instinctively. It was not a matter 
 that needed the persuasive tongue of a provocateur. 
 The morning after Wull Mitchell's home-coming 
 the women mustered in full force in the store, and 
 talked of Peter Grey and Teen Fairley. No one 
 asked why : it seemed only natural that they 
 should do so. The same names were heard again
 
 THE RETURN OF BIG WULL. 97 
 
 at Haw Head in the afternoon. Whispered con- 
 fidences were exchanged. But the miners, more 
 cautious than their wives, did not venture to 
 prophesy : in the meantime they were content 
 with conjecture. Would Teen cling to the new 
 love, or hark back to the old ? Perhaps Wull had 
 " lost taste o' Teen," and didn't want her. If he 
 wished to make it up again, what would Peter do ? 
 How would it all end ? " Love is no plain sailin' 
 at ony time," the general remarked; "an' there's 
 both head winds an' cross currents in this case. 
 It's hard to say." 
 
 The miners shook their heads and kept their 
 thoughts to themselves. "Time '11 tell," they said. 
 It was a safe admission, and, uttered oracularly, 
 implied that they could say more if they wished. 
 They had great faith in time, and took life 
 leisurely. 
 
 Wull Mitchell did not let them wait long in 
 speculation as to his intentions. The first call he 
 made after his return was on his old sweetheart ; 
 and as Wull was known to be of a morose and re- 
 served nature, it could not be imagined that the 
 visit was without motive. Indeed, visiting in 
 general was only a thing of set purpose, and was 
 almost invariably by appointment ; for the village 
 
 7
 
 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 rendezvous rendered casual calls superfluous. Only 
 business and personal matters were discussed 
 indoors ; and when it was an affair of momentous 
 importance it was carried ben the house and 
 debated in camera. Now, when Wull Mitchell 
 called that night on Teen Fairley the light in the 
 " room " window proclaimed the seriousness and 
 secrecy of the interview, and Barncraig estimated 
 its importance accordingly. But what transpired, 
 Teen never told ; and everybod}' knew better than 
 to question Wull. He was a sullen-tempered 
 individual, moody, and uncommunicative, and, 
 whatever his feelings might be, his face remained 
 inscrutable. 
 
 Even in his school days he had been "queer" ; 
 and his companions, though they did not under- 
 stand him nor love him, feared him. He was dour 
 and dogged, defiant of authority and careless of 
 consequence. If the boys wanted a sail it was 
 Wull who stole the boat. What though the en- 
 raged pilot waited on the pier for their return 
 and flung Wull into the water for it ? That was 
 nothing to Wull. He paddled ashore, and then 
 turned and glared with set teeth and sulky brows 
 on the old man ; "just like the girn o' a whittret," 
 Sandy said ; " a look to gar your flesh creep ". The
 
 THE RETURN OF BIG WULL. 99 
 
 very superstitions of the village he had set at 
 naught ; and when there were nests to harry Wull 
 was ruthless. The nest of the robin or the lark 
 was no more sacred to him than the nests of the 
 mavis and starling. 
 
 " Curse the woman or the man 
 That harries the robin or the wran," 
 
 Rob Reid had once quoted to him on the dis- 
 covery of a robin's nest. Wull wrenched the nest 
 out, and emptying the eggs on the ground crunched 
 them under his foot. That was all his answer, 
 and Rob was more than satisfied. 
 
 Such as he was when a boy, he was when he 
 had long left school and was working for himself. 
 No danger seemed to have terrors for him. He 
 would go off in his skiff in storms that the pilot 
 was afraid to brave in his heavy winter boat. More 
 than once he had risked his life to rescue others 
 from drowning; and when the Juno ran ashore it 
 was Big Wull who swam out to it and brought 
 back the rope by which the crew was saved. All 
 this was well enough known in Barncraig, but it 
 gave him no claim on the affection of the villagers. 
 His bravery they admitted : " he seemed to value 
 life lightly," they said. 
 
 Possibly it was this dare-devil spirit that had
 
 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 recommended him in the eyes of Teen Fairley ; for 
 Teen was imaginative and regarded him as a hero. 
 They had been in the same class at school, and, 
 growing up as next-door neighbours, had drifted 
 into love. Then without a word of explanation, 
 Wull had told her one night that he was going to 
 Australia, and next morning he had left the village. 
 His sudden departure caused some talk, but not 
 much. " It was just like Big Wull : he was aye 
 queer." All that was known was that he had 
 worked his passage out, and that he was bound 
 for the diggings. 
 
 " I believe he's been thinkin' it a' out this while 
 back," was Dav Allan's opinion ; " but ye can never 
 get to the boddom o' Big Wull. He was aye 
 close, even in drink." 
 
 In a way his absence was felt as a relief, and 
 gradually the village began to forget him. Teen 
 Fairley had remained faithful for a time ; but as 
 years passed and no letter came, she saw that her 
 faith was little better than folly, and was angry 
 with herself for clinging to his memory. By and 
 by Peter Grey had begun to call, and she had 
 taken pleasure in his visits. 
 
 Physically, Peter was not a strong man. He 
 had been hurt in the pit some years before, and
 
 THE RETURN OF BIG WULL. IOJ 
 
 was now the colliery store keeper. The pay was 
 small but it was certain, and Peter was steady. 
 "A lass might do waur than tak' up wi' Peter 
 Grey," Teen's mother told her; which meant that 
 one could not do much better. Teen herself 
 respected Peter and grew to love him ; he was so 
 kind-hearted and considerate of others, saying an 
 ill word of nobody; and they became engaged. 
 But just as everything seemed whispering of 
 happiness, Wull Mitchell came home. 
 
 He marched into his father's house with the 
 indifference of one who had just returned from a 
 stroll. 
 
 " I've gotten back again, ye see," he said. His 
 father took his pipe from his lips, and looked him 
 up and down, but did not offer to rise or shake 
 hands : he was not going to give way to weakness. 
 " Is that you, Wull? " was all his greeting. 
 
 " Ay, it's me ; turned up again." 
 
 " Imphm ! Like the bad penny. Sit down." 
 
 Wull drew in a chair and filled his pipe, and 
 the two sat and smoked till it was time to go to 
 bed. 
 
 Wull had been a day or two at home, and the 
 miners did not know what to make of him. He 
 appeared to be more morose than they had known
 
 102 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 him before, and associated with them as little as 
 possible. His skiff was still to the fore, and 
 when he was not off fishing he was at the inn. 
 Evidently his one visit to his old sweetheart had 
 been enough for him, and he had not repeated it. 
 
 The women discussed him in the store, and the 
 miners discussed him at Haw Head and at the 
 Cox'l ; but he was a riddle to them all. There 
 was a mystery about him which they could not get 
 beyond. 
 
 "He's flush enough o' siller," Willie Tyler 
 averred ; " but how he cam' by it, it's hard to say." 
 
 "Ay, man," Eben queried, "have ye ony no- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " He looks like one that had something on his 
 conscience," Andrew Morrison struck in ; " an' he'll 
 no say a word about the diggin's." 
 
 "If a' stories be true," Dav Allan observed in a 
 whisper, " they're ungodly places, an' godless folk." 
 
 " I tried to ha'e a crack wi' him about them last 
 night," Tyler resumed ; " but he drew his brows 
 thegether and turned awa'. Ye ken Wall's way 
 when he doesna want to speak about onything. I 
 didna like the look in his e'en." 
 
 " They say he's drinkin' heavy ? " Eben observed 
 in a questioning way.
 
 THE RETURN OF BIG WULL. 103 
 
 " Ay, he's drinkin' sair an' never gettin' drunk : 
 there's something on his mind." 
 
 " Man," Eben began, " I've read some awfu' 
 stories about bushrangers " 
 
 " Imphm ! " Dav Allan nodded warningly to 
 Eben. " Stories is raised out o' very little," he 
 said; "the least said the soonest mended." 
 
 Eben took the hint, and kept quiet. 
 
 " It's possible Teen Fairley has sent him about 
 his business," Tam Aird suggested ; " an' he's 
 hatchin' some scheme in his head. He was aye 
 a vindictive chap, ye ken." 
 
 " If so be that's the case," Eben remarked, 
 " Big Wall's a man to bide his time." 
 
 "She's as well rid o' him, as I've said already," 
 Willie Tyler burst in ; " Peter Grey's a douce lad, 
 an' will mak' her a good man." 
 
 So the town kept talking ; but Wull Mitchell did 
 not hear what was hinted, and would not have 
 cared though he had heard. They had nothing 
 definite to urge against him save that he was 
 drinking heavily. But Wull, when his father 
 spoke to him on this point, explained that he was 
 only taking a short holiday before settling down 
 seriously to work. " I've a wheen bawbees," he 
 said, "that I thought I'd ha'en another use for;
 
 104 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 but what's the good o' siller if ye dinna spend 
 it?" 
 
 " Put it i' the savin's bank," his father advised. 
 
 Wull laughed ; a short, hard, mirthless laugh it 
 was. " Would the funeral society no be better? " 
 
 His father did not like levity on such a subject 
 and let him alone. " He'll settle down in a week or 
 so," he muttered to himself; "young chaps '11 ha'e 
 their fling." 
 
 Wull had never made many friends in the 
 village, and he did not seem eager to make them 
 now. The only man he tried to attach himself to 
 was Peter Grey; and the villagers noted this with 
 approval. He called and chatted with Peter at 
 the colliery store, and in the evenings he was 
 often seen with him at the Hine ; but he could 
 not persuade Peter to enter the inn. Peter was a 
 sober fellow, and just now he was saving every 
 penny he could. 
 
 " It's a good thing to see them so friendly," the 
 neighbours remarked ; " but of course Wull 
 couldna expect to get Teen after bidin' awa' so 
 lang." 
 
 In little more than a week after his return 
 people had almost ceased to talk about Big Wull.
 
 THE RETURN OF BIG WULL. 105 
 
 The excitement caused by his arrival had subsided, 
 and the village fell back into its usual placidity. 
 
 He was still drinking, even more heavily than 
 at first ; but he was never drunk, and never 
 obstreperous, and consequently there was little 
 to complain about. " It's no like he was makin' 
 himsel' a nuisance," they charitably argued; "an' 
 he'll settle down to work when his money's done." 
 
 On the second Saturday after his return he 
 appeared at the inn early in the forenoon. It was 
 a day beautiful enough to tempt any one into the 
 open air ; but Wull sat in the back room, smoking 
 and drinking. Allan tried once or twice to draw 
 him into conversation, but was answered so 
 gruffly that he desisted. "A' I could do," he 
 afterwards explained, "was to answer when he 
 ca'd, and keep plyin' him wi' drink. I couldna 
 refuse ; for he rose as sober as he sat down. But 
 he drank an' awfu' drink ; mair than ever he drank 
 afore, an' tabled his money reg'lar afore he ga'e 
 an order." 
 
 It was about three o'clock before he left, and 
 he walked away with a firm and steady step ; no 
 one could have guessed from his gait that he had 
 been drinking so heavily. But there was the 
 same look in his eyes, and his teeth were set in
 
 io6 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 the same weasel-like way as Sandy Fernie had 
 so often noticed when Wull was a boy. His 
 hands were clenched, and there was an expression 
 of purpose and determination in his whole bearing. 
 He passed Tam Aird and Geordy Marshall in the 
 Windy Wynd, but did not appear to notice them. 
 Tam turned and watched him going down the 
 steps and making straight for the Hine. 
 
 " Wull has no little in him the day," he said. 
 " Gin he gang on at this rate he'll be i' the blues 
 ere lang." 
 
 " D'ye think so?" Geordy asked. "He's walkin' 
 as straight as a rush." 
 
 Tam merely shook his head by way of answer. 
 He knew better. 
 
 Sandy Briggs and Peter Grey were seated on 
 the End Rock, meditatively smoking when Wull 
 came forward and began unfastening the painter 
 of his skiff. 
 
 " Gaun aff, Wull ? " Sandy asked. 
 
 "Ay!" 
 
 " I'll gi'e ye a shove aff wi' her," Peter 
 offered. 
 
 Wull looked at him and smiled contemptuously. 
 " Man, I could lift her down i' my arms an' you 
 inside o' her." He pushed the boat before him as
 
 THE RETURN OF BIG WULL. 107 
 
 easily as if it had been a toy, bringing it into deep 
 water under the End Rock. 
 
 "Jump in, Peter," he ordered, taking the oars, 
 "an' I'll gi'e you a sail." 
 
 Peter hesitated. " It's wearin' on for tea-time, 
 man," he reasoned. 
 
 "Jump in," Wull repeated. " I'm in fettle for a 
 row wi' you." There was a vicious look in his 
 eyes as he spoke ; but Peter did not notice it, and 
 he was unconscious of any double meaning in the 
 words. He climbed down and took the stern seat, 
 and with a few vigorous strokes the skiff was 
 cutting the water outside the Hine. 
 
 Wull was known to be a powerful oarsman, and 
 to-day he seemed to be putting double strength 
 into his work. The long ash oars bent with the 
 strain, and the skiff kept bounding forward as if 
 it were being lifted right out of the water at every 
 stroke. 
 
 "Ye're makin' her fly," Peter observed, trying to 
 open conversation with a compliment ; but Wull 
 did not answer. He did not even seem to hear. 
 His brows were drawn together, and the veins in 
 his forehead stood out like cords. But his face, 
 instead of being flushed with the exertion, was 
 becoming gradually livid. Peter began to feel
 
 io8 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 uneasy ; and, concluding that Wull was not quite 
 sober, thought it best to keep quiet and humour 
 him. 
 
 For a quarter of an hour or so Wull kept the 
 skiff tearing through the water, and then suddenly 
 stopped. With a dexterous movement he lifted 
 the oars over the thole-pins, and letting them go, 
 the blades were swirled into the sides of the boat ; 
 and in a second, ere it had lost the momentum of 
 the last stroke, were floating away in its wake. 
 
 Peter started as if from a dream, and looked 
 with dismay on the face of his companion. He 
 was sitting with his elbows on his knees and his 
 chin pressed forward between his clenched fists, 
 girning weasel-like on Peter's distress. 
 
 " Ye've ye've lost the oars, Wull," Peter 
 stammered. 
 
 " The tide's makin' ; they'll soon win ashore." 
 
 " But, Wull, Wull, how are we to get ashore ? " 
 The pleading in the tone, as if it were an appeal to 
 an unreasoning child, was not lost on Wull. He 
 appreciated it, and grunted the enjoyment. 
 
 " That's a question for the cod, Peter," he 
 answered. " Maybe they'll direct ye when ye get 
 down." 
 
 Peter looked on him, struck helpless with a
 
 THE RETURN OF BIG WULL. 109 
 
 great fear. He was in the power of a madman, 
 and face to face with death. Now that he saw 
 Wull's eyes, they were blazing and bloodshot; and, 
 whether with drink or the passion of vindictiveness 
 or both, the face was not the face of a human 
 being. He was sitting with his eyes fixed on 
 Peter, gloating over his agony and glorying in his 
 own power to cause it. 
 
 " It's sweeter than I thought," he gurgled. 
 
 " But but what have I done, Wull ? " 
 
 "Done?" he echoed. "D'ye need to speir? 
 But dinna bother yoursel' about what ye've done : 
 it's what ye're gaun to do the now. Fifteen fad- 
 dom, Peter, an' we'll gang down thegether." 
 
 There was silence for a time. Death would 
 come soon enough, and a little preliminary torture 
 would intensify the tragedy. 
 
 " Little did ye ken o' wha's arms ye were comin' 
 to, Peter ; but I've a pair that'll hud ye closer than 
 Teen's, an' we'll gang down thegether; ay, down 
 thegether. But ye'd as lief say your prayers now : 
 ye was aye to the fore at auld wives' meetin's." 
 
 " I see a crowd on the End Rock yonder," he 
 continued, "an' we'll need to be beginnin'. They've 
 seen us driftin', an' guessed that Big Wull was up 
 to some mischief. But dinna put yoursel' about,
 
 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Peter ; we'll no drift muckle langer. I've been 
 driftin' into this for a week an' mair." 
 
 " Hud your tongue, man!" Peter burst out with 
 sudden energy. " I'd sooner face death than hear 
 you mockin' at it." 
 
 " Hud my tongue ? Ay, that's what Teen telled 
 me. For you ? A stiff-legged beggar like you, that 
 I could break across my knee ! An-' you're worth 
 half a dozen o' me ? Me that's been toilin' an' 
 slavin' for her for years ! What way did I no 
 write ? What have I to do wi' pen an' ink ? I 
 leave a' that for the like o' you. I telled her I 
 would come back." 
 
 " Do what ye've come to do an' hud your tongue," 
 Peter again cried. 
 
 Wull girned at him. " Ay, man, if you're so 
 brave pu' the cork out o' the plug hole. No ? I 
 thought as muckle. I'll need to do it mysel', 
 then ; for vender's a boat comin' aff." 
 
 He was reaching forward to raise the foot-board, 
 but, before he was aware, Peter, with the desperate 
 courage of a doomed man, had sprung at his throat, 
 and he went down like a shot, Peter glaring above 
 him. With his right hand he had caught the 
 band of Wull's shirt, and the knuckles were press- 
 ing against his windpipe. It was now a struggle
 
 THE RETURN OF BIG WULL. in 
 
 to the death : on the one hand the courage of de- 
 spair, and on the other the utter recklessness of 
 a devil and drink. There could be little doubt as 
 to how it would end, for Peter was as a pigmy in 
 the hands of a giant. But Wull's head had struck 
 against a chain as he fell, and for a moment he 
 was stunned : and Peter was above him, his hand 
 at his throat and his knee on his chest. There 
 they lay for a moment glaring at each other, the 
 face of the one distorted till it seemed the face of 
 a fiend, and the face of the other wild with the 
 fierceness of an animal at bay. 
 
 But Wull's arms were free. He threw them 
 round his assailant's body, grasping him like a vice, 
 and tried to pull himself to the top. The skiff 
 rolled and pitched, but Peter kept his hold. 
 
 " D'ye want me to break your back ? " Wull 
 hissed. " There ! " 
 
 The two bodies, still locked together, rose and 
 flung themselves against the gunwale ; the skiff 
 plunged wildly to the side, and, next second, it 
 was bobbing and dancing with its keel in the air, 
 and the two combatants were separated in the 
 water. 
 
 Peter was the first to come to the surface. The 
 sudden plunge close to the prow of the boat had
 
 U2 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 swung it round, and now it was lying between 
 them. As he caught hold of the keel close to the 
 stern, he saw his opponent rising at the bow on 
 the other side, and what a face it was he saw ! 
 
 His black hair hung in matted strings over a 
 forehead streaming with blood, and streaks of 
 blood were coursing down his livid cheeks and 
 losing themselves in his beard. Catching hold of 
 the keel with his right hand, he drew his left over 
 his face to push his hair back from his brow, and, 
 as he did so, showed one eye literally hanging 
 from its socket. The other seemed to have gained 
 in intensity. 
 
 " Damn you ! " he hissed. " I'll sink ye yet." 
 Seizing the keel with both hands he tried to 
 drag himself along to the stern. It was slow work, 
 and his strength was going fast ; but the sight 
 of the boat bearing down upon them seemed to 
 keep him up. If he could only manage to struggle 
 round to Peter, the day was his ; for Peter was too 
 far gone for resistance, and could scarcely retain 
 his hold. But the boat was almost on them, and 
 he had only reached the middle of the keel. 
 Holding again with his left hand, he reached 
 down with his right and unfastened his belt. It 
 was of heavy leather, ending in a gigantic steel
 
 THE RETURN OF BIG WULL. 113 
 
 clasp. But his strength was almost gone, and 
 his aim was bad. It fell harmlessly across the 
 keel, almost a foot from Peter's hand. There 
 was the rattle of money, and a stream of gold 
 rolled down the side of the skiff and into the 
 water. 
 
 " Hold on, Peter! " came from the approaching 
 boat ; " half a minute." 
 
 " Hell ! " Wull cried. He fixed his eye on 
 Peter, hanging more dead than alive, and showed 
 his teeth. " A curse on you an' her." 
 
 When Peter was hauled on board the boat, 
 Big Wull was gone. 
 
 There were not many to mourn his loss; and the 
 villagers, who do not like to say ill of the dead, 
 spoke of him in whispers. 
 
 " Ay," said Andrew Morrison to an inquisitive 
 stranger, " Big Wull was a strong man ; a man 
 that could look death i' the face without flinchin', 
 an' a grand swoomer. Ay, as you say, it's onac- 
 countable how he was drowned him that saved 
 so mony."
 
 114 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM. 
 
 When he opened the door, the goodman swore, 
 " My faith, but the siller for shortbread's rife. 
 The cost o' the bread they bra'k ower your head 
 Might weel ha'e paid for my creelin', goodwife." 
 
 Watty's Waddin'. 
 
 BETTY WALLACE entered the store with an ex- 
 pression of incredulity on her homely face. 
 
 "That beats a'!" was her exclamation. She 
 looked round the neighbours assembled and paused 
 in the doorway where she could command the at- 
 tention of all. 
 
 " It's Black Tarn," she explained to the faces im- 
 mediately turned towards her in open-mouthed 
 expectancy. " Black Tarn speakin' to the minis- 
 ter !" 
 
 "What?" The word was snapped out like a 
 shot, and the heads jerked back with the recoil. 
 Then almost simultaneously they bent forward 
 again, and apologetically it seemed whispered, 
 "Whaur?"
 
 THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM. 115 
 
 "As sure as I live; standin' at the head o' the 
 Windy Wynd," Betty assured them, answering 
 their incredulity and their question in a 
 breath. 
 
 A few of them moved to the door and looked 
 along the street. 
 
 " It's quite true," Isa Marshall blankly admitted. 
 
 " I wonder what the minister has to say to him," 
 was Mag Aird's question, addressed more to her- 
 self than to the others. She was righteously in- 
 dignant that the minister should be seen in such 
 company, and in the broad daylight too. There 
 was something about the minister that jarred on 
 Mag's susceptibilities. He did not keep himself 
 spotless from the world, nor sufficiently aloof from 
 the contact of sinners. His duty, as she conceived 
 it, was to minister to respectable widows, grass- 
 widows, and orphans of reputable parentage. 
 But there was a want of discrimination in his 
 ministry, especially in his charity, wherein she ex- 
 pected him to discriminate with austerity ; and 
 now, here he was actually talking with Black Tarn, 
 " a daidlin' body that hadna darkened the kirk door 
 for years". Mag was indignant. 
 
 " Hoots, Mag ! " May Morrison objected in a 
 bantering tone. " You're surely no gaun to find
 
 Il6 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 fau't wi' him for that ? He's maybe tryin' to con- 
 vert him, for a' ye ken." 
 
 Mag looked horrified. " Black Tarn ? Black 
 Tarn's a born blackguard." 
 
 If there was one article of the creed she stuck 
 to it was the doctrine of election ; and she had a 
 hopeful trust in its thoroughness. " A fine place 
 heaven would be," she thought, " if the like o' him 
 was to get in ! They might as well open its 
 doors to Eben at once." 
 
 The others were not so severe on Tam as Mag 
 was, probably because they were not very sound 
 on election. The minister did not thunder it at 
 them from the pulpit ; and indeed the sulphur glow 
 was mostly wanting in his eloquence. It was a 
 laxity Mag alone bemoaned. They turned into the 
 store again wondering, Mag scowling. " He should 
 be spoken to about this," she said. 
 
 " Black Tarn's been behavin' oncommonly weel 
 since his granny's death," old Girzie told her 
 somewhat indignantly : as if works had anything 
 to do with election ! 
 
 Mag smiled at her ignorance, but the others 
 were as unsound as Girzie ; for they took her side. 
 Even Jess Black put in a word for him. 
 
 " He's been as weel behaved this while back as 
 ony man i' the toun," she cried.
 
 THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM. 117 
 
 "He's a c'ushin o' yours." Mag was charitable, 
 and spoke with unction. 
 
 "A second c'ushin, if it so please ye, Mag; an' 
 a friend o' Eben's, whether it please ye or 
 no." 
 
 The women smiled at this thrust ; for Mag was 
 not a favourite; but Mag only sniffed, accepting 
 the charge as additional evidence against Tarn. 
 
 " I'm thinkin' the toun's been ower hard on 
 him," was Grace Reid's opinion. The others 
 were astonished at Grace's advocacy ; for had not 
 her daughter reluctantly thrown over Tarn some 
 years ago, on account of his weakness for whisky ? 
 She was the last person in Barncraig from whom 
 they would have expected a good word for Tarn ; 
 and the mystery deepened. 
 
 " I hear he's ta'en a sittin' i' the kirk," she 
 hastened to add before they could question further. 
 
 " Number fifty-three," Jess volunteered at once ; 
 and she knew nothing about it. 
 
 But, true or untrue, it annihilated Mag. She 
 gave a scared look at Jess's malicious grin and 
 walked away. " He'll no sit i' the same seat wi' 
 me," she vowed. 
 
 But Jess laughed loudly when she was gone. 
 " I thought I'd frighten her a bit," she explained.
 
 Il8 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " I ken no mair about it than the man i' the 
 moon." 
 
 " It's maybe what the minister an' him was 
 crackin' about," Girzie surmised; and conjecture 
 began again. 
 
 There had been a good deal of talk about Black 
 Tam since his grandmother's death ; for he 
 seemed to have taken the event very much to 
 heart. He was decidedly in low spirits, and his 
 friends were trying their best to comfort him. 
 When he appeared at the Cox'l after tea, the 
 miners gave him a nod and passed a remark on 
 the weather. Room was found for him on the 
 seat, and then they smoked in silence. It was 
 natural that he should feel the loss of his grand- 
 mother, they mused ; "for she'd been a' the mother 
 he'd ever kent ; an' brought him up frae he was a 
 bairn ". But the voluble sympathy of the women, 
 and the little attentions of the men, made no im- 
 pression on Tam. He was not the man he used 
 to be, though that was not altogether to be de- 
 plored. His old reckless gaiety was gone, and his 
 pawky stories, over which the men had been wont 
 to chuckle, deprecatingly at times, were gone out 
 of use. It was not that their silent sympathy 
 was too undemonstrative for Tam to see it. He
 
 THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM. 119 
 
 was quick to appreciate their kindness, and ac- 
 knowledged it gratefully. But he seemed to be 
 " takin' the loss sairer to he'rt than there was ony 
 occasion for " ; which was a weakness. 
 
 As time passed and Tam remained inconsolable 
 the miners wearied of him. His lugubrious 
 countenance irritated them, and they felt annoyed 
 that their efforts at comfort should go for so 
 little. Morrison lost patience, and spoke his mind 
 to him frankly and bluntly. 
 
 " Your grief's natural, Tam," he told him ; " but 
 it's unchristian-like to hug it to ye as you do." 
 
 Tam took his reproaches meekly. " It's no that, 
 Andrew, that's botherin' me." 
 
 " She was an auld woman," Andrew continued, 
 " an' had her day an' generation." 
 
 Tam hung his head and drew his brows together. 
 " Ay, ilka dog has his day," he answered bitterly. 
 " I to 1 en mine, Andrew ; an' a graceless dog I was." 
 
 Andrew turned away with kindlier thoughts of 
 Tam than he had had before. " He's beginnin' 
 to ken how good she was till him, now that she's 
 awa'," he reflected : " an' how little he deserved it 
 at her hands." 
 
 That was in fact what was wrong with Black 
 Tam. When he came home from the pit, how
 
 120 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 cheerless and desolate the house looked ! Now 
 that his granny was gone there was no feeling of 
 home about it at all ; and it came to him forcibly, 
 as he sat at meals which her hands had not 
 prepared, how little he had appreciated her worth 
 while she was with him. All his comforts had 
 been accepted as a matter of course, and he had 
 never once stopped to consider the unceasing 
 labour they entailed. Nay, had he not even been 
 a thoughtless ne'er-do-weel, easily satisfied with 
 work, to whom the clink of glasses and the jingle 
 of the gill stoup were the sweetest music ? 
 
 He had been a granny's bairn. So the villagers 
 said, implying that he had been spoiled in child- 
 hood ; and there may have been truth in the 
 implication. On the occasion of any of his out- 
 breaks the women shook their heads and moralised. 
 " What else was to be expected o' a granny's 
 bairn ? " they asked, thus implying the existence 
 of extenuating circumstances. This might have 
 been taken as a harsh judgment on old Mag 
 Murray, who had been so indulgent to her orphan 
 grandchild, but the way in which it was spoken 
 deprived the words of any element of blame. A 
 granny's bairn never turned out well ; and the 
 granny was to be pitied as much as the bairn.
 
 THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM. 121 
 
 Yet, while the villagers found excuses for Tarn's 
 weakness, they cautiously kept him at a distance. 
 " They could pity a man without takin' him in 
 their arms," they said. On the street everybody 
 spoke to him, and he had a greeting for all ; but 
 the only house he entered in the village, save his 
 own, was the inn. It was nothing more nor less 
 than a compassionate ostracism, and Tam was 
 only now beginning to feel it. So long as his 
 granny was alive it had never come home to him 
 that he was a lonely man in spite of his familiarity 
 with everybody. But now that she was dead he 
 was learning to think, and he saw the life he had 
 lived to have been no better than a waste and a 
 wilderness. 
 
 And now Tam brooded over the past, and with 
 an eye to the future resolved. His first resolution 
 was that he must turn over a new leaf, a resolu- 
 tion which means so little that it is taken by many 
 reprobates, many times. His second resolution, 
 however, was perfectly concrete and definite. He 
 made up his mind to get married. That there is 
 some subtle connection between the two resolutions 
 cannot but be admitted : they are so frequently 
 made at the same time. 
 
 The first of these resolutions he had been trying
 
 122 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 to keep for some weeks now ; so far, success- 
 fully. He had been going to his work regularly, 
 and on pay day restricted himself to a pint of beer 
 or a glass of whisky, keeping himself well in hand ; 
 for he had to brace himself up for " the second re- 
 solution ". But that was a matter for consideration. 
 
 In the first place, who would have him ? There 
 was Jessie Forbes, his former sweetheart ; and 
 Jessie was not married yet, nor did she have any 
 sweetheart, so far as Tarn knew. There was still 
 some hope for him. 
 
 " I might ha'e been a better man the day," he 
 said to himself, with the self-commiseration of a 
 weak nature, ready to put the blame on circum- 
 stances ; " ay, a better man the day if she had ta'en 
 me." 
 
 He was sitting at home musing over a dead 
 fire. The kitchen looked untidy and comfortless, 
 not what it used to be when his granny was alive. 
 With the heel of his boot he smashed up the coal 
 in the fireplace, and swore impatiently. " Black 
 out," he muttered in disgust, " an' everything's 
 cauld and dirty ; the very windows is no lightsome. 
 Something'll need to be done." 
 
 He got up and began pacing the floor : " The 
 question is, will she ha'e me ? I'm no that ill
 
 THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM. 123 
 
 lookin' either" throwing back his shoulders and 
 peering into a little mirror on the wall " none the 
 \vaur o' a shave maybe, but - Eh, man, Tarn, 
 
 but ye've been an awfu' fool. Keep steady, man, 
 
 keep steady an' there's hope Man, man, but 
 
 ye're a bletherin' idiot." 
 
 But the village could know nothing of Tarn's 
 resolutions, and in effecting a reconciliation with 
 Jessie Forbes, he had gone about the matter so 
 discreetly that none but themselves and her parents 
 knew anything about it. The village saw that he 
 was keeping sober, and gave him credit for it ; but 
 had it been known that he was intending to be 
 married, the women in the store that morning 
 would at once have guessed the import of his con- 
 versation with the minister. The secret, however, 
 leaked out the very next day ; and great was the 
 excitement in Barncraig. It was scarce credible 
 some averred, others that it was hardly creditable 
 to Jessie Forbes, " but it was her last chance ". 
 A few, more charitably, hoped for the best, giving 
 as their opinion that " Tarn had the makings o' a 
 good man in him ". 
 
 But one thing all were agreed on : the marriage, 
 come when it might, should be made a memorable 
 event ; and so in a sense it was.
 
 124 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " Tarn was aye the first to put a bode in for 
 the flag-money," Dav Allan declared at the Cox'l. 
 " There wasna a marriage i' the toun but he was 
 there ; an' I hope some o' you young chaps '11 
 mak' it het for him when his day comes." 
 
 ''We'll get every flag we can lay hands on," Bob 
 Morrison answered, making himself the spokes- 
 man of the unmarried men. " Twa raw frae her 
 house across the street, an' another twa raw frae 
 his ain, an' a flag for every lum." 
 
 " Five shillin's a string," Eben laughed, " a' for 
 the tyin' o' the knot." 
 
 "Ay," said Willie Tyler, "some folk would 
 pay it mair willin'ly to get the knot lowsed. 
 What do you think, Eben ? " 
 
 But Eben preferred not to hear. 
 
 Andrew Morrison did not look favourably on 
 his nephew's plans. " D'ye want to ruin the chap ? " 
 he asked with a frown. " The de'il's menseless, but 
 you're misleard." 
 
 "O'd, Andrew, Tam'll stand it," Willie Tyler 
 blandly informed him. " He's takin' her to a 
 house ready furnished, that hasna cost him a 
 brown bawbee ; an', forby, the house is his ain. 
 He's gettin' an easy down-sittin'." 
 
 " An' ye mauna forget the creelin'," Geordy
 
 THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM. 
 
 Marshall warned them, with rueful recollection of 
 his own capture. " It cost me two, bottles." 
 
 "Ay, Tam creeled me ana'," another mournfully 
 added. 
 
 " Wha has he no creeled ? " came from several 
 voices. " Creelin' would ha'e gone out o' fashion 
 if Tam hadna keepet it up." 
 
 In fact, Tam had creeled so many in his day 
 that there was little chance of escape for him, 
 now that he was giving himself into his enemies' 
 hands. Their opportunity had come, and they 
 were determined not to miss it. But Tam knew 
 what to expect, and, indeed, very nearly managed 
 to give them all the slip when the eventful night 
 arrived. 
 
 The young fellows, true to their word, had 
 strung flags across the Windy Wynd, from the 
 house of the bride's father, where the marriage 
 was to be solemnised ; and Tarn's own house was 
 almost hidden in bunting. Colours were borrowed 
 from the ships lying in the harbour at the time, 
 and whatever by any stretch of imagination might 
 do duty as a flag was requisitioned for the occa- 
 sion. Not content with making Tam pay for 
 their unsolicited services, they dragged him into 
 the inn on the morning of his marriage day, on the
 
 126 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 plea that they must stand him his last glass as an 
 unmarried man, and there had mulcted him in 
 the price of drinks for the company. Tarn took 
 the joke good-naturedly. He could do nothing 
 else ; for he knew who was responsible for the 
 precedent. 
 
 But now the ceremony was over, and Tarn 
 Black and Jessie Forbes were declared husband 
 and wife. There was great solemnity in the 
 crowded room ; for the minister was still with 
 them. It was not till the young couple had been 
 duly toasted that he rose to go. Tarn was sitting 
 on a stool with his elbows on his knees, not at all 
 the picture of a happy bridegroom. Before leaving, 
 the minister reached down and shook hands with 
 him, wishing him joy in his married life. 
 
 " Ye're welcome, sir, ye're welcome," Tarn 
 answered abstractedly. 
 
 The minister smiled as he heard the answer 
 and caught sight of Tarn's lugubrious counte- 
 nance. Jessie flushed to the roots of her hair, and 
 nearly burst into tears with vexation. The guests 
 pretended to be interested in other matters, and 
 began to talk of the weather. 
 
 But Tarn was unconscious of any mistake. He 
 was trying to think out a plan of escape from his
 
 THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM. 127 
 
 enemies, not that he would grudge the cost of the 
 creeling, but simply for the sake of escaping the 
 ordeal. And, presently, in the shouts from the 
 children, when the minister was out, his unfortu- 
 nate remark was forgotten. 
 
 " Hard up ! hard up ! " came in a multitudinous 
 yell from outside. The house was besieged, and 
 the best man got rid of a good many handfuls of 
 coppers before he could appease the menseless 
 mob. 
 
 Ekky Forbes, the bride's father, now stood up, 
 and moved himself into the chair, calling on Ann 
 Allan, one of the bridesmaids, for a song. The 
 livelier part of the proceedings was opened, and 
 soon mirth was amongst them. On the wings of 
 song and story the minutes spin along, and care is 
 drowned " in a drappie o' it ". 
 
 About nine o'clock the bride slipped away with 
 the two bridesmaids, who would accompany her to 
 her new home, where Jess Black being Tarn's 
 nearest relative was to receive her, breaking a 
 cake of shortbread over her head as she entered 
 the door. Passing up the Windy Wynd they saw 
 several figures lurking about with baskets and 
 creels in their hands, and the bride knew well 
 enough what they were waiting for.
 
 128 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 "That's the bride," Bob Morrison whispered to 
 Sandy Reid; "Tam'll no be that lang now." And 
 they all crouched in at the outside stair near the 
 door, waiting. 
 
 It was some time, however, before the door 
 opened again, and it was not Tarn yet. Jamie 
 Forbes, the bride's brother, came out and began 
 peering cautiously about him. 
 
 " Are ye there, Bob ? " he whispered. 
 
 " Ay," they all answered, creeping from their 
 different corners and gathering round him. " Is 
 he comin' ? " 
 
 "Comin'?" Jamie echoed. "The bird's flown; 
 out by the back window. I just missed him 
 this minute." 
 
 The intending creelers gasped. They had not 
 dreamed of such a means of exit, being so deter- 
 mined that Tarn should not escape them that they 
 had concentrated their forces on one particular 
 spot. But they were not going to let him off 
 without a struggle. They would not give in until 
 they knew he was safely home. 
 
 " The hole's no lost till ae ba' is holed," 
 Sandy Reid cried. " He canna be that far 
 yet." 
 
 " Round by the auld wa's," Pete Robb suggested.
 
 THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM. 129 
 
 " Fling down your baskets ; ane'll do : for we'll ha'e 
 a dyke or twa to climb." 
 
 The baskets were thrown down at once, all ex- 
 cept Peter's potato creel, which he slung over his 
 head so that he should have his arms free. Away 
 they went round by the back of the house stam- 
 peding after Peter, who looked an uncouth enough 
 figure veiled as to his head in a basket in the 
 moonlight. 
 
 "Yonder he is!" They caught sight of Tarn 
 disappearing over the high wall at Rob Reid's 
 stables, and yelled with delight, " We have him ; 
 we have him ! " 
 
 To get over the wall they had to climb up by one 
 of the carts which happened to be standing con- 
 veniently near. Some were already over, others 
 crawling up, but Bob Morrison stopped. 
 
 " A stern chase is a lang chase," he whispered 
 to Sandy Reid. " What do ye say to turn back an' 
 round to the pavement yard ? That's whaur he's 
 makin' for. He'll cross the yards, ye'll see, an' 
 ower the dyke ; and once through the pavement 
 yard he's at his ain door." 
 
 Sandy needed no second bidding, and they took 
 to their heels, running as hard as they could, and 
 arriving at the gate of the pavement yard out of 
 
 9
 
 130 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 breath. There was no time to be lost in climbing 
 over. Bob took a running kick at it, and burst the 
 lock. 
 
 " We're afore him yet," he panted, looking towards 
 the wall at the east end. " He'll get ower at the 
 corner. Pick up a basket as ye pass through the 
 shed, Sandy." 
 
 Arrived at the corner they crouched down in 
 the darkness, panting like porpoises, and Sandy 
 clutching a basket which he had snatched up in 
 passing. 
 
 They had waited barely a minute when Tarn, 
 rising like a shadow against the moonlit sky, 
 appeared on the top of the wall and dropped to the 
 ground, more fagged out than they were. There 
 he stood a second, struggling for breath, and feel- 
 ing quite safe now that he had outwitted and out- 
 stripped his enemies. They had gathered against 
 him in all their strength ; yet the victory was his. 
 
 But it was only for a second. 
 
 " Creeled ! " The yell was at his very ear, and 
 before he could see who had uttered it, a basket 
 came crashing down over his head with such force 
 as to wreck his new hat and pinion his arms. 
 
 Then there was a sputtering and yelling. 
 
 " Murder, murder ! " he yelled, tearing away
 
 THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM. 131 
 
 from his captors' grasp, and trying to extricate 
 himself from the basket. " What are ye 
 doin' ? " 
 
 This was better sport than Sandy and Bob had 
 expected, and they enjoyed it to the full. 
 
 " Oho ! That's how ye tak' it, Tam, when it 
 comes to yoursel' ? " Bob cried, shaking with 
 laughter. 
 
 "It's a different story when the creeler's creeled," 
 Sandy shouted in derision. 
 
 But neither their laughter nor their sarcasm 
 stopped Tarn's imprecations. 
 
 " Tak' it aff," he yelled in agony, pirouetting 
 as if he were mad. " Murder ! I'm chokin'. Ye've 
 blinded me." 
 
 Bob and Sandy stood stock still, stopped 
 laughing, and then turned their heads slowly till 
 they were gaping into each other's horror-stricken 
 faces. 
 
 " My conscience !" Bob gasped in terror, "it'll 
 be a lime basket." 
 
 "Ay, that's what it'll be." Sandy stood helpless, 
 paralysed with a great fear. Lime getting into 
 the eyes had blinded people for life; so he had 
 heard often, and believed. 
 
 But Tam was still dancing about in agony.
 
 132 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " Get me out o' this, for ony sake ; help me 
 out." 
 
 Helping him out was no easy matter, however. 
 He couldn't keep still a single second, and the 
 basket was caught in his sleeves. It was torn off 
 at last ; and then what a sorry sight was seen ! 
 Poor Tarn was white from top to toe ; his new hat 
 crushed to bits; and he stood for some minutes 
 coughing and spitting. 
 
 " If I could see ye I would fell ye," were the 
 first words after he was free. 
 
 "We didna ken, Tarn," Sandy apologised, "an' 
 if ye dinna mind we'll lead ye hame." 
 
 " Ay, that would be mair sensible," Bob urged, 
 looking at Tarn's powerful arms. 
 
 " What's a' this row ? " It was the policeman's 
 voice ; and he made his way over from the gate, 
 flashing his lantern on a very tragic trio. " Some 
 o' ye has broken the gate too : a grand job ye 
 mak' o' your creelin'." 
 
 " Let me get hame as quick as ye like," Tarn 
 appealed. " My e'en's nippin' out o' my head." 
 
 "Hullo! here's another!" The policeman flashed 
 the bull's eye on a figure crawling over the 
 dyke. 
 
 " Is that you, Pete ? " Sandy asked.
 
 THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM. 133 
 
 " Ay ! " 
 
 It was Peter Robb, certainly. But what a 
 pathetic voice ! and when he dropped down beside 
 them they jumped back from him involuntarily 
 and in disgust. 
 
 " This is the last o' creelin' for me," he said, 
 standing where he had dropped. "I tum'led heels 
 ower head into the crave amon' Isb'l's swine, an' 
 there's an awfu' ongaun alang there. A' the 
 court's out, an' I was glad to slip awa' wi' a whole 
 skin." 
 
 " Keep back frae me ! " Tarn cried. " I canna 
 see ye, but " 
 
 "It's been a sair creelin'," Pete continued. 
 " When I tum'led in, the basket whupped aff my 
 head an' creeled ane o' Isb'l's grice. Syne the 
 palin' ga'e way, an' I scram'led out wi' the whole 
 crave squealin' ahent me. On the instant every 
 window and door flew open, an' I dinna believe 
 there'll be a bed o' flowers left i' the yards ; for, 
 if there's ane, there's a score out chasin' the swine 
 through a'." 
 
 " It maun be a sair job creelin' grice," the 
 policeman drily remarked. 
 
 " Ay, an' the deevil to pay," Pete reflected rue- 
 fully.
 
 134 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " Ye'll no be so dry as Sandy and Bob here ? " 
 Tarn asked, with a suggestion of his old humour. 
 
 " No, I canna complain o' drouth," Pete 
 admitted, " though I might be no waur o' a dram." 
 
 " I'm as dry as a lime basket," Sandy swore. 
 
 " Ye'd as lief baud your tongue about the lime 
 basket," Tam advised. " Gi'e me a grip o' your 
 arm, Bob ; I'm gaun hame to get my e'en bathed 
 an' my whistle wat." 
 
 " An I'm gaun down to the End Rock," Peter 
 tearfully bemoaned, " to bathe mair than my 
 e'en." 
 
 " Ay," said the policeman, " do that. Pugh ! " 
 
 And they went. 
 
 Just last summer a stranger, of antiquarian 
 interests, stayed a few days in Barncraig, trying 
 to ferret out old verse and folk-lore. At the Cox'l 
 gatherings he made himself agreeable, and the 
 miners in their talk almost forgot that he was a 
 stranger. 
 
 "There is the custom of creeling the goodman, 
 too," he observed one night ; " could you tell me 
 anything about that ? " Peter and Tam, who were 
 both present, moved away, unceremoniously ; and 
 the miners smiled.
 
 THE CREELING OF BLACK TAM. 135 
 
 " Tell him about the creelin' o' Black Tam, 
 Willie," the general suggested ; " an' Isb'l's 
 grice." 
 
 And such is the story that Tyler told.
 
 i 3 6 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 
 
 What will ye do gin wark should fail ? 
 
 " There's wark for the willin' by land and sea." 
 But want may come when ye're auld an' frail. 
 
 " I lippen a' that to the Lord," says he. 
 Yet wife an' bairns may greet for bread 
 
 That ae man's darg can ill provide. 
 "If I starve, I'll starve wi' the lamp at my head 
 
 No die like a dog at the de'il's dyke-side." 
 
 The Collier's Catechism. 
 
 THE town was very quiet. It was the time of the 
 great strike, and there was neither mining nor 
 shipping in Barncraig. The miners rose early, as 
 was their wont, for that was a second nature with 
 them ; but during the day they could only lounge 
 about with their hands in their pockets, not know- 
 ing what to make of themselves. They met at the 
 Hine, and at Haw Head, and talked ; and when 
 they were tired, they a'djourned to the Cox'l and 
 talked again. But it was wearisome work. They 
 were men unaccustomed to idleness, and they felt 
 the unwonted weight of much time upon their
 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 137 
 
 hands. The days passed slowly, dragging them- 
 selves into weeks, and they got tired even of talk- 
 ing ; for there was only one subject of interest to 
 them at the time, and it had been threshed out 
 long ago : there was nothing new to be said about 
 the strike, and they awaited the verdict of the pro- 
 gress of events. But when masters and men are 
 equally determined not to budge from their position, 
 the only likely developments are bankruptcy and 
 beggary. The one threatened the masters, and 
 the other was coming nearer and nearer to the 
 men. 
 
 Those of the villagers who had boats went "off" 
 fishing every forenoon, while those who did not 
 possess them got lines and fished from the pier 
 and the End Rock. It was a contemplative re- 
 creation, and may have helped to keep their heads 
 cool in very trying times. Moreover, the fish they 
 caught was all the "kitchen" they could get. 
 
 To those with a young family dependent on 
 them it was a terrible time. Fathers were fre- 
 quently seen stooping about amongst the rocks, 
 gathering whelks and shell-fish, and trying to appear 
 as if they were only glad of something to do, so 
 that the weary day would pass : perhaps to-morrow 
 might announce a change for the better. But
 
 138 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 many of them, in truth, were glad to get something 
 to eat, and "buckies" and limpets were dainties 
 not to be despised. 
 
 Weeks passed, and still there was no sign of 
 improvement. They were as far away from a 
 settlement as ever. The men were firm, fighting 
 for a principle and their rights ; and the masters 
 waited : they put their trust in time and starvation. 
 
 Every morning when Eben Reid appeared at the 
 Cox'l with his paper in his hands, the men gathered 
 round to listen. But they could tell from his face 
 that there was little to say. They had grown used 
 to his " In statty quo," and did not now ask the 
 meaning of it. " Things are no better," they said, 
 and there was little else to say. 
 
 How different from their brief period of pros- 
 perity, when wages were big ! Then trade was 
 brisk, and everything went well. They took the 
 blessings that fortune provided, and kept them- 
 selves couthy and comfortable. It seemed that 
 they had come into their inheritance at last, and 
 that the good time would continue. Not one of 
 them dreamed of the sharp and sudden reversal 
 they were fated to experience. They lived, care- 
 less of the morrow, and all the time Fortune was 
 smiling grimly, turning her wheel.
 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 139 
 
 The period of prosperity had ended suddenly in 
 a strike, and now the strike had become a lock- 
 out. The men must go in on the masters' terms, 
 or remain idle. What the women suffered during 
 those long weary weeks can never be known. 
 That many of them half-starved themselves, so 
 that their men and bairns should not know the 
 pangs of hunger, is a fact they would be the first 
 to deny. But want wrote it ruthlessly in their 
 faces during those troublous days; and their hollow 
 eyes told tales that their lips would hardly breathe. 
 
 And yet things might have been worse than 
 they were. So they acknowledged pathetically 
 enough, when their daughters brought home their 
 fortnightly wage. That was certainly a small 
 thing in a family, but, such as it was, it kept them 
 from absolute destitution. For the linen trade at 
 this time was brisk, and the factories in Santserfs 
 were working full time. It was a long distance 
 for girls to go to work over two miles by the 
 road along the shore but they were strong and 
 healthy maidens, accepting such work as theiF 
 lot and setting out for it bravely, morning after 
 morning, to be there by six o'clock. 
 
 How some of the families could have existed 
 without the money earned by the girls it is
 
 140 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 impossible to say. There were many of the 
 miners, certainly, who had saved money regularly, 
 putting away a little every fortnight all the time 
 they were earning good wages. But others had 
 not saved, and there were some who could not 
 have saved though they had tried. For the pre- 
 valent notion that every collier had for a time 
 been simply coining money was a fiction born of 
 ignorance or wilful misrepresentation. The fact 
 is, that there were many whose wages had not 
 materially augmented, and there were as many 
 whose necessities left them little of what they 
 lifted at the pay-table every fortnight. For mis- 
 fortune does not accommodate itself to a weekly 
 wage, and medicine is an expensive article of diet. 
 
 Without the little money which their daughters 
 were able to bring home some might have starved ; 
 or, indeed, the strike might have collapsed weeks 
 sooner. For those with money saved have no 
 voice in determining the issue of a strike ; that is 
 the privilege of the penniless. 
 
 It may be because the young women were for 
 a time the only wage-earners of the family, that 
 their fathers and brothers began to think more 
 about them than they had been in the habit of 
 doing. They came to recognise that their
 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 141 
 
 daughters and sisters had to work for their wages, 
 however meagre they might be; and they began 
 to talk frequently of their long hours, and of their 
 " sair walk back and forrit". 
 
 " It's no only their work i' the factory, either," 
 Pillan discoursed at the Cox'l, as though he had 
 been thinking the whole matter out in his silent 
 moments ; " but look how they help i' the house 
 \vhen they come hame." 
 
 " Ay," Eben corroborated, " an' they're never 
 idle even when they're outbye ; aye a stockin' or 
 a bit crochet i' their hands. I'm thinkin' we've 
 every reason to be proud o' our daughters." 
 
 Not one of those who had daughters of their 
 own would have hazarded such an opinion ; for 
 then it had been of the nature of a boast. But "it 
 cam' gracefu' aff Eben," who was childless. They 
 perceived how appropriate it was ; all except 
 Rennie, who thought that " Eben was haverin' 
 nonsense ". 
 
 But the others agreed with Eben, in spite of 
 Rennie. They were proud of their daughters, and 
 sympathised with them in their long hours and 
 their heavy walk. Yet it was left to Alex. Forbes 
 always known as " Little Ekky," to distinguish 
 him from a namesake who was almost an inch
 
 142 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 taller to show how this sympathy could take 
 practical form. 
 
 For several days Ekky had been going along to 
 the braes beyond the pit, and wandering about 
 among the wild rose-bushes for hours at a stretch. 
 Several of the miners had seen him, but they had 
 taken little notice of him. Ekky was a strange 
 being, and had ways of his own. He was always 
 pottering about amongst flowers, mending palings, 
 putting up cribs, or doing orra jobs of one kind or 
 another, and they were " acqua'nt wi' his queer- 
 ness ". It might be that he was only searching 
 for herbs. They knew he had a weakness for 
 home-brewed medicines, and in cases of cold or 
 rheumatism or indigestion could prescribe de- 
 coctions as nauseous as any doctor in practice 
 could name. So they took no interest in his 
 wanderings now. 
 
 But when, one forenoon, he wheeled a barrow 
 over the Cox'l, with a pick and a couple of spades 
 inside, they began to wonder. 
 
 "Surely on a big job the day?" Dav Allan 
 called to him passing. 
 
 " Ay," said Ekky, not even turning his head. 
 
 He did not join in the Cox'l gatherings. They 
 were not in his line. What Ekky wanted was
 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 
 
 something to do. He was a reserved man, quiet 
 even to taciturnity, but he could not be 
 idle. 
 
 The miners talked of him after he was out of 
 sight, and, possibly, felt grateful for something to 
 talk about. Not that they were in want of other 
 matters for discussion : many of them had in 
 their hearts burning stories to tell of bare crusts 
 and " kitchenless " dinners; but these were per- 
 sonal and painful experiences, and they kept them 
 to themselves. 
 
 Some of the older ones made a grim suggestion 
 that " Little Ekky might ha'e discovered some new 
 herb that was a grand medicine for hungry wames," 
 and was going to bring it home in barrow loads. 
 The younger ones, on the other hand, were some- 
 what suspicious of Ekky's intentions. They could 
 not forget that he had refused to come out with 
 them at the beginning of the strike, and had only 
 thrown in his lot with the men when the masters 
 dictated their terms, with the alternative of a lock- 
 out. Nor were they at all reassured till, away in 
 the distance, they saw him appearing again be- 
 yond the pit, trundling his barrow past the new 
 coal yard. Then it was suggested that " they might 
 daunder alang to see what Little Ekky was after".
 
 144 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 And in the absence of anything better to do the 
 suggestion was adopted. 
 
 When they did get along the length of the 
 manse gardens they were astonished to see Ekky 
 delving up the grass and bushes growing by the 
 side of the narrow footpath, widening it and level- 
 ling it into a road. 
 
 He kept on working, with about a dozen of them 
 standing round, wondering what on earth he was 
 meaning to do. 
 
 " Contrac', Ekky? " Andrew Morrison ventured. 
 
 " Ay, o' my ain." 
 
 There was little to be learned from the answer ; 
 but they knew Little Ekky better than to pester 
 him with questions. So they let him bide his 
 time. 
 
 Presently he straightened himself up, and, lean- 
 ing on his spade, looked round on the inquisitive 
 faces of his spectators. 
 
 " I kent ye would come," he oracularly informed 
 them. " It was better than ca'in' a meetin' about 
 it." 
 
 "Ay?" Sandy Briggs drawled doubtfully: 
 " how ? " 
 
 Ekky passed the question over as if he had not 
 heard it. He preferred directing conversation
 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 145 
 
 with hints, and leaving the talking to others. It 
 saved time. 
 
 " It's a sair an' heavy trail this for the lassies," 
 was his next remark, striking out on a new tack. 
 
 This was something they understood. They 
 had been saying so themselves that very morning ; 
 and it slowly began to dawn on them what Ekky 
 was setting himself to do. 
 
 The road from here right on to the Blair Rocks 
 lay through heavy sand, and wound round about 
 wild rose-bushes, heavy and tangled ; with as many 
 curves and bends in its course as a river. It was a 
 heavy enough walk over the " sinky " sand even in 
 the best of weather ; but in rainy seasons, there 
 was the additional discomfort of having to push 
 between bushes laden with moisture, where the 
 slightest aberration was visited with a drenching. 
 Here and there, too, lusty bramble-bushes thrust 
 their thorny arms right across the narrow path- 
 way, ready to grapple with the skirts of the unwary; 
 and the long briar branches waving in the wind 
 were wont at times to touch bare hands and 
 ruddy cheeks and leave an imprint of their 
 caresses. 
 
 The company looked along to the Blair Rocks 
 in the distance, seeing the wilderness of shrubbery
 
 146 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 that intervened ; measuring, as it were, the dis- 
 tance with their eyes, and trying to estimate the 
 difficulty of the undertaking. 
 
 Sandy Briggs was the first to speak. " It's 
 mair than a mile to the Blair," he reasoned. 
 " That's an awfu' undertakin'." 
 
 For answer Ekky lit his pipe with great de- 
 liberation, and then began shovelling into the 
 barrow the sods already delved up. 
 
 Willie Tyler settled himself on his hunkers to 
 consider the matter. It was a big business, and 
 required deliberation. 
 
 " The question is, ' Can it be done ? " he 
 announced. 
 
 Ekky threw his spade into the barrow, and 
 faced about. " That's what ye would ha'e putten 
 to the meetin', Willie ; an' by a show o' hands ye 
 would ha'e decided against it. But I say it's 
 gaun to be done, an' I see my way as clear as 
 daylight." 
 
 " It'll tak' weeks," Pillan discouragingly sur- 
 mised. 
 
 " An' it's a' the wark ye'll ha'e for weeks," Ekky 
 answered grimly ; " mair's the pity." 
 
 Andrew Morrison, who had been keeping very 
 quiet, now spoke, and to the point.
 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 
 
 "Suppose this is the meetin'," he suggested. 
 " Hands up a' that says it's gaun to be done." 
 
 "Your ain daughters," Ekky artfully inter- 
 polated, " comin' hame wi' weet feet an' draggled 
 petticoats " 
 
 Every right hand was thrust up at once. 
 
 " The motion's carried," Andrew announced. 
 
 " Unanimous," said Ekky. 
 
 " An' now ye'll tell us about it, Ekky," Briggs 
 urged. 
 
 "The first thing about it," Ekky said, "is 
 spades an' picks an' a' the barrows ye can lay 
 hands on, an' willin' hands to hurl them. Come 
 back here when ye get them, an' I'll tell ye mair." 
 
 They had to be content with this ; for Ekky 
 had already turned to his work, and was busy 
 delving again ; and they set off at once, walk- 
 ing with a brisker step than they had done for 
 weeks. They were tired of doing nothing; and 
 even though they were going to work for no wages, 
 it would be a pleasure to do something for their 
 daughters. And a labour of love will always have 
 some kind of reward. 
 
 It was not long before they were back again, 
 and many more with them, shouldering picks, 
 spades, crowbars, saws and axes, some wheeling
 
 148 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 barrows behind them, and others carrying hand- 
 barrows. On they came over the Cox'l and along 
 past the harbour and the pit ; old grey-headed 
 men and lads in their teens, all carried away with 
 the enthusiasm of work after their weeks of en- 
 forced idleness, and all eager to do something for 
 their daughters and sisters. Surely never before 
 was such a sight seen in Barncraig, and never 
 before had a work been undertaken more willingly, 
 or with more disinterested motive. They could 
 look for no reward at all; but since their daughters 
 were compelled to go to Santserfs for work, they 
 could at least make the road easier for their feet, 
 and, in so far, help to lighten their labour. 
 
 It was a noble sight. Women and children 
 came to their doors and watched, and the town 
 was happier than it had been since the strike 
 commenced. All at once the news was flashed 
 from the Cox'l to the Poun's, and everybody knew 
 what the shouldering of picks and the trundling 
 of barrows meant. It seemed to be that Little 
 Ekky had only begun a work that the village had 
 been contemplating for years, and that at length 
 Barncraig knew that the time for action had come. 
 And most surely the wives and mothers were not 
 the ones who would discourage such an under-
 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 149 
 
 taking. They had, most of them, travelled the 
 road themselves, and knew how long and weari- 
 some a walk it was. 
 
 The village began to look like its old self again, 
 and it was as if the strike were at an end, and 
 work were once more begun. Some of the women 
 accepted it as a happy augury, and their pinched 
 faces brightened. They seemed to hear again the 
 rumbling of the pit drum : the harbour was 
 crowded with schooners, and the coals roaring 
 down the spout were crashing into the holds ; 
 their husbands were coming from the pay-table 
 counting their wages ; and there was peace in the 
 land and plenty, and amity between masters and 
 men. 
 
 And all this from the trundling of barrows over 
 the Cox'l ! 
 
 Before afternoon Ekky had so many hands 
 applying for work for they all recognised the 
 little man as foreman, and came to him just as 
 they would have done had he been engaging them 
 at a regular wage that he had to take counsel 
 with the older and wiser of his assistants as to the 
 best means of working together. 
 
 He sat down and explained to a few of them 
 his plans. "Ye see, we have the high dyke to
 
 150 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 the end o' the gardens," he pointed out, " an' 
 we'll keep by that. After that we come to our 
 'tato yards, an' though ye canna see it for the 
 busses, there's a laigh dyke runs alang by the 
 foot o' them, an' syne past the plantin' right to 
 the Blair Rocks. So we canna gang wrang." 
 
 "It'll be easier than I was thinkin'," was Geordy 
 Marshall's opinion. 
 
 " There's a lot to be considered," Ekky told him, 
 " but for a' that, mony hands mak's light wark ; 
 an' we've no want o' them here." 
 
 " The first thing'll be to clear awa' the busses 
 a' alang by the side o' the dyke," Dav Allan 
 thought. 
 
 That was Ekky's opinion too. " We'll divide 
 oursel's into drafts," he said, " an' some o' the 
 aulder anes'll superintend." 
 
 So it was agreed. The men were divided into 
 gangs, and the work was soon going on right 
 briskly all the way to the Blair. First the bushes 
 had to be cleared away from the wall, leaving a 
 breadth of ten or twelve feet. This was not so 
 easy as some of the young fellows had imagined ; 
 for the bushes were almost trees, old and tough. 
 Axes and saws were in requisition, and then the 
 roots had to be dug up.
 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 
 
 Altogether, by the end of the first day, the work 
 was well begun, and the miners went home well 
 pleased with the progress they had made, and 
 pleased with themselves, as, indeed, they were well 
 entitled to be. Some of the younger fellows, how- 
 ever, waited till the girls should be coming home 
 from the factory. It would be interesting to see 
 how they would look when they saw what work of 
 devastation had been going on ; and, besides, it 
 was natural for young men to apprehend the 
 pleasure of explaining to others' sisters what it 
 all meant. 
 
 It was a happy village that night, in spite of the 
 lock-out. A new interest in life seemed suddenly 
 to have opened out for those kindly folks, and there 
 was much to talk about at their evening gatherings. 
 For the first time for weeks, the sound of honest, 
 hearty laughter was heard at the Cox'l ; and the 
 sullen looks which had been brooding on brows for 
 many days, like the symptoms of a heavy cold, 
 must have been sweated away with one day's 
 labour. 
 
 So the work went on next day, and for the next 
 few weeks. Every morning the miners set out as 
 if they were going to their regular work, returning 
 for a mid-day meal. Alas ! what an apology for a
 
 152 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 meal it often was, but accepted more thankfully, 
 and eaten with greater relish, now that their hands 
 had found something to do. After dinner they 
 resumed work till six o'clock. 
 
 As days passed it began to be whispered in 
 places outside the village that the miners of Barn- 
 craig were making a new road along the shore to 
 Santserfs, and strangers came from different parts 
 to see if report spoke true. But the workers didn't 
 want inspectors, and answered the questions of 
 inquisitive persons gruffly. They could say among 
 themselves that they were making the road " for 
 their lassies' sakes " ; but they could not be senti- 
 mental to a stranger. To all outside inquirers they 
 contented themselves with saying that " they were 
 out o' a job, an' had made ane ". 
 
 Some stray reporters, too, being interested in 
 the doings of miners at the time, actually visited 
 the " scene of operations " ; but the work had little 
 interest for them, and less profit : there was no 
 copy in it. Far more interesting work fell to be 
 chronicled at Lochpeat, where the miners were 
 holding mass meetings and denouncing the masters 
 in no measured terms. It might come to a riot in 
 the end who could tell ? And war correspondence 
 is the reporter's ambition. So they turned their
 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 153 
 
 backs on Barncraig, with a very poor opinion of 
 its inhabitants. 
 
 When at length work was nearing completion, 
 some suggested that they might apply to the colliery 
 for the use of horses and carts to bring the shingle 
 and sand they required. 
 
 " The carts are just standin' idle the now," Gosh 
 said, and he knew, for his brother was one of the 
 carters ; " an' they'll be glad to get something for 
 the horses to do; they'll just be eatin' themsel's 
 camsteerie i' the stable." 
 
 But the suggestion was at once repudiated. 
 
 "We'll no be beholden to them," Ekky said. 
 "They're tryin' to do without hiz, an' we'll let 
 them see that we can do without them." 
 
 Ekky's words carried general approval. He had 
 merely given voice to an almost unanimous senti- 
 ment. 
 
 " As lang as there's sacks i' the world and backs 
 to carry them, we'll no want for channel," he 
 pursued. " It's lyin' there for the liftin'." 
 
 Next day the young fellows came provided with 
 sacks flour sacks, potato sacks, sacks of all shapes 
 and sizes, even sailors' kits. There was a coarse 
 kind of shingle, hard and pebbly, lying all along 
 the shore just above high-water mark; and, under
 
 154 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 the Blair Rocks, an inexhaustible supply of a 
 very fine kind. For days, strings of young men 
 might have been seen toiling up the beach, bent 
 almost double under their loads, which they were 
 emptying in heaps all along the new-made road, 
 leaving it for the older men to rake out and lay 
 smooth. It was hard work; but heavy work was 
 the custom of their lives, and it did not crush the 
 enthusiasm out of them now. 
 
 The road had been completely dug up by this 
 time, and again laid level. The next thing was to 
 cover it with a thick layer of sand and heavy 
 shingle. After this had been done and well 
 trodden down and rolled, it was ready to be laid 
 with the finer shingle. 
 
 Two burns had to be crossed in the construction 
 of their road, and these were carefully and firmly 
 bridged. Here and there, too, where open spaces 
 between the bushes had left the turf soft and 
 green, seats were put up where old folks might 
 rest when they were out for a stroll on the Sabbath 
 night. The last thing of all was to get the bushes 
 carefully trimmed ; and Ekky himself, who was the 
 only man among them possessed of a hedge-bill, 
 or, for that matter, knew how to use one, under- 
 took this part, and the road was as good as finished.
 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 155 
 
 It was on a Saturday afternoon that it was 
 completed ; and they came home in a body, bring- 
 ing their barrows and implements with them. 
 There was not much to come home to, but their 
 hearts were glad with the joy of a great work 
 done, and there was little in their appearance to 
 suggest that they had been out of work for more 
 than two months, and that many would go that 
 night supperless to bed. The colliery manager 
 from the end of his garden stood spying them as 
 they passed the harbour ; and in his heart, in spite 
 of the antagonism of the time, was proud of his 
 men. 
 
 At the Cox'l Eben met them, and waved his 
 weekly paper as welcome. 
 
 " Here's something about your new road," he 
 cried opening the paper, " and there's been an' 
 awfu' scene at Lochpeat yesterday. The road 
 between Barncraig an'- " he began, when Willie 
 Tyler interrupted him. 
 
 "We a' ken about that, man," he cried im- 
 patiently. " What have they been doin' at Loch- 
 peat ?" 
 
 " ' The Strike : Serious Disturbance at Lochpeat : 
 Mobbing the Manager/" Eben read. "But ye 
 can see it for yoursel's when you get your papers,"
 
 156 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 he broke off somewhat maliciously ; for he was 
 disappointed that they had not listened to the 
 paragraph about the road. And it had been con- 
 cocted so laboriously too ! 
 
 " We dinna want to hear ony mair about them," 
 Sandy Brings informed him. " They've been 
 makin' fools o' themsel's, no doubt." 
 
 "Ay," said Rennie seriously, "they might ha'e 
 been better makin' roads." 
 
 And the miners and sappers passed on. 
 
 Next day the road was opened, and that was a 
 great event in Barncraig. There was no formal 
 mustering of bailies and councillors ; no cake 
 and wine banquet. For one thing it was the 
 Sabbath, and such proceedings had been ill-timed 
 on that day. Another reason was that the road 
 would cost the ratepayers not a penny. It was a 
 free gift of the miners of about a month's hard 
 work, and when a thing is given unasked, there is 
 no necessity for public acknowledgment. But if 
 there was no ceremonious function, no holiday 
 inauguration, there was something far better. 
 
 When the afternoon service in church was over, 
 the whole town, men, women and children, all 
 who were able to walk, marched along in their 
 families, as was their wont on the Sabbath
 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 
 
 '57 
 
 evening, to open the Lock-out Road. There were 
 many who had had little dinner and no tea ; but 
 that was a family affair, not a matter to be 
 mentioned outside, and they were not going to 
 allow it to interfere with the pleasure of opening 
 their road. 
 
 During the evening the village was deserted. 
 It was a cherished witticism of Sandy Grant's 
 " that when he cam' down frae the toll-house that 
 night, he found a town ". Nor was Barncraig there 
 alone. All the towns and villages for miles around 
 sent their contingents. They came of themselves 
 unasked, uninvited, a spontaneous gathering, bear- 
 ing witness to the good deeds of the miners more 
 forcibly than a score of speeches at a formal 
 opening could have done. 
 
 It was a still autumn evening, and the people 
 strolled about chatting and laughing, all talking of 
 the same subject. The minister was there with 
 his wife, feeling very proud of his parishioners. A 
 strike was an anxious time ; and when children 
 are calling for bread, the tempers of their fathers 
 are not to be trusted. Yet, while the papers were 
 recording disturbances at this colliery and riots at 
 that, here were miners his miners, he called 
 them who had set themselves to the doing of a
 
 158 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 good work and without the slightest hope of fee or 
 reward. 
 
 With the gloaming the crowds began to disperse, 
 moving slowly homewards ; the children, armed with 
 teasels, marching proudly along the road " their 
 fathers made," and telling their mothers all about it. 
 
 It will be a long time till that day is forgotten 
 in Barncraig. The whole work of the last few 
 weeks, a time of peculiar intensity, had culminated 
 in the gathering of to-day ; and to-morrow, and to- 
 morrow, will the miners be again moving about, 
 resourceless. 
 
 Once more they will talk of the lock-out, till 
 they grow tired of talking, and then wait wearily 
 for the end. 
 
 When night came, and the moon stood high 
 over the Blair Rocks, and mother ocean sang her 
 lullaby to the wavelets laughing in its light, a little 
 solitary figure walked thoughtfully along to the 
 foot of the Blair. Turning there he stood gazing 
 to where a line of lights, with their restless reflec- 
 tions in the simmering water, told of the harbour. 
 " No mair weet feet an' draggled petticoats on 
 thae cauld sour nights," the little man mused ; 
 " after a' is said an' done, the wark was light, 
 an' it was a' done for the lassies."
 
 EKKY'S ROAD. 159 
 
 That week when Ekky was working in the manse 
 gardens, the minister tried to draw him into con- 
 versation about the road ; but Ekky kept his " ain 
 counsel ". He was a cautious man, and did not 
 like to commit himself. 
 
 " It's worthy of an epic," the minister told him. 
 
 " D'ye think so ? " said Ekky, busying himself 
 among the flower beds. He couldn't contradict 
 him ; for Ekky did not know what an epic was.
 
 i6o 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 DOD. 
 
 " Wait till I'm a man, mither " 
 
 (That was aye his sang), 
 "Ye'll ha'e a silk goun, wi' frills round an' roun', 
 
 That'll rustle when ye gang. 
 I'll buy ye a braw Dutch wag-at-the-wa', 
 
 An' a painted waterin'-pan." 
 But the waves, as they played, aye whispered an' said, 
 
 "We'll wait till the laddie's a man ". 
 
 Tide and Tangle. 
 
 DOD was her first-born and her favourite. He had 
 come to her when life was dark and desolate, 
 and her heart had even ceased to hunger for 
 affection. She had been such a trusting creature; 
 and when love failed her, everything went, her 
 belief in goodness, and her faith in God. But 
 when her child was born, she was born again 
 herself, into a new world of patience and hope. It 
 was not the old joyous world of the past the 
 healthy unquestioning happiness of maidenhood, 
 or the ecstasy of the first few weeks of marriage 
 when she had worshipped her husband. That was 
 gone, wholly and irrevocably, lost for ever. But
 
 DOD. 161 
 
 her child was born, and she had now a stake in the 
 future ; life was again worth living. None of her 
 other children afterwards had been the same to 
 her as Dod had been. He connected her with 
 her former life when she was happy, and renewed 
 for her, in the disillusion of love, the old heaven 
 and the old earth. 
 
 And what a life she had lived since then, mated 
 with a man she could no longer love and respect ! 
 But he was her husband, and therefore her lord 
 and master. In his bouts of drunkenness, in his 
 wildest excesses, she had been faithful to him, 
 bearing her burden without complaint, and screen- 
 ing him at his worst from the eyes of the world. 
 Even her next-door neighbours only whispered their 
 suspicions of blows, suspicions Jean's appearance 
 at times confirmed, while her words belied. 
 
 " I had a nasty fa' last night," she remarked one 
 morning to a neighbour, as she limped painfully 
 about at her work. 
 
 "Ay?" Mag Reid looked at Jean's bandaged 
 brow, and in her heart cursed Wull Wilson, but 
 she did not say what she thought. " Ye'd as lief 
 tak' it canny the day." she advised. 
 
 But in all her suffering, in poverty that at times 
 touched starvation, she had borne up ; for Dod's 
 
 ii
 
 1 62 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 sake. He would grow up to be a man, and she 
 would be proud of him yet. She toiled and 
 slaved to bring up her children respectably ; and 
 when she spoke of her children, it was always 
 Dod she thought of. They might have starved 
 for all their father cared. So long as he earned 
 enough to keep him in a state of half-maudlin 
 forgetfulness, he had attained his end. Sometimes, 
 of a Saturday night, in a start of generosity he 
 brought home a half-dozen threepenny pies. But 
 this was an extravagance he expected to be re- 
 membered to his credit, and he himself did not 
 allow it to be forgotten. 
 
 Jean took in washing and dressing, and went 
 out to do washing, helped at cleanings, would 
 have set herself to any work, in order to feed and 
 clothe her children, and to pay her way. When a 
 wife could do that, what use a man working 
 unless to keep his pouch ? So Wull was easily 
 satisfied with work. He was a loafer, a ballast- 
 heaver, earning enough one day to keep him drink- 
 ing the next, and counting it a point of honour 
 not to extort money from his wife unless he was 
 in sore straits for a drink. 
 
 All the miners knew him, and despised him ; 
 but he had outlived the sense of shame. If he
 
 DOD. 163 
 
 did hear remarks occasionally that were blunt and 
 scornful, he did not take the trouble to resent 
 them. Now and again would one of the miners 
 round on Wull, and go home pleased with himself. 
 It relieved him, and he anticipated its effect 
 accordingly. There was a feeling of satisfaction 
 in giving vent to his indignation, and he felt that 
 he was doing a good turn to Jean poor body ! 
 But Jean knew when some well-meaning neigh- 
 bour had allowed himself the luxury of speaking 
 his mind to Wull. Home truths that reach their 
 destination have a bad habit of rankling in the 
 mind ; and vindictiveness smoulders long in a 
 sodden brain. But when she did not complain, 
 how was one to know that plain speaking did 
 more harm than good ? 
 
 " My mother'll no be up to wash the day," Dod 
 told Isa Ness one morning. He was but a child 
 then, and on his way to school. " She telled me 
 to tell ye she's no very weel." 
 
 "What's wrang wi' her ? " 
 
 " A sair head." There was a guarded reticence 
 in the tone, painful from a child. 
 
 Liz Morrison, who was standing at Isa's door 
 chatting with her, looked thoughtfully at the boy 
 as he trotted away.
 
 1 64 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " An auld head on young shouthers," she said 
 sadly. 
 
 But Isa was thinking of her washing. " Wull's 
 on the ball again, I'm thinkin'," she snapped out. 
 
 " Ay ; my father yoked on him last night, an', 
 my word, he didna spare him." 
 
 " It's scandalous," Isa testily remarked. " A 
 big washin', an' everything waitin' for her! If 
 folk canna be lippened on " 
 
 Liz looked at Isa, and shook her head. 
 
 " ' Scandalous ' is no the word, Isa," she said. 
 " An' sic a fine dryin' day too ! " 
 
 Liz was right. " Scandalous " was not the word. 
 When Wull had haunted the inn night after night 
 shortly after his marriage, that was scandalous ; 
 and simple folks did not scruple to tell him so. 
 But in his downward course he had passed 
 beyond what was merely scandalous. Where 
 there is a sense of scandal there is a possibility of 
 reformation, and now Barncraig had almost given 
 up talking of him. 
 
 There is a black sheep in every family, and 
 a blackguard in every community. Wull was 
 accepted as an inevitable element in the con- 
 stitution of society, and, as such, tolerated. The 
 villagers' philosophy of life was not pessimistic, but
 
 DOD. 165 
 
 there was in it a kind of melancholy fatalism. 
 And so they thought of Wull as filling a place 
 which, in the mysterious dispensations of Provi- 
 dence, must be filled by some one, and were 
 " thankfu' it wasna ane o' their ain ". Only now 
 and again their contempt found expression in 
 mumbled phrases. " An able-bodied man," they 
 said, " an' his wife gaun out washin' ; damn ! " 
 
 Years had glided on, and Jean had borne much 
 and suffered much ; but she did not proclaim her 
 indignities in the street, and though her neigh- 
 bours sympathised with her they were usually 
 silent. People found that the best thing they 
 could do for her was to give her work ; and many 
 who might have done their washing themselves, 
 and could ill afford to pay for having it done, got 
 Jean to help them. 
 
 " It wasna muckle for them," they reasoned, 
 " but it meant a lot for her, poor body ; " adding, by 
 way of an economical justification, "an' it wasna 
 like the washin' was ill done." 
 
 They could not help her in any other way ; for 
 she was too proud to accept charity. Once she 
 had applied to the Trust to have her children 
 educated free; but her application was not con- 
 sidered. She was not a widow.
 
 1 66 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " It would be a blessin' gin she was," her sister 
 had muttered, but she did not say it in Jean's 
 hearing. That was the only time she had asked 
 for relief. But, then, it was no disgrace to have 
 one's children educated by the Trust ; for it did 
 not come off the rates. The money had been left 
 for the children of the deserving poor, and there 
 were children, not orphans, benefiting from it, 
 whose parents did not even have the plea of 
 poverty. But a Trust aims at being a kind of 
 Providence, and its ways are inscrutable. Jean 
 never made a second application. 
 
 Three children had been born to her besides her 
 first and favoured one ; but it was in Dod that her 
 hopes were stayed. He had always been a 
 " biddable laddie," and even as a child he had 
 helped to keep the house. In the mornings before 
 school-time, he was the grocer's message boy ; 
 now and again the schoolmaster made errands 
 for him ; and in the evening he helped old 
 Robbie Reid in the minister's garden. Some- 
 times, at the end of a week, he had earned as 
 much as five shillings ; and it was worth more 
 than all his labour to count it out in shillings, 
 and sixpences, and pennies into his mother's 
 hands.
 
 DOD. 167 
 
 " That's a big wage this week, Dod," she 
 would say ; " we'll soon be growin' rich." 
 
 " Ay, mother ; but wait till I'm a man." 
 
 What he meant to do when he was a man he 
 did not say, and very likely had not considered ; 
 but it was going to be something good for his 
 mother. 
 
 Among his schoolfellows he was a favourite. 
 It was at school that he got the name " Dod," 
 and the villagers almost forgot that he had been 
 christened " George ". He was as light-hearted as 
 any one of the boys, and had always been the best 
 fighter in his class. If there was any mischief on 
 hand, Dod was sure to be the ringleader, and 
 many a thrashing did he get. But no one ever 
 accused him of any meanness. 
 
 " He was a wild laddie," the women said, 
 " but no sulky." 
 
 From the tone, one would have gathered that 
 they were proud of his wildness. 
 
 " Dod '11 mak' a braw sailor yet," Eben Reid 
 prophesied ; for Dod could manage a boat with 
 the best. 
 
 After leaving school, he worked on the hill-head 
 for a year or two, but that was not the life he 
 wanted. Perhaps he felt that he would be better
 
 1 68 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 away from home for a time ; for he was now old 
 enough to understand the contemptuous remarks 
 he was daily hearing about his father, and he felt 
 them keenly. They were remarks he could not 
 resent ; for they always implied an unspoken 
 sympathy for his mother, and, besides, he knew 
 that they were too true. Be that as it may, he 
 tired of greasing hutches, and apprenticed himself 
 to the Lancashire Lass under Captain Gow, who 
 was a native of Barncraig. 
 
 He had been away three years, his very first 
 voyage ; and when he came back, bronzed and 
 broad-shouldered, what a month of it he had at 
 home ! His mother seemed to grow younger when 
 he was beside her again, her Dod ; and forgot all 
 about the hardships of her own lot. Even his 
 father was at his best, and did not get disagreeably 
 drunk. Dod had made him the present of a pound, 
 and he knew where to spend it. 
 
 "There's some excuse for a man gettin' drunk," 
 he sentimentally observed at the inn, " when a fine 
 strappin' fellow like yon comes hame frae a three 
 years' voyage." 
 
 " He's a son to be proud o'," Allan drily ad- 
 mitted, adding in an aside to Pillan, who stood by, 
 " though he doesna tak' after his father."
 
 DOD. 169 
 
 The stolid Pillan took his pipe from his teeth 
 and screwed his face behind a cloud of smoke. 
 Allan had said a very clever thing, he thought. 
 
 Since then, Dod had been home twice, and now 
 he was at home again. He was going to stay for 
 a month or two this time ; for he intended to pass 
 for mate, and after the examination he was to be 
 married. 
 
 It was the first morning after his arrival, and he 
 had just had breakfast and gone out. There was 
 one who would be eagerly waiting to see him ; for 
 it was late when he arrived the night before, and he 
 had spent the night at home. As soon as he was 
 gone his mother busied herself about the room. 
 She got the breakfast dishes washed, and was now 
 preparing for dinner. She must have a good 
 dinner for Dod. She would have got one, though 
 she had had to borrow to get it. But there wjis 
 no need of borrowing at all. She had " plenty 
 of money now ". Indeed, for the last few years 
 she might have lived well enough without going 
 out to work ; for she had been in receipt of Dod's 
 half-pay. But she would not use it. It was Dod's, 
 and she had had it banked for him. Besides, 
 hard work had become a second nature to her, 
 and when she was washing and ironing there was
 
 17 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 no time for brooding. It is true she had lifted 
 some money when her eldest daughter Barbara 
 was married ; but then Dod had insisted on 
 defraying the whole expense. At the last term 
 day, too, she had been ill, and had been forced to 
 send to the bank again, in order to pay the rent. 
 But she had done so very reluctantly, and thought 
 of it still with regret. Her younger son had 
 offered to help her then, but he had been recently 
 married and well, she preferred being indebted 
 to Dod. 
 
 About twelve o'clock Dod returned. He came 
 in boisterously singing 
 
 For the jolly Jack Tar is in port once more, 
 
 Singing, Hey ho, hey, holly hoy ! 
 And his lass is a-smiling to see him ashore, 
 
 Sing, Ahoy, ship ahoy, ship ahoy ! 
 So let the waves rise now, and let the winds roar, 
 Her jolly Jack Tar is ashore, safe ashore, 
 
 Her jolly Jack Tar is ashore ! 
 
 " I've ha'en a glass or twa, mother," he said as 
 he entered ; " a'body's tryin' their best to fill me 
 fu' the day." 
 
 " Sit down, sit down," she said, beaming with 
 pleasure, " an' see if ye've forgotten the taste o' 
 your mother's kail."
 
 DOD. 171 
 
 " No fears o' that, mother ; an' I've an appetite 
 as sharp as an easterly haar." 
 
 The father did not come in to dinner, and his 
 name was not mentioned. Jean herself did not ex- 
 pect him, and Dod did not question as to the cause 
 of his absence. 
 
 " I'm gaun up to the master to see if he'll gi'e me 
 a help for the examination," he informed his mother 
 after he had finished dinner; "an' then Tarn an' 
 me's gaun to sail alang to Santserfs. He's no 
 workin' the day." 
 
 Tarn was the father of -Grace Allan, to whom 
 Dod was engaged to be married. 
 
 "But ye'll be back for tea, will ye no?" She 
 seemed to grudge him a minute out of her 
 sight. 
 
 "Ay, ay, mother; dinna be feared for me at 
 meal-times. We'll be back afore six, an' we'll both 
 come here for tea. Grace'll be down afore that. I 
 said ye would expect her." 
 
 " I'll be proud to see her, Dod. She's a fine lassie, 
 is Grace." 
 
 " It'll be queer beginnin' schoolin' again," he 
 mused. " I wonder how I'll get on. Read'lys, 
 he'll be gettin' me to do some writin' and countin' 
 i' the afternoons. That was what Ekky Rogers
 
 172 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 did afore he passed for mate. I was i' the first 
 class at the time." 
 
 " When Ekky Rogers got through, you'll man- 
 age easy, Dod. He vvasna that clever ava'." 
 
 " I'm no that dull i' the uptak'," he answered ; 
 " but it's an' awfu' job for me to learn things by 
 heart. Ye mind how ye used to hear me at the 
 Second Commandment ? It ta'en me an awfu' 
 time to learn that ane aff." 
 
 " Ay, Dod, I mind fine ; but ye managed it, ay, 
 ye managed it, an' it's a hard ane to learn." 
 
 " Weel, I'll stick in, ony way," he said rising, 
 "an' do my best." He put his arm round his 
 mother's shoulders as he moved to the door. " I'll 
 just be in time to see the master afore the school 
 gangs in i' the afternoon." 
 
 Standing at the door, she looked up pleadingly 
 into his face. " Dinna tak' ony mair whisky, Dod," 
 she whispered. " It's no that ye have mair than 
 ye can carry ; but, oh Dod, I'm feared, feared." 
 
 Dod laughed cheerily. " Dinna be feared for 
 me, mother. I ken when to stop ; but this is a 
 high day an' a holiday, ye ken. See that you an' 
 Grace have a big tea waitin' ; tea an' toast, 
 mother. It's a lang time since I had that." 
 
 She turned and began to redd up the room
 
 DOD. 173 
 
 again as soon as he was gone. How light work 
 was, when it was for him ; and yet how bare she 
 felt the kitchen to be ! Everything] was clean, but 
 there was not much in the room, and its cleanli- 
 ness and order made it seem emptier than it 
 actually was. 
 
 " Dod'll ha'e a brawer house when he gets a 
 house o' his ain," she sighed ; "but he'll aye ha'e 
 a warm heart to this ane, bare though it be." 
 
 The thought seemed to console her, and she 
 hummed to herself, moving about at her work. 
 Dod was home again, and was going to be at 
 home for some time yet. That was her thought. 
 It flooded her heart with happiness, and seemed 
 even to fill the room with sunlight. She had the 
 whole afternoon to herself. Her husband did not 
 return, and she was perfectly happy. What a fine 
 manly fellow Dod was ! And he was her son, her 
 first-born and her favourite. 
 
 Long before six o'clock the table was set, and a 
 plate piled with buttered toast was standing on 
 the fender in front of the fire. The kettle was 
 boiling, and everything was ready for the tea 
 being infused as soon as they returned. Then 
 she sat down on a low chair by the side of the fire, 
 and, with her clasped hands resting on her clean,
 
 174 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 white apron, allowed her thoughts to wander 
 away into dreamland. It was pleasant doing noth- 
 ing, hardly thinking, only living. On any other day 
 she would have considered the time wasted ; but 
 when she was waiting for Dod, that was different. 
 The afternoon crept away, and gloaming came, 
 but she would not light the gas till she heard 
 their footsteps on the door-step, and the breezy 
 laughter of Dod. 
 
 By and by her sister came in, and sat down 
 in the chair by the door. 
 
 " Ye're i' the dark, Jean," she said. 
 
 " Ay, it's fine just to sit an' think ; darkness is 
 on ye afore ye ken." 
 
 " Ay," said Mag. 
 
 She sat quite in the shadow, and Jean did not 
 see her face. Had she seen it, she would have 
 noticed that it was haggard and drawn. 
 
 " Draw in ower to the fire, Mag." 
 
 But Mag was content to remain where she was. 
 " I'm fine here, thank ye." 
 
 That was a new way for her to speak to her 
 sister. She would have said the same words to a 
 stranger. But it did not seem to strike Jean as 
 strange. Mag was also peculiarly quiet to-night. 
 She usually bubbled over with gossip ; but Jean's
 
 DOD. 
 
 '75 
 
 own thoughts were so full of peace that she did 
 not wonder at her sister's silence. 
 
 There was perfect stillness for a time. The 
 embers hardly crackled, crooning themselves to 
 sleep ; and the ticking of the clock, unseen in the 
 gloom, sounded strangely solemn. Outside the 
 sea moaned wearily. 
 
 Jenny Briggs, who lived opposite, opened the 
 door softly and entered. 
 
 " I' the dark yet, Jean ? " she too observed. 
 
 "Ay," Mag answered for her, "she's i' the dark." 
 
 "Sit down, Jenny," Jean said; "I thought ye 
 was Grace comin' ; she's to be down for tea. 
 They shouldna be that lang o' comin'. Is that 
 no them the now ? " 
 
 A footstep was heard outside, and the door 
 opened. 
 
 " No, it's no them yet, Jean." Mag had risen 
 and was bending over her sister. " It's the 
 minister." 
 
 Jean rose, and, without speaking, reached for 
 the matches and lit the gas. Then she turned 
 and looked straight into the minister's face. He 
 winced, and turned slightly away. Mag was 
 standing at his side, and Jenny was busying her- 
 self with the window-blind.
 
 176 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Mag's face was twitching violently, as if she was 
 weeping without tears, sobbing without a sound. 
 
 " What is't, Mag ? " The words fell from her 
 lips, clearly pronounced but brokenly expression- 
 less. 
 
 "Compose yoursel', Jean; compose yoursel'," 
 Mag wailed. 
 
 " My poor woman ! " The minister raised his 
 hand, and let it fall again by his side. 
 
 Jean looked from the one to the other, and, 
 leaning forward, she touched the minister's arm 
 with the tips of her fingers. 
 
 " Ye dinna mean Dod ? " 
 
 " My poor woman ! " he muttered again. 
 
 "My Dod! My Dod ! " 
 
 "The boat capsized, Jean," her sister cried; 
 " it capsized." 
 
 " My Dod ! " 
 
 " They're both lost," Jenny said in a pathetic 
 monotone. " It's an awfu' blow, but the Lord's 
 will " 
 
 " Say something, Jean ; say something, woman," 
 Mag cried. "Will ye no put up a prayer, 
 sir?" 
 
 " No, sir, no yet ; thank ye," Jean said, as if 
 she were speaking with perfect calmness. " The
 
 DOD. 177 
 
 Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away but I 
 canna finish the verse yet." 
 
 " It is a terrible blow." The minister spoke 
 more brokenly than the mother herself. 
 
 She was standing still in the same position as 
 if she had been turned to stone. Mag and Jenny 
 came to her and took hold of her arms. " Come 
 awa' an' lie down," her sister pleaded ; " ye're 
 sair needin' a rest." 
 
 Jean turned and looked on her with expression- 
 less eyes. " Ay, Mag, ay ; I've a big washin' the 
 morn." 
 
 12
 
 i 7 8 
 
 LOWRIE AND LINTY. 
 
 IN EIGHT CHAPTERS. 
 
 A schooner cam' ayont the quay, 
 
 An' O, she was a sicht to see, 
 
 Wi' silken sails an' masts o' gowd, 
 
 Her ropes in threads o' silver row'd. 
 
 O sic a bonny ship as this 
 
 The waves cam' loupin' keen to kiss. 
 
 The skipper stood upon the deck, 
 
 A gowden chain about his neck, 
 
 Wi' strings o' pearlin's hangin' down, 
 
 An' silver buckles to his shoon. 
 
 " O wha sail come an' sail wi' me 
 
 To sunny lands ayont the sea, 
 
 Whaur skies are o' the cloudless blue 
 
 An' summer bides the twal'month through ? 
 
 Come sign an' sail across the main, 
 
 Ye'se ne'er ha'e sic a chance again, 
 
 For a better craft there couldna be 
 
 Than The Gowden Opportunity.'" 
 
 Lowrie's Lyrics. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 A LETTER TO SWAN KEY. 
 
 " HA'E ye heard the news ? " old Girzie asked on 
 entering the store one Monday morning. 
 
 It was almost on the stroke of ten, and there
 
 A LETTER TO SWANKEY. 179 
 
 was a goodly muster of the village housewives, 
 looking fresh and trim in their wincey wrappers 
 and short woollen shawls. The shawls, flung over 
 their shoulders, were tucked in at their waists 
 under expansive linen aprons, which reached the 
 whole length of their skirts. 
 
 They turned to Girzie with questioning eyes, 
 which looked brighter peering from eager faces, 
 haloed in the faultless frillings of clean white 
 mutches. The frills and flounces of modern millin- 
 ery give a suspicion of frivolity ; but nothing could 
 look more sober and chaste than the convolvulus 
 frills of the old-fashioned mutch ; and this being 
 Monday morning, the mutches looked their very 
 best. The memory of the Sabbath evening was 
 still upon them. Jess Black's was the only one 
 that looked dowdy, but Jess was the only one who 
 did not notice it. She was careless and slatternly, 
 was Jess, albeit the most confirmed gossip of the 
 village. The word " news " had a fatal fascination 
 for her, which she was unable to resist. 
 
 This morning it arrested her in the middle of a 
 tirade against " Sabbath-day religion," bristling 
 with references to " some folk," and gathering 
 vehemence from Mag Aird's concurrence : and 
 Mag was not ordinarily obtuse.
 
 i8o SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Jess's flow of language ceased, and she swung 
 round and faced Girzie. " News ? " she queried. 
 
 " A marriage ? A death ? A ? No ! We havena 
 
 heard." 
 
 " I saw it wi' my ain e'en," Girzie began, " or I 
 wouldna ha'e believed it ; but just as I was comin' 
 round I saw Adam Bell takin' a letter in to Swan- 
 key." 
 
 The listeners' mouths opened, and their eyes 
 dilated in astonishment ; but for a second none of 
 them could say a word. 
 
 Mag Reid was the first to break the silence. 
 " Ye dinna say so ? " she gasped. 
 
 " As true as I'm stan'in' here," Girzie averred 
 with solemnity. 
 
 "You wouldna see the letter?" Jess eagerly 
 asked. " Ye would ken a funeral letter if ye saw 
 it?" 
 
 " It wasna a funeral letter, Jess ; I saw that 
 muckle ; but, of course, I couldna get a glisk o' the 
 writin', an' it would ha'e been out o' place to 
 speir." 
 
 " Of course! " they all chimed in; but there was 
 a disappointed ring about the avowal, as if it did 
 not sort with the sentiment expressed. 
 
 " I never heard o' him gettin' a letter afore,"
 
 A LETTER TO SWANKEY. 181 
 
 May Fairley muttered; "an* he's been i' the place, 
 now, let me see 
 
 " Thirty years, at ony rate," Betty Morrison 
 struck in. 
 
 " Ay, thirty full," said Girzie. "I wasna that 
 lang married when he cam'." 
 
 "An" he has no friends at a', I've heard say," 
 Jess remarked. 
 
 " No a single relation ! " Girzie spoke quite 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 "Eh me!" sighed Mary Reid in a tone of 
 tearful commiseration, " no a livin' soul belangin' 
 him ! " The village was rich in relationships, es- 
 pecially in Reids, and Mary's sympathy was sincere. 
 
 "Poor cr'atur'!" another remarked; "he's a po't, 
 ye ken ; " as if that were sufficient explanation of 
 his solitary existence. 
 
 But this sympathy was becoming dangerously 
 distracting. Jess's next question brought the 
 conversation back to its proper groove. 
 
 "But what about the letter?" she asked. "If 
 it was a blue envelope, it would read'lys be on 
 business." 
 
 " It wasna blue," Girzie answered ; " an' it 
 wasna a common ane either; mair squarer-like 
 than ordinar'."
 
 1 82 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " Losh preserve us ! " Mag Aird ejaculated, " it 
 would be a new-fashioned ane, an' it's just the 
 gentry 7 folk that uses them. I got ane mysel' no 
 that lang syne, but it cam' frae the Big House." 
 
 "Ay, Mag," Jess sneered, "that was just the 
 week afore ye bought your new bannet." 
 
 Mag turned away with a scowl, but said nothing. 
 Jess Black was spiteful and envious, and bore her 
 a grudge because Mistress Lawson chose to be 
 friendly with her. It was not worth while 
 answering such a person. 
 
 " Was it a bulky-lookin' letter, did ye notice ? " 
 asked Jean Fairley. " It might be frae a lawyer, 
 ye ken." 
 
 " Good sakes, Jean," Jess said with a broad 
 smile, and trying a parting dig at Mag, " do ye 
 think that a' cobblers ha'e dealin's wi' lawyers ? 
 It was Swankey that got the letter, no Eben. 
 Swankey, poor chiel, has no wife to crave him 
 for aliment." 
 
 This was too much for Mag. Her purchases 
 were already made, and there was no need to stay 
 longer. She put on her plaintive and long-suffer- 
 ing expression, and bore herself away with the 
 meekness of a martyr. 
 
 " You've an awfu' tongue, Jess," Johnny re-
 
 A LETTER TO SWANKEY. 183 
 
 marked from behind the counter, when Mag was 
 gone. " Can ye no let the poor woman alone, 
 grass widow though she be ? " 
 
 " Ay, an' it's her ain fau't that she is," Jess 
 answered smartly; "although she would ha'e ye 
 to think it to her credit." 
 
 " But what has that to do wi' the letter ava' ? " 
 old Betty asked. " Ha'e ye no notion o' whaur 
 it cam' frae, Girzie ? " 
 
 " I've telled ye a' I ken," Girzie replied with the 
 slightest touch of impatience, " an' I'm doubtin' 
 I've led ye a' into a blind entry." 
 
 " No fears, Girzie," was Jess's confident asser- 
 tion as she left ; " I'll win to the boddom o' this 
 yet. It needs reddin' up I'se warran'." 
 
 " She's aye makin' mysteries, is Jess," Girzie 
 moralised, " out o' things as simple as A B C, 
 though I would like to ken mysel' about this- 
 letter. I wonder wha it can be frae." 
 
 Jess looked in at the bakehouse on her way 
 home, to communicate the startling intelligence 
 to her "man"; but Milne was busy. He was 
 running the batch, and answered her as if he 
 were addressing the loaves in the farthest recesses 
 of the oven.
 
 1 84 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " Ha'e ye heard that Swankey has gotten a 
 letter ? " she cried as she opened the door. 
 
 "So have I," Milne answered, placing a couple 
 of loaves on the palm of the peel. " Hand me a 
 setter, Geordy," he added, addressing the apprentice. 
 
 " That's nothing," Jess snapped out impatiently. 
 
 " It's a matter o' ten pounds," remarked her 
 imperturbable husband, in a kind of soliloquy to 
 the batch inside, " to be paid this week." 
 
 Jess changed her tactics, and showed her hand 
 boldly. What was the use of finessing with a 
 partner so dense ? "I would like fine to ken 
 what it was about an' wha it was frae," she said. 
 " May be Adam Bell could tell ye." 
 
 " May be," answered the baker ; " or ye might 
 get it out o' Swankey himsel'. Is your Sabbath 
 boots no needin' new gussets?" The tone be- 
 trayed no interest in the subject whatever, and 
 the answer, to Jess, was a most aggravating one ; 
 but she was not to be beaten. 
 
 " It wasna a funeral letter, either," she per- 
 sisted. 
 
 " That would be a disappointment to ye ; but 
 it might be his marriage lines." He was peering 
 into the oven as he spoke. Want of interest was 
 annoying, but levity was worse.
 
 A LETTER TO SWANKEY. 185 
 
 " Ha'e ye no human feelings at a' ? " she 
 demanded, losing all her small stock of patience. 
 " I might as weel speak to the trough as to you." 
 
 " Imphm ! " came from the oven mouth. " I'm 
 but a man body." 
 
 Jess banged the door and hurried away. 
 " What a man to be tied to ' " she muttered; "no 
 a spark o' interest, an' no a word o' sense. He's 
 as dull as his dough." 
 
 "Did ye ever see sic inquisitiveness ? " asked 
 her husband, speaking to nobody in particular. 
 He flung to the oven door, and with his apron 
 wiped the beads of perspiration from his reeking 
 forehead. " If she's no amon' clashes an' lees 
 she's like a fish out o' water, an' she has time for 
 a'body's affairs but her ain. An' yet," he added, 
 lifting his pipe and raking out the old " dottle," 
 " it's no ilka day that Swankey gets a letter. I 
 wonder what it bodes." 
 
 It was soon known all over the village that a 
 letter had been delivered to Swankey, and there 
 was much speculation as to its source and 
 contents. When one has lived in a village for 
 thirty years, and during that time has never been 
 known to hold communication with the world 
 outside, the arrival of a letter may be regarded
 
 1 86 SUNSHINE AND HA Ah 
 
 not only as an incident in the life of the individual, 
 but as an event to be chronicled in the annals of 
 the place. It was a memorable day in Barncraig; 
 for, is it not a fact that Tammy Setoun was born 
 that day the letter cam' to Lowrie ? Everybody 
 talked of it. When the miners came from the 
 pit their wives told them as they sat at dinner. 
 But some knew of it before they reached home. 
 " Ay ! " said Pillan, when his wife communicated 
 the news, " I heard it at the boddom ; " and 
 Andrew Morrison was before Pillan, for he had 
 been told at the " face ". 
 
 At Haw Head in the afternoon Adam Bell was 
 questioned and cross-questioned, but he had little 
 to say. " It had the Edinburgh post mark," he 
 said, " but I couldna mak' out the first ane ; it 
 \vas awfu' bluthered, an' I tried my best too." 
 
 " Post folk should be mair partic'lar," General 
 Grey indignantly remarked. " Ye can hardly tell 
 whaur a letter comes frae now till ye open it." 
 
 " It's thae lassies," Adam explained in a tone of 
 hopeless resignation ; " they're careless hussies the 
 whole bang-dollop o' them ! An Gover'ment's 
 gaun awfu' in for them now-a-days." 
 
 " An' if that's no to your likin', what although ? 
 It's but natural," Pillan answered ; but whether
 
 A LETTER TO SWANKEY. 187 
 
 he meant a joke, no one could tell from his stolid 
 countenance ; and the remark was accepted in all 
 seriousness. 
 
 " What was the writin' like ? " the general 
 asked. 
 
 " Man, it was rale neat," Adam replied ; " a fine 
 readable hand, like a body that's used wi' writin'." 
 
 " Was it addressed to ' Swankey ' ? ;> asked John 
 Kennie. 
 
 Morrison looked pityingly on the questioner. 
 " Hoots, havers, John man ! " he answered. " Ye 
 surely ken better than that. It would be to Master 
 Lawrence Robin." 
 
 "No, man," Adam interrupted, "ye're wrang 
 there ; it was to Lawrence Robin, Esquire, Shoe- 
 maker, Barncraig, by Santserfs " 
 
 " Lawrence Robin, Esquire ? " echoed all in con- 
 sternation. 
 
 " Ay, esquire it was," Adam repeated. 
 
 Pillan took his pipe from his teeth and grunted. 
 " A bonny-like esquire!" he said. "'Lowrie Robin, 
 Po't,' would ha'e been liker the thing." 
 
 " Esquire ? " Morrison uttered the word gingerly, 
 as if the sound of it were not for his station in life. 
 " It maun be frae some genteel body. It would 
 be a man's writin' ? "
 
 1 88 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 11 Ay, I would say so," Adam ventured, " though 
 there's no muckle differ now-a-days." 
 
 Clearly Adam could tell them no more. He 
 knew that he had delivered a letter to Swankey ; 
 that it was not a funeral letter ; and that the 
 address was in a fine readable hand. There his 
 information ended, and the rest was merely con- 
 jecture. 
 
 When Linty came home from school in the 
 afternoon, his mother, who had by that time heard 
 the news, mentioned the matter to him, but he 
 was already aware of it. " I heard it i' the school," 
 he said ; " Rob Morrison telled me. Wha is it 
 frae ? " 
 
 " Ah, but I canna tell ye that, Angus," his mother 
 answered. "I only hope it's no ill news; but 
 Lowrie can keep his ain counsel ; an' it's no for 
 other folk to pry into his affairs." 
 
 Angus took his tea in silence, and it was evident 
 that he was absorbed in thought. The mystery of 
 the letter had taken hold of even the dreamy-eyed 
 Linty. When he had finished he prepared to set 
 off for Swankey 's as usual, but at the door his 
 mother spoke to him. " Ye're gaun to Swankey's 
 the now ? " she asked.
 
 A LETTER TO SWAN KEY. 189 
 
 "Ay," he answered, " but I'll no be lang." 
 
 "Weel,"she said, "dinna be speirin' about the 
 letter. It's no business o' ours, an' we've no right 
 to ken what was in it, or wha it was frae." 
 
 Angus looked up doubtfully. " I can surely say 
 that I'd heard he'd gotten a letter?" 
 
 " Ou ay," his mother answered; "ye may say 
 that wi' a' freedom ; but dinna be inquisitive, 
 laddie." 
 
 Angus readily assented, and immediately hurried 
 away. When he reached Swankey's, he peered 
 into the window and saw the poet sitting gazing, 
 abstracted and thoughtful, into the smouldering 
 embers of a dying fire. His face seemed almost 
 lined with thought, and he only raised his head 
 and nodded as Angus entered, pointing to the 
 chair which seemed solely kept for any chance 
 visitor. Linty took it in silence. He saw that 
 the poet was depressed and perplexed, and he did 
 not venture to disturb his reflections. It was 
 easy enough to sit quiet; and silence at Swankey's 
 was never oppressive. 
 
 Presently the old man fumbled for his pipe, 
 which he slowly filled. When one has to cut the 
 tobacco, and rub it down between the palms of 
 the hands, filling a pipe becomes an art which is
 
 1 90 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 as conducive to thought as smoking itself; and 
 Swankey rubbed away, silently and philosophically. 
 His pipe was lit, and the smoke curling about his 
 head ere he spoke. " This has been an awfu' 
 lazy day," he began, still gazing into the embers, 
 and seeming more to be thinking aloud than 
 addressing himself to his young friend. " I've 
 been thinkin' an' thinkin' the lee-langday; thinkin' 
 o' things that happened thirty years syne." He 
 took his pipe from his lips, and turned and looked 
 pathetically to Linty. " I've ha'en a letter the 
 day." 
 
 " Ay," said Linty, blushing, as if the avowal 
 were a confession of curiosity, " I heard that i' the 
 school." 
 
 "Ay, I daresay!" Swankey answered, resuming 
 his pipe. " It'll be a' ower the town by this time. 
 It's the first letter that I ever got here." 
 
 He puffed away in silence for a time and then 
 interjected, as if he were merely saying something 
 parenthetically, " Frae Musseltown". 
 
 Angus had never heard of the town before, but 
 he instinctively guessed at the source of the letter. 
 
 " Lizzie ? " he whispered. 
 
 " No exac'ly, Linty. It was frae her minister; 
 about her. She's awa'."
 
 A LETTER TO SWANKEY. 191 
 
 "Dead?" 
 
 "Ay! Sabbath mornin'." 
 
 There was another pause ; and Linty sat gazing 
 on the poor poet, but he was, in the sincerity of 
 his sympathy, unable to think of anything to 
 say. 
 
 " It's a lang story," Swankey resumed, tapping 
 his pipe against his thumb nail. " Her man 
 died three years syne ; an' both her bairns were 
 ta'en awa' i' their teens. She's been livin' a' alone; 
 for she had neither sister nor brother; an' her 
 father an' mother were i' the mools when I kent 
 her." 
 
 He laid his pipe down and drew on his spec- 
 tacles. Opening the table drawer, he took out the 
 letter and gazed on it without speaking. He w r as 
 evidently thinking of the Lizzie he had known so 
 many, many years agoJ ^ 
 
 Spreading the letter out before him on the table 
 he looked up again and continued his story. 
 " Some sailor chap that's been here had telled her 
 whaur I was bidin' ; an' when she ta'en ill, she 
 made her minister promise to write to me when 
 she died. ' To ane that she wranged mony a year 
 an' day syne,' is her words, poor lassie ! ' She 
 canna ask me to forgi'e her' as if she was to
 
 192 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 bear the brunt o' the blame ' but she would like 
 if I could come to her funeral '." 
 
 He folded the letter up again and placed it 
 reverently away, as if it had been written by the 
 hand of her who was now dead. 
 
 " When is it ? " Linty asked briefly. 
 
 " The morn. I would need to be awa' wi' the 
 first train." 
 
 " Ha'e ha'e ye claes?" The. question was 
 put timidly, and almost in a whisper ; but Swan- 
 key did not resent what it seemed to imply. 
 
 "No, Linty laddie; I ha'ena a decent steek ; 
 but I maun gang, claes or no claes." 
 
 Angus abruptly rose from his seat. " I'm awa' 
 hame," he blurted out; " but I'll be back in a wee 
 while." 
 
 He was out of the door as he spoke, and racing 
 up the wynd, burst in upon his mother, breathless. 
 
 " I ken a' about Swankey's letter," he panted, 
 adding, as he caught her reproachful look, " but I 
 didna speir onything; he telled me hissel'." 
 
 He lifted a stool from the side of the fire, and 
 placing it by his mother's chair sat down beside 
 her. Taking her hand in his, he began telling all 
 he knew about Lizzie, of the poem, of the poet's 
 Christmas story, and now of Lizzie's death and of
 
 A LETTER TO SWAN KEY. 
 
 193 
 
 poor Lowrie's dilemma. He remembered Lowrie's 
 words on Christmas day, that the story was for 
 " no ears but his ain," and up till now he had 
 kept it religiously to himself. But if he were to 
 help him he must let his mother know all; and, 
 besides, telling it to her was not like telling any- 
 body else : he was not betraying any trust in 
 doing so. His mother listened till he was done, 
 and then gazed down into his up-turned face. 
 She read all that was written in that wistful 
 look. 
 
 " I ken what ye want, Angus," she said. " Do 
 ye no think it's hard for me to gi'e them ? " 
 
 Angus did not speak, but the tears were in his 
 eyes. He knew he was asking much, and he felt 
 what it would cost his mother to part with 
 them. 
 
 " But I'll no refuse you," she continued. " I would 
 ha'e done it mysel', Angus, for he's a good kind 
 cr'atur', is Lowrie." 
 
 She rose and went " ben " the house, returning 
 presently with a bundle of clothes. " They should 
 just fit him, Angus," she said, "for your father 
 was o' Lowrie's build. There's his frock coat an' 
 waistcoat an' breeks. I think I'd as lief gi'e a 
 white shirt an' collar an' tie as well. The lum'll 
 
 13
 
 194 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 be auld-fashioned now ; but if it fits him, Lowrie'll 
 no be ower proud to wear it." 
 
 Angus drew his mother's face down to his own 
 and kissed her. " If you tie them up I'll tak' them 
 down ; no yet, but after it's dark, when nobody'll 
 see me." 
 
 The mother fondled his black waving hair. 
 " Your father would ha'e done the very same, 
 Angus," was all she said. " Ye're growin' liker 
 him every day ; " adding with a forced smile, as if 
 to take away suspicion of sentiment, "an' ye could- 
 na be liker a sibber friend." 
 
 It was quite dark when Angus got back to Swan- 
 key's. The poet was still sitting thoughtfully by 
 the fire ; but the shutter was on and the lamp lit, 
 when Linty entered with a hat box in one hand, 
 and a bundle of clothes over his arm. He laid 
 them down on the table without speaking a word, 
 doing, like most country folks, a kindly thing very 
 awkwardly. Swankey turned himself in his chair, 
 but for a time did not trust himself to speak. 
 
 " Is that what ye gaed for, Angus ? " he at last 
 managed to say. 
 
 " Ay," returned Angus with business-like brevity. 
 " Thae was my father's, an' my mother says you're 
 to wear them."
 
 A LETTER TO SWAN KEY. 195 
 
 "I'll do that, Angus," Swankey said simply; "an' 
 think no shame o' it ; an' they're the only claes i' 
 the town that I wouldna refuse. Tell your mother, 
 but no ; dinna tell her onything. Just say that 
 auld Lowrie'll wear them, and he'll never forgot 
 her kindness." 
 
 " Tammy Briggs'll be drivin' to the station the 
 morn's mornin'," Linty observed, changing the 
 subject. " Ye can get a ride on his cart." 
 
 ''I'd rather gang alangmyseF," Swankey answered, 
 " wi' nobody to speir ony questions." 
 
 " Ye'll need to be awa' by six o'clock ? " 
 
 "Ay, Angus, ay ! But I'll no sleep in." 
 
 " I'll come, an' gang alang wi' ye." 
 
 " Thank ye, thank ye. I'll be glad o' your com- 
 pany." 
 
 "Ye'll ye'll ha'e plenty o' money for your 
 train ? " 
 
 " Ou ay, Angus, as muckle's ser' my turn." 
 
 " Good-night, then ; I'll be down i' the mornin' ; " 
 and Linty was off. 
 
 He ran up against Jess Black and Mag Reid 
 talking at Jess's door. Seeing who he was, Jess 
 grabbed him by the arm ere he could pass.
 
 196 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " What was Swankey's letter about ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 Linty drew himself up and looked her boldly in 
 the face. " It was about a funeral," he said ; and 
 ducking under her arm, he wrenched himself from 
 her grasp and darted up the wynd. 
 
 "An' that was a'!" Jess muttered in a tone of 
 deep resentment, " after a' their talkin' an' guessin' ! 
 Some folk raise stories out o' nothing. Are ye awa', 
 Mag? Good-night, then. What a thing to mak' 
 sic a stramash about ! A funeral ! "
 
 197 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 THE WALK TO SANTSERFS. 
 
 IT was bright and pleasant when Angus rose and 
 dressed next morning, and the air was sweet with 
 the freshness of spring. The village was perfectly 
 silent, save for the chirrupings of sparrows and 
 the twitter of an occasional swallow ; and the 
 rumbling of the pit drum, sounding soft and dreamy 
 in the distance, only accentuated the stillness of 
 the sleepy street. There was something buoyant 
 and refreshing in the breath of morn, and Angus's 
 spirits rose as soon as he was in the open air. 
 He had been somewhat depressed since he had 
 learned the contents of Lowrie's letter, as if with 
 a foreboding that something was going to happen, 
 he knew not what ; and his sleep had been filled 
 with dreams of Lowrie smoking disconsolately, and 
 of Lizzie, who, somehow or other, always turned 
 out to be Jess Black standing in her doorway, 
 and muttering in cold-blooded disappointment, "A 
 funeral ! " 
 
 It was just six o'clock, and the outside shutters
 
 198 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 were yet resting on the ground, covering only the 
 lower half of the window, as they had been lifted 
 down and left by the miners when they set out 
 for the day's work. Their wives and children were 
 still asleep, and there would be sufficient light from 
 the upper half of the window to let them see to 
 dress when they did rise. It would be an hour 
 yet ere they began to appear at their doors. The 
 only person astir was old Sandy Fernie, who was 
 returning from piloting a schooner out of the 
 harbour and bringing another in. Angus's early 
 appearance, even with an anomalous gingham 
 umbrella looking gigantic under his arm, did not 
 rouse in the pilot the slightest sensation of wonder. 
 Sandy " snooled " through life with bovine equa- 
 nimity, appearing at the harbour with the regular- 
 ity of the full tide, and in his mind there was no 
 corner for surmise or suspicion. Anybody else 
 would have noticed the gingham ; and Linty's 
 futile attempt to carry it as if this were a habit of 
 his, and that an umbrella was quite an ordinary 
 thing on a lovely spring morning, might have 
 touched the phlegmatic pilot to a second's specu- 
 lation. But, to tell the truth, Sandy had just 
 been sampling in the cabin of the Rhina, and was 
 now on his way to bed.
 
 THE WALK TO SANTSERFS. 
 
 199 
 
 " Up wi' the skregh o' day, Linty ! " was all his 
 greeting, not waiting for explanation or reply. 
 
 But Angus did not wish to meet anybody, and 
 felt relieved when Sandy's broad shoulders were 
 out of sight. Instead of going down by the Windy 
 Wynd he made round by Haw Brae, remembering 
 Jess Black lived in Windy Wynd, and fearing her 
 inquisitive tongue. But Jess, wife of a baker 
 though she was, was not an early riser, and would 
 not make her appearance for at least two hours 
 yet. Linty, however, was discreet and avoided 
 her door. 
 
 He found Swankey, already dressed and ready 
 to set out, standing just outside his door staring 
 vacantly across the sea. Linty could not help 
 feeling a pang of pain as he observed the helpless 
 attitude of the poor poet. It was not that the 
 clothes did not fit. The coat might have been 
 his own ; and even the " lum " hat, old-fashioned 
 as it was, did not come down to his ears, as Linty 
 had remarked of Dav Marshall's at Andrew Reid's 
 funeral. But his whole mien was pathetic, and 
 his eyes seemed filled with painful questionings, 
 like the eyes of a dog doubtful of its master's 
 mood, and mutely pleading for a kind word. 
 
 He turned as Linty came forward, and the two
 
 200 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 stood looking at each other for a second or two 
 in bashful silence. Lowrie mechanically took the 
 umbrella Angus handed him, and his appreciation 
 of his young friend's kindness and thoughtfulness 
 only expressed itself in his hungering eyes, which 
 seemed to become still more mutely and more 
 eloquently grateful. 
 
 After relieving himself of the umbrella, Angus 
 next drew from his pocket a fresh clay pipe, and 
 presented it to the astonished poet. 
 
 " They aye smoke a new pipe when they're 
 comin' back frae a funeral," he said. 
 
 " Ay," Lowrie drawled as he handled the clay, 
 " I've noticed that." Then he looked straight 
 into Angus's face again. " Will I do, think ye ? " 
 he asked, with the shyness and hesitation of a 
 child. 
 
 Angus blushed, feeling that Lowrie had read in 
 his face the pity which silence did not conceal. 
 " Ay," he answered reflectively, " but you dinna 
 look like yoursel'." 
 
 " No, Angus, no ! I dinna feel like mysel' ; but 
 that canna be helpet, I'll just need to thole awa'." 
 
 " It's no that ye dinna set them," Linty returned, 
 critically eyeing the drooping skirt of the frock 
 coat ; " but just as if ye was somebody else."
 
 THE WALK TO SANTSERFS. 201 
 
 Swankey sighed, letting his eyes wander slowly 
 down from his shirt front to his shining boots. 
 " I'm no like what I've been here," he said ; " an' 
 yet I'm mair liker what I used to be. There's 
 mair o' mysel' wi' me this mornin' than I've kent 
 for mony a year now. Man," he added, raising his 
 eyes again to the face of his young companion, 
 "if it wasna for my shouthers, I could maist 
 think I was Lawrence Robin o' Musseltown. But 
 they're past straightenin' now." And he made a 
 poor attempt at a smile, as if age and infirmity 
 were no more than a joke. 
 
 "We'll need to be gaun," Linty remarked, 
 unable to think of anything to say anent such a 
 delicate subject as old age and round shoulders. 
 
 " Ay ! " Lowrie turned, and gazed abstractedly 
 across the shimmering water. The waves were 
 dancing in the silvery sunlight, and gulls were 
 whirling and wheeling in the very ecstasy of 
 enjoyment. 
 
 The Drei Gebruder was already well out at sea, 
 her square sails dark against the luminous horizon, 
 and her mainsail glistening almost white in the 
 sunshine. 
 
 Linty followed the poet's gaze. 
 
 " Ower there ? " he queried.
 
 202 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " Ay ! " said Lowrie, turning and walking away; 
 " far awa' both in miles an' years. Ye mind what 
 Robbie says, ' We twa ha'e paiddled i' the burn '. 
 Come awa', Linty ; come awa'. ' But seas be- 
 tween us braid ha'e roared.' Ay, ay ! Since Auld 
 Langsyne." 
 
 The two, age and youth, winter and spring, 
 passed on up the Haw Brae and along by the 
 Cox'l, the poet silent and thoughtful, and Linty 
 silent through sympathy. It was a strange friend- 
 ship this friendship of old Lawrence Robin with 
 the sensitive-faced boy ; but life is full of friend- 
 ships, and there are many that seem as strange, 
 but none more beautiful, than the attachment of a 
 young innocent heart to one that has throbbed out 
 its decades till the body it beats in is bent with 
 its weight of years, and there is little left of the 
 life it feebly measures. What the attachment 
 was Angus could not have told, nor could Lowrie. 
 Angus's round eyes would have opened wide with 
 wonder had any one questioned him on the 
 subject of his liking for Lowrie. There was a 
 bond of union between the two, Barncraig knew ; 
 but what it was the villagers never tried to dis- 
 cover ; nay, never even wondered. That was 
 beyond the region of their speculations. Yet,
 
 THE WALK TO SANTSERFS. 203 
 
 here was a lad who looked up to Lowrie as he 
 might have done to a father; and here was an old 
 man who gave his confidences to a child, keeping 
 himself a sealed book to everybody else. It may 
 have been that the old man, shut up in himself, 
 found in the sympathy of a young nature that' 
 sympathy he had once had and lost ; the sympathy 
 his simple soul had since yearned for, but had 
 been too timid to seek. Coming to him freely and 
 unasked he had opened his heart to it, a heart 
 so crushed and so long hidden from the world 
 and in its generous warmth had felt again the 
 glow and poetry of his lost youth. 
 
 The poet's face was one of Linty's earliest re- 
 collections. He had gazed on it as a child, when 
 he went down to Lowrie's, clinging to his father's 
 hand, and standing between his knees had listened 
 while he and Lowrie sat chatting of poetry and 
 books, of song and story and ballad. That was 
 long ago, as it already seemed to Linty ; it began 
 when he was just wearing a frock, and many 
 things had happened since then : his father was 
 dead, and his little sister also had died. But 
 nothing had interrupted or interfered with those 
 visits to Lowrie's, begun he knew not exactly 
 when : they seemed now part of his life. His
 
 204 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 feeling towards Lowrie was in some respects 
 a peculiar one. It was something of reverence 
 and something of pity. He worshipped him and 
 championed him; if the schoolboys sneered at him, 
 Linty stood up for him. He was devoted to his 
 mother, and there was pride in his devotion ; he 
 was devoted to Lowrie, and sorry for him ; and 
 the story of Lizzie had come like a revelation to 
 Linty's young heart, as if it were the explanation 
 of this indefinable feeling of pity. Now that 
 'Lizzie, was dead, and her old lover was going to 
 her funeral, Linty thought it was for him to 
 support the poet in his trouble, and to show his 
 sympathy in little attentions and silence. 
 
 They marched along without speaking. Their 
 friendship was one of few words ; and there was 
 something so sweet and kindly in the softness of 
 the spring air that it seemed as if a soothing hand 
 were laid on the head of the poet, calming his 
 throbbing brain and making thought no more than 
 a dreamy feeling. The Cox'l was passed, and 
 they were at the harbour ere they had met a single 
 individual. There, however, the harbour-master 
 caught sight of them, and stood gaping ; and old 
 Geordy Marshall, passing the hutches over the 
 steelyard, was so astounded at the sight that he
 
 THE WALK TO SANTSERFS. 
 
 205 
 
 had not a word of reply to Lowrie's " Fine 
 mornin' ". He turned and gazed after them in 
 amazement. The boy at the horse's head stood 
 with his mouth open and his eyes staring. Even 
 the horse felt that there was something wrong. 
 It was waiting ior a tug at the reins and the fifth 
 " Gee ! " but both were so slow in coming that it 
 looked to the driver for some explanation. 
 
 " Swankey," he said; but whether the animal 
 accepted this as sufficient explanation is not 
 known. Bob was accustomed to say words of a 
 similar sound to his beast ; but without the touch 
 of the whip they were meaningless. 
 
 "An' Linty," Marshall added. But this was as 
 unsatisfactory. 
 
 "What are ye waitin' there for?" It was an 
 angry voice, and a pair of wrathful eyes glared 
 through the window of the lodge at the dilatory 
 Geordy. " Ca' awa'." 
 
 " That was Swankey," Geordy pacifically ex- 
 plained. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " Swankey ! " 
 
 " An' Linty," roared the driver through the 
 panes. 
 
 "It's true enough." The harbour-master had
 
 206 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 regained the power of expression, and stepped for- 
 word. " I saw them mysel'." 
 
 Andrew Allison rose from his desk, stretched 
 his legs, and pushed his spectacles over his fore- 
 head. His face was expressive not of anger now 
 but of incredulity when he appeared at the door. 
 " Swankey, did ye say ? " 
 
 " Ay, in a frock coat," Geordy answered. 
 
 " An' a him," said the harbour-master. 
 
 "A collar an' tie." the driver chimed in. 
 
 Andrew's astonishment was inexpressible in 
 words. " That's onbelievable," was all he managed 
 to say. 
 
 Marshall had stood in the same attitude since 
 the two had passed. " It is that," he agreed. 
 
 " Did ye notice if he had an umbrell' ? " 
 Allison queried. 
 
 "Ay," shouted the driver, eager to be heard, 
 " he had an umbrell' in his hand." 
 
 Andrew's visage cleared. He pulled down his 
 spectacles over his nose, and smiled to the 
 harbour-master. " It's been a funeral letter after 
 a'," he said. " Ca' awa'." 
 
 He resumed his seat, and turned to his tables 
 of tons and hundredweights. The mystery was 
 cleared.
 
 THE WALK TO SANTSERFS. 207 
 
 " Gee ! " shouted the driver, and the horse 
 moved on cogitating. 
 
 " Woa ! Woa ! " cried Geordy, settling the 
 sixth hutch on the steelyard ; and the ordinary 
 routine began again. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lowrie and Angus were plodding 
 along together, unconscious of the overmastering 
 curiosity their appearance had roused. They 
 reached the braes, and passed through the mazes 
 of wild rose bushes already in a glory of green. 
 Birds were hopping about, or flew twittering from 
 bush to bush, and the sea was singing in its low 
 rich bass ; but the sounds fell on unconscious ears. 
 
 At the Blair Burn they rested for a minute. 
 The poet felt tired, and they sat down on the low 
 wall of the foot-bridge, crossing it at the edge of 
 the wood. Just across the wall, around the roots 
 of the trees, were clusters of primroses peering 
 from their luscious leaves, and looking like little 
 suns against the patches of bare brown mould. 
 These caught the eyes of the poet, and he looked 
 at them wistfully. 
 
 "Ye might gather a bunch, Linty," he suggested, 
 " you that's young an' supple." 
 
 Angus was over the wall without a word, and
 
 208 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 soon returned with a large handful, which he 
 began arranging within a circle of their leaves. 
 
 " We'll need to be gaun again," Lowrie said ; 
 " ye can be tyin' them up as we gang." 
 
 He was on his feet as he spoke, and they 
 trudged along once more, Linty busying himself 
 with the flowers, and glad to be doing something 
 which seemed to give pleasure to the old man. 
 When he had got the bunch artistically arranged, 
 he presented it to Lowrie with a look that asked 
 plainly if it would pass muster as a bouquet. 
 
 Lowrie took the flowers almost reverently. 
 " Ay, Linty ! They're awfu' bonny, laddie. 
 They're for her." 
 
 Linty said nothing. He saw that Lowrie's 
 thoughts were away back again through the long 
 dreary years, and that he was once more in that 
 village of stalwart men and comely maidens, 
 walking with her who was the queen of them 
 all. 
 
 "An" she's dead now," Lowrie continued, as in 
 answer to Angus's thoughts. " I mind that last 
 Saturday we were thegether, I gathered a bonny 
 bunch till her, an' I thought she was proud o't. 
 It was the time o' primroses ; but I was a simple 
 chield, an' didna understand lassies ; it might just
 
 THE WALK TO SANTSERFS. 209 
 
 be my thoughts. They're rale bonny, Linty ; it's 
 most a pity to pu' them." 
 
 There was silence for a bit again ; but now and 
 then the old man looked at the primroses with a 
 softened light in his eye, as he might often have 
 gazed on the face of Lizzie herself when both 
 were young. 
 
 " I'll lay them on her grave, Linty. Ay, ay, 
 poor lassie. What mair can I do ? She's awa' 
 now." 
 
 Angus noticed that whenever he spoke of 
 Lizzie, it was always as a " lassie ". He himself 
 had grown old, and, indeed, looked older than he 
 was ; but the picture in his mind of Lizzie was 
 the picture of his first and only love, as he had 
 known and loved her thirty years before. 
 
 Just before entering Santserfs the poet stopped 
 again, and again turned his appealing eyes on 
 his young friend. "An' ye think I'll do, Linty ?" 
 he asked. " Quite sure ? " 
 
 Angus answered him at once truthfully and 
 firmly ; for Lowrie, when one had got accustomed 
 to him in a frock coat and tile hat, did not look 
 at all ill. " Ay, ye'll do fine ; ye could gang to the 
 kirk now." 
 
 Swankey shook his head, smiling. That 
 14
 
 210 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 would be a talk for Barncraig. Swankey at 
 church ! 
 
 They spoke no more till they arrived at the 
 station, where a ticket was taken, and then they 
 sat down on a seat at the end of the platform, 
 awaiting the arrival of the train. 
 
 The platform was pretty much deserted. There 
 were but three passengers besides Lowrie, and it 
 was too early for groups of convoying friends, or 
 for the straggling units impelled stationwards 
 by idleness or curiosity. To the few assembled, 
 Lowrie was no object of curiosity, and the sleepy 
 porter slouched past him with unobservant in- 
 difference. Lowrie's appearance was in no ways 
 extraordinary, neither invoking ridicule nor sugges- 
 tive of tips. Linty was not unobservant of this, 
 and was glad that it should be so. It was only 
 those who knew Lowrie in his everyday garb who 
 could think him out of place in a Sunday suit. 
 That was Linty's conclusion ; and Lowrie himself 
 was too preoccupied in thought to become awk- 
 ward through self-consciousness. 
 
 "There's the bell ! " cried Linty, jumping to his 
 fefet. 
 
 The poet rose, betraying his excitement only in 
 the excessive pallor of his cheek.
 
 THE WALK TO S ANT SERFS. 21 1 
 
 " Yonder she comes, round the corner." 
 
 " Ay ! " Lowrie spoke with monosyllabic re- 
 signation. " She's comin' awfu' fast." 
 
 " Down a brae, ye ken," Linty patronisingly 
 explained, as the engine growled past. 
 
 " I've never been in a train afore," Lowrie 
 whispered, looking at the carriages with a kind 
 of dread, but trying to brace himself for the 
 inevitable. 
 
 Angus pointed to a compartment where he saw 
 an old man sitting alone; he might be "company," 
 and Lowrie sat down beside him. Before the 
 train started, he rose and looked from the window. 
 " Ye'll no be late for the school ? " he asked; but 
 Angus assured him that " he would ha'e an hour 
 yet ". 
 
 " Stand back out o' the road," the porter 
 growled, turning the handle. 
 
 " I'm awa', Linty, awa'." 
 
 "When'llyebe back?" 
 
 " No afore the morn, I'm doubtin'." 
 
 " There's the whistle." 
 
 " Good-bye, Linty ; good-bye, laddie. I'm awa'." 
 And the train glided slowly from the station. 
 
 After the train was off, Angus did not loiter
 
 212 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 about the station, as he liked to do on his oc- 
 casional visits for parcels. In a few minutes he 
 was on the shore, bounding along the hard-ribbed 
 sand and forgetting all about Lowrie and Lizzie 
 in the exhilarating exercise. There was health 
 and hope in the bracing breeze from the sea, and 
 the long low roar of the waves chased away the 
 depressing sensations of the morning. He was 
 nearing the harbour ere he remembered about Low- 
 rie at all, and it was the prospect of having to pass 
 Geordy Marshall or of meeting the harbour-master 
 which brought the picture of the poet to his 
 mind. 
 
 He did not wish to be questioned. What would 
 they ask, and what could he tell ? But the tide 
 was well out. He felt a thrill of relief as he 
 noticed it. He could get round by the back of 
 the harbour, and escape interrogation. 
 
 Alas ! Linty did not stay to think that in 
 running from one danger he might be throwing 
 himself into the arms of another. He had got 
 safely past the harbour, and was carelessly climb- 
 ing the brae outside of Lowrie's door, when he 
 was confronted with the sight of Jess Black, 
 standing with a pair of elastic-sided boots in her 
 hand, right in his way. There was no escape.
 
 THE WALK TO SANTSERFS. 213 
 
 Jess saw that he contemplated it, and took a firm 
 grip of his arm. 
 
 " Whaur's Lowrie ? " she demanded. 
 
 " He's awa'." 
 
 " Awa' ? I ken that mysel' ; his door's locket. 
 Awa' whaur ? " 
 
 "!' the train." 
 
 " But whaur to ? " She shook his arm as she 
 spoke. " Can ye no tell stra'ght out ? " 
 
 Linty looked up despairingly. 
 
 " Now, no lies ! " she warned. 
 
 He was angry at the insult, and answered 
 sulkily : " To a funeral ". 
 
 " Is he comin' back ? " 
 
 Angus's eyes brightened. It was a happy in- 
 spiration, and he answered with a spice of malig- 
 nity : " Ay, he's comin' back, to collect some 
 accounts". 
 
 Jess's arm dropped, and she glared at him. 
 " Ye young baggage ! " she hissed. But Linty's 
 opportunity had come, and he did not miss it. He 
 was off, and her curiosity was still unsatisfied. 
 There was, however, still time for a little informa- 
 tion, and she collected herself. 
 
 " Wha's funeral ? " she cried to the retreating 
 figure.
 
 214 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Now at a safe distance, Linty turned and 
 shouted back to her, with boyish impudence : " I 
 think it was his grandfather's". 
 
 Jess, baffled, and by a boy, stood, livid with 
 rage. " I'll grandfather ye, ye de'il's buckie!" she 
 screamed ; and, with that vague threat in her 
 mind, made straight for the bakehouse. 
 
 Milne was raking out the chaffer when she 
 flung open the door. 
 
 " Swankey's awa' to a funeral ! " she cried. 
 
 "Ay?" 
 
 " An' do ye ken what that young baggage Linty 
 had the impudence to tell me?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 Monosyllabic answers are always exasperating, 
 and Jess's anger grew fiercer. 
 
 "Just let me lay hands on him." 
 
 Milne looked at her in a kind of curious 
 derision. " An' what did Linty say ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 "Say?" screamed his wife. "Said he was 
 awa' to his grandfather's funeral." 
 
 " But ye wouldna believe him ? " 
 
 "Me?" Her head involuntarily jerked back, 
 as if the question had hit her in the face. 
 
 " There maun be some mistake."
 
 THE WALK TO SANTSERFS. 215 
 
 Jess was infuriated. "Mistake?" she echoed. 
 " I should think - 
 
 She did not finish. There was a curious 
 twinkle in the baker's eyes, and an inexplicable 
 twitching at his lips. Jess looked at him in 
 savage rage, and gave the door a bang that shook 
 the scuffle-barrel. 
 
 " The brute ! " was all she could say, and 
 hurried home to brood over her indignities. On 
 the other hand, " the brute " thus apostrophised 
 paced up and down the bakehouse floor, holding 
 his sides. " I never thought Linty had it in him," 
 
 he chuckled. " His grandfather's fu ho! ho ! 
 
 ho!"
 
 2l6 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 WEE MILNE DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. 
 
 " KEVY ! kevy ! " The sound rang through the 
 Cross just in front of the school. It wanted 
 twenty minutes of nine, and there was a rush of 
 schoolboys from all quarters answering the call. 
 It was heard in the Windy Wynd, in the Bakers' 
 Close, in the Broad Wynd, and even in the Croft- 
 an-righ leading up from the Poun's. There was 
 at once a string of stragglers racing up these 
 different conduits, meeting " fat and scant of 
 breath," where they converged on the Cross. 
 Books and slates were thrown down in a heap by 
 the side of the school door, and an eager group of 
 sonsy-faced, ruddy-cheeked urchins collected around 
 Johnny Morrison and Tammy Marshall, who had 
 issued the summons. Johnny considered himself 
 the leader of the school, and Tammy was his 
 henchman. He was in the first class, but that 
 fact was not the basis of Johnny's assumption 
 of leadership. There were a dozen boys besides 
 himself reading in " McCulloch's Course," and
 
 WEE MILNE DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. 217 
 
 getting towards the end of their " Gray ". Linty and 
 Sandy Burt were even beyond this; for in the 
 afternoons they sat puzzling over a bulky tome, 
 which the master put only into the hands of ex- 
 ceptional pupils. This was "Davidson's Mensura- 
 tion of Heights and Distances," a name sufficiently 
 ponderous to overawe the most unimaginative 
 with thoughts of the unfathomable depths of 
 knowledge. " There's pictur's in it," one boy had 
 remarked in a whisper to Morrison, having had a 
 look at the book as it lay open on the master's 
 desk. But Johnny, who had no prospect of ever 
 being promoted to it, and, for that matter, no wish 
 save the desire to be " upsides down " with Linty 
 affected an air of indifference. Pictures were 
 no proof of difficulty. " The thruppenny has most 
 pictur's," he had reasoned. 
 
 " But it canna be easy," Pete Fernie had urged; 
 "for ye dinna get into it till ye can do the Hare an' 
 Greyhound." 
 
 This was a sufficient answer for Morrison ; for 
 the Hare and Greyhound problem was pointed 
 out to over-confident youngsters as a hint of what 
 they were coming to : and the very fact that the 
 leaps of the two animals, which to them typified 
 speed, could be expressed in figures, never failed
 
 218 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 of inducing in the minds of the second class a 
 healthy awe of the possibilities of the first. 
 
 Johnny was not even a good reader, and every 
 one knew that he was the poorest at proportion. 
 Nor was spelling a strong point with him, and he 
 had no conception of the meanings of words. It 
 was not therefore by virtue of his scholastic 
 attainments that he was leader of the school. 
 But there are two sides to every question, and if 
 Johnny was a dunce in school, outside he was 
 "dux". He was king of the sports, a thoroughly 
 despotic one to boot ; and in all disputes he as- 
 sumed the office of arbiter. He was a chairman 
 and committee rolled into one, and his decision 
 was final. 
 
 "Kevy!" he said this morning; and "Kevy" 
 was carried unanimously. 
 
 He chose his ground to the left of the school 
 door it was the best place and Marshall moved 
 to the right. The other boys arranged themselves 
 in a line behind their leaders, and then was begun 
 the following dialogue : 
 
 " First to pick," Johnny shouted. 
 
 ' Second to claw," Marshall answered. 
 
 " Choose them out." 
 
 " Choose them in."
 
 WEE MILNE DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. 219 
 
 " The best o' a'." Here Johnny looked critically 
 along the line of boys, waiting in suspense for the 
 honour of being first selected. Geordy Murray's 
 long legs arrested his eye, and Geordy was a 
 good runner, though he was short-winded. 
 "Namish ! " He uttered the name authoritatively, 
 and Geordy at once bounded to his side, beaming. 
 It was an honour he was proud of, being only in 
 the second class ; and then Morrison had called 
 him by his nickname, which was in the terms of a 
 familiar. 
 
 " Bill Reid," Tammy continued. 
 
 "Will Aird." 
 
 " Dav Morrison." 
 
 " Dauvit Briggs." 
 
 " Linty." 
 
 " Ye canna get him," Morrison objected; "he's 
 no here yet." 
 
 "Yonder he's comin', though," Marshall an- 
 swered, pointing to Linty sauntering up, and 
 munching as he came. 
 
 " He has a sheaf o' bread to eat yet," argued 
 Johnny, who did not like Linty. " Tak' the 
 Brock." And Pete Fernie sprang to Tammy's 
 side, without a further invitation. 
 
 " That'll do now." Morrison's tone was auto-
 
 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 cratic. " You can gang an' play wi' the lassies," 
 he said, turning to those who were left ; " Linty'll 
 gang wi' you when his piece is done." 
 
 The two sides arranged themselves in single 
 file facing each other, with a line of demarcation 
 drawn between them, marking the two homes, 
 and it -was unnecessary to fix the two outlying 
 prisons. The position of these had been geo- 
 graphically determined through previous genera- 
 tions of schoolboys. They were part of the 
 topography of Barncraig, and remained as un- 
 alterable as the laws of the game. 
 
 Namish was the first to set out, and he was 
 immediately followed from the other side by 
 the Brock. Will Aird pursued him, but Dav 
 Morrison captured Will, and led him off to prison 
 before he had run fifty yards. Now Johnny had 
 his work before him. Here was a prisoner to 
 rescue ; but his opponents were on the alert. He 
 was contemplating a dash for Will's release, when 
 a voice sounded from the foot of the Windy Wynd, 
 " Ye canna relieve," and he had just to wait till 
 the fresh batch of prisoners was brought in. 
 
 Linty had joined the group of boys standing 
 behind, who were busy talking, to show that it 
 was a matter of indifference to them that they
 
 WEE MILNE DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. 221 
 
 were not in the game. They were consoled with 
 the reflection that they were better runners than 
 most of those chosen. Morrison had his favour- 
 ites, they knew; but he was inconstant, and it 
 might be their turn at dinner-time. In fact, some 
 of them waited, with the assurance born of fre- 
 quent observation, that Johnny would presently 
 dismiss some one of his followers as incompetent, 
 and one of themselves would be called on to take 
 the place of the discredited favourite. At present, 
 however, they had to show that they " didna 
 care " ; so they talked at random with an eye 
 to emergencies. 
 
 The girls were playing at Jin-go-ring on the 
 Little Cross, and their voices rang out with all 
 the abandon of happy childhood. It was " Here's 
 a poor widow," and the boys did not join them. 
 They only played with them at " I-dree I-dree I 
 droppet it " ; and, moreover, this morning, in con- 
 sequence of Morrison's sneering suggestion, their 
 character for manliness was at stake, and they 
 had to do their best to prove his taunt undeserved. 
 The girl in the middle of the ring, Maggie Ness, 
 smiled and blushed as Linty approached, but she 
 did not stop her singing. Linty saw both the 
 blush and the smile, and he was quick enough
 
 222 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 to observe her hand slip into her pocket and 
 remain there ; yet he passed as if he were alto- 
 gether unconscious of her blandishments. The 
 boys cried "Lad and lass" to them, and he had to 
 be careful. 
 
 "You was at Santserfs? this mornin'?" was 
 And Aird's greeting as he joined the boys. 
 
 Linty's mouth was full, and he only nodded. 
 He did not wish to be more explicit ; but it is not 
 easy satisfying the curiosity of schoolboys, es- 
 pecially those who have just been denied the 
 delights of " Kevy," and must have something to 
 talk about. 
 
 " An' Swankey was wi' ye ? " 
 
 Another nod. His " piece " was not yet done. 
 It was finished, however, with the next question, 
 and he was defenceless. 
 
 " Where was he gaun ? " two or three asked in 
 a breath. 
 
 " To a funeral," Linty answered, with an affec- 
 tation of being bored with their questions ; and 
 this only roused their curiosity still more. 
 
 " Wha's funeral ? " asked wee Milne, with a 
 peremptory air. 
 
 " I dinna ken," was the answer, given as if it 
 were stifling a yawn ; " he never telled me."
 
 WEE MILNE DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. 223 
 
 Angus fortified himself behind the fact that he had 
 never asked, and never heard Lizzie's surname. 
 He was turning away, to show that he had 
 supplied all the information he could, and that the 
 subject had no attraction for him, when Milne 
 tugged him by the sleeve, much in the same way 
 as Jess herself might have done. " An' what way 
 did ye tell my mother that it was to his grand- 
 father's ? " demanded this champion. 
 
 Angus stood confronted by the little fellow, 
 uncomfortably blushing. It was a lie he had told 
 Jess, but he had just done it in fun. Now, telling 
 a lie in fun to a schoolfellow was pardonable ; to 
 a girl, it was a boast ; but to a grown-up person 
 that was a very different matter. To say that it 
 was in fun was hardly an excuse in the circum- 
 stances, and Angus was silent. Johnny Morrison, 
 who had been watching the talkers, heard Milne's 
 question, and took note of Linty's too evident 
 confusion. Here was something more interesting 
 than " Kevy," and he lunged forward, with a dull 
 unintelligent leer on his heavy features. 
 
 "What did he say?" he asked Milne, in a tone 
 betraying at once that, whatever was at stake, he 
 had taken his side on the question, and that that 
 side was not Linty's.
 
 224 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Here was a chance for Milne now, and he 
 grasped it. Morrison very rarely chose him for 
 " Kevy " ; his size was against him ; but might he 
 not now win Johnny's favour ? He gave a longing 
 glance at the two sides, waiting slavishly their 
 leader's return. Johnny noticed the glance, and 
 interpreted it. " The game's ower," he said ; 
 " the school'll be in the now. But," he added, 
 seeing that Milne's face fell, "we'll ha'e a rare 
 game at dinner-time. What did he say ? " 
 
 Wee Milne felt satisfied ; Johnny had almost 
 promised. He drew himself up to his full height, 
 which was not much, and explained. 
 
 " My mother speired at him this mornin' wha's 
 funeral Swankey was awa' to, an' he had the 
 cheek to say it was to his grandfather's." There 
 was a superb ring of stage indignation in the 
 little fellow's voice as he concluded. He noticed 
 that all the boys had gathered round, and he was 
 already assured of Morrison's support. 
 
 Some of the boys, however, only laughed. 
 Fancy Linty cheeking up to Jess Black ! But 
 the laugh was short-lived. Morrison's face 
 showed that he had decided against Linty. He 
 was smiling, certainly, but not at the joke as the 
 other boys were. It was a malignant smile. If
 
 WEE MILNE DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. 225 
 
 Johnny could have analysed his feelings but 
 Johnny could never analyse anything he would 
 have found that neither considerations of Jess 
 Black nor of her son entered into his thoughts. 
 He had simply got something from which he had 
 conceived, dull-witted as he was, that he could 
 make capital against Linty. 
 
 "That was a damned lee," he said, not only 
 plagiarising his father's expression when he was 
 angry, but imitating his tone. 
 
 It was a bold stroke on Johnny's part, and the 
 boys were for him at once. Brosie was the only 
 one who stuck by Angus ; but Brosie was a 
 puzzle to the other boys, and always attached 
 himself to the wrong party. Two of the girls 
 who had been listening were shocked. " Oh ! " 
 they said, placing their fingers over their mouths 
 and looking into each other's eyes. They de- 
 precated the word, and thought Johnny a hero. 
 What a miserable figure Angus cut, standing 
 silent under the said hero's righteous indignation ! 
 "A damned lee!" repeated the virtuous one, not 
 being blind to its effect on the hearers. But 
 some did not like it now. It had ceased to be 
 original. 
 
 " How would you like onybody to speak to 
 your mother like that ? " Johnny was still in- 
 
 15
 
 226 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 dignant, and still quoting. Brosie seemed to be 
 the only one who felt the absurdity of such affected 
 wrath. His small eyes blinked, and his head 
 stretched forward from his ungainly shoulders. 
 " Man, ye're a hantle waur yoursel'," he cried, in 
 outspoken contempt. " You dinna tell lees to 
 folk's faces ; you gang an' tell them ahent their 
 backs ; it was you that telled the master on me 
 an' Dav Marshall ; an' it was a' lees the- 
 gether." 
 
 Morrison scowled. His eyes seemed to grow 
 smaller as they shifted uneasily from face to face. 
 This was a matter of history, and could not be 
 refuted ; but it was inconvenient to have it men- 
 tioned just as he was scoring a point against 
 Linty. He must do something desperate if he 
 was to maintain his position, and a fight was the 
 first thing that suggested itself to his sluggish 
 brain. 
 
 " Spit ower that," he said, turning suddenly 
 round on Milne, and stretching his arm in front of 
 him. 
 
 Milne had not expected events to come to this 
 extremity ; but he was taken by surprise, and did 
 as he was bid, putting as bold a face on it as 
 possible. He did not want to fight with Linty,
 
 WEE MILNE DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. 227 
 
 and his heart sank as he thought of his opponent's 
 size and suppleness. 
 
 Morrison turned exultingly to Linty, and pre- 
 sented his arm to him. " Spit ower that," he 
 ordered. 
 
 " What have you to do wi' it ? " Brosie cried. 
 " If they want to fecht, they dinna need you to let 
 them see the way, after how ye henned it wi' 
 Powrie." 
 
 Brosie was most insulting. Why should he 
 recall those unfortunate incidents, which Johnny 
 himself never mentioned ? But Brosie was a 
 person of no consequence, and there was some- 
 thing more important than his ill-timed recollec- 
 tions under consideration at present. 
 
 " Spit ower that," again Johnny insisted. . . . 
 " Man, ye're feared." 
 
 Angus obeyed sullenly. " I'm no feared," he 
 said ; " but I dinna want to fecht ; neither does 
 Milne." 
 
 " Speak for yoursel'," Morrison answered, taking 
 Milne under his special protection. He had got 
 all he wanted just now; the gage of battle had 
 been thrown down and accepted. 
 
 "There's the master," Pete Fernie shouted; 
 and the old man was seen approaching.
 
 228 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " We'll settle this at dinner-time," was Johnny's 
 parting word, as he made for the heap of books 
 and slates. He still stuck by Milne, evidently 
 with the intention of keeping up his courage, and 
 of coaching him for the fray. 
 
 " They're gaun to fecht," Nell Reid whispered 
 to Maggie Ness, when the girls came bounding 
 forward. 
 
 " Wha ? " Maggie asked in a whisper. 
 
 " Morrison an' Linty, an' wee Milne an' Brosie, 
 an' a'." The fight was already assuming gigantic 
 dimensions. 
 
 Maggie looked vexed, and reached her hand 
 again into her pocket. She snatched up her 
 books and made for the door, edging in alongside 
 of Linty. In the passage, where she thought it 
 could not be noticed, she drew her hand from her 
 pocket, and now it held something large and 
 round. This she managed to slip into Linty's 
 hand, and he accepted the gift with the equa- 
 nimity born of expectation, hiding it in his jacket 
 pocket, where it lay amongst a heterogeneous col- 
 lection of schoolboy rubbish. But Maggie, though 
 she had eluded the vigilant eyes of the schoolboys 
 for several mornings, was caught now. Johnny 
 Morrison was coming behind, with his arm resting 
 no Milne's shoulder.
 
 WEE MILNE DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. 229 
 
 " Look!" whispered Milne as the object changed 
 hands. 
 
 Johnny did look, and his heart leaped as with 
 the knowledge of a great discovery. "An orange!" 
 he whispered, and made his way to his seat, 
 chuckling over his good fortune. 
 
 That forenoon lessons went on as usual, but 
 without interest to two in the school, Linty and 
 wee Milne. Both felt that they had been forcibly 
 dragged into hostilities, and both were unwilling 
 to fight. Linty had nothing against Milne ; in 
 fact, he rather liked the little fellow ; and Milne, 
 something of a reader himself, looked up to Angus 
 as an example. Besides, Angus blushed when he 
 thought of fighting with him. He was of his own 
 age, certainly, but then he was such a mite of a 
 thing. If he were victorious he thought there 
 would be no glory ; and, if he were vanquished, 
 what ignominy ! The whole events of the morning 
 were too much for him. It had been too full of 
 excitement ; and now at lessons came reaction, 
 and he was inattentive and listless. Even at the 
 morning Bible lesson, the sight of the old master 
 hirpling through the floor in illustration of 
 Jacob's walk after the night at Penuel, failed to 
 rouse in him either attention or laughter. Then
 
 230 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 followed writing, and that he did mechanically. 
 When it came to counting, Morrison made his 
 way along to him with his slate in his hand. The 
 master allowed the boys to apply to Angus for 
 help, and Morrison took advantage of this liberty 
 to serve an end of his own. The second class 
 was at reading, and there would be no danger of 
 interruption. He turned into the desk, and sat 
 down fawningly and yet patronisingly beside 
 Linty. 
 
 " Gi'e us a bit o' your orange," he whispered. 
 
 Linty looked up at him for an explanation. 
 
 " I saw it i' your pouch," said the wily Johnny. 
 It is remarkable how cunning a dull boy can be. 
 
 Linty drew out his orange helplessly. He 
 never at any time refused to share with his 
 companions ; but then, he had got this from 
 Maggie, and she meant it for himself. Still there 
 was no help for it ; he peeled the orange without 
 grumbling, and breaking it in two gave Morrison 
 a half, which he at once began to suck greedily. 
 But he did not swallow it all at once ; that was 
 not what he had come for. Maggie Ness was 
 just on the opposite side of the school ; if he 
 waited he was sure to catch her eye ; and he 
 did not have to wait long. Maggie, looking up
 
 WEE MILNE DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. 231 
 
 from her slate, saw him sitting leering at Linty's 
 side, and there was an insulting familiarity in his 
 expression as he triumphantly held up to her 
 gaze his share of the orange, and then gulped it 
 at a mouthful. 
 
 Maggie blushed and turned at once to her work. 
 She was very much hurt. This was what Angus 
 did with her gift ! and, no doubt, he was telling 
 Johnny Morrison all about it, and calling her a 
 " softy ". Poor Maggie ! And she had so wished 
 to whisper in his ear in the passage when she 
 gave it to him, " Dinna fecht, Angus! " But she 
 could not ; and the lost opportunity had been 
 vexing her the whole forenoon. And now he was 
 just laughing at her, and so was Johnny Morrison. 
 Her eyes were suffused with tears. 
 
 But other eyes than Maggie's had seen Johnny's 
 action. In the reading lesson of the second class, 
 Mysie Allan was just beginning " Valentine was 
 in his thirteenth year," when the master, turning 
 his ear in her direction for Mysie's voice was 
 affectedly weak brought his eyes right in focus 
 with Johnny's outstretched hand; and eating in 
 school was the one thing above all others that the 
 master would not tolerate. He made his way 
 down with that grave dignity and methodical
 
 232 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 step that betokened a storm. Johnny caught sight 
 of him and cowered in beside Angus, pretending 
 to be busy with his sums. 
 
 "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the half 
 orange still lying at the head of Linty's slate. 
 
 Neither of the boys spoke. They knew his 
 aversion to eating during school hours, and 
 awaited punishment. 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " was the next 
 question, addressed to Johnny. 
 
 Johnny whimpered. " 1 cam' to speir about a 
 count," he explained. 
 
 " Oh ! " was the reply ; " and did he state it for 
 you ? " 
 
 " No." The voice was getting more tearful ; 
 " he ga'e me half his orange." 
 
 " Did you bring that into school, Angus ? " 
 There was special stress on the word " you," and 
 Angus felt all that the emphasis implied. It 
 meant that he had been specially favoured by 
 the master; that he had been promoted to be a 
 kind of monitor ; that he was expected to be an 
 example in good conduct to the rest of the school, 
 and here he was detected in a most flagrant 
 breach of discipline. 
 
 " Did you ask him for half of it?" The ques-
 
 WEE MILNE DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. 233 
 
 tion was directed to the blubbering Johnny, who 
 took refuge in evasion. He had not asked half 
 nor had he expected it. He had only asked a bit, 
 anticipating at most a lith. 
 
 " No ! " he answered with downcast eyes ; " he 
 he ga'e me it." 
 
 " Very kind of him ! " The tone was severely 
 sarcastic. " Breaking the rules himself, and 
 tampering with the obedience of others ! Stand 
 out, both." 
 
 The culprits stood forth, and the whole school 
 watched. Linty got four, but never made a sound. 
 He could not keep the tears from his eyes ; but 
 Maggie Ness was looking on, Morrison was 
 blubbering at his side, and pride kept him quiet. 
 Johnny howled with his three, and then slunk 
 back to his seat, inwardly vowing vengeance on 
 Angus, on whose shoulders he laid the entire 
 blame. It was his orange that had done it. 
 
 Angus sat down smarting under the pain, but 
 feeling more hurt at the master's displeasure, 
 which was undeserved. Everything was going 
 wrong this morning. Was it because Swankey 
 was away ? He had not intended to do wrong, 
 and yet he could not keep out of disgrace. 
 
 Would the master ever understand the whole
 
 234 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 circumstances? Or would Milne see that he had 
 no wish to fight him ? One thing was gained, 
 but this Angus did not know. Maggie had wept 
 over her own indignities ; but she had seen Angus 
 bear his punishment like a man, and now she was 
 weeping for him. 
 
 As soon as they escaped from school the boys 
 collected round Linty and Milne ; and, little 
 savages that they were, urged them to have it out. 
 " Round at Miller's gate!" they cried; and Angus, 
 reduced to a sullen passivity, allowed himself to 
 be led away at the heels of Morrison and Milne. 
 A ring was formed, and Morrison constituted 
 himself master of ceremonies. 
 
 " Stand back! " he said, pushing the boys behind 
 him. "Now into him, Bobby: never mind, though 
 ye're little ; he's feared at ye." 
 
 Wee Milne, however, seemed disinclined to 
 begin, though he inwardly hoped that Morrison's 
 words were true. Angus on his part stood waiting 
 the attack. He had made up his mind not to 
 strike first ; he would only act on the defensive. 
 
 Morrison began to get impatient, and the crowd 
 of boys were urging on both to begin. A fight 
 was a grand thing ! 
 
 " Dinna be feared," Morrison again confidently
 
 WEE MILNE DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. 235 
 
 advised. " He's a big bairn, an' plays wi' 
 lassies." 
 
 Still Milne hesitated. His opponent might 
 or might not be a bairn, but he was certainly big, 
 for him. 
 
 " He got an orange frae his lass, this mornin'," 
 Johnny continued ; and the boys roared with de- 
 light at this hit. Angus's face flushed to the roots 
 of his hair. 
 
 " An' you got the half o' it," Brosie shouted in 
 his wrath. 
 
 " Ay, so ye did," the crowd yelled, perceiving at 
 once that the remark was an infringement of their 
 unwritten code of honour, and savoured more of 
 spite than sarcasm. Trying to be contemptuous, 
 he was showing himself contemptible. But he 
 did not answer. It was the fight that he had to 
 do with, and he was determined to humiliate Linty. 
 Even if he thrashed Milne, he could be accused of 
 fighting him because of his size. 
 
 " Spit in his face an' rub it down his buttons," 
 was Johnny's extreme suggestion. 
 
 Poor Milne, driven to desperation, seemed to see 
 in this an easy way out of the difficulty, and 
 proceeded to try its effect. The first part of the 
 suggestion he executed to the letter; but before he
 
 236 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 could attempt the second something stung him 
 between the eyes with blinding force, and he fell 
 flat on his back, howling. Angus, naturally 
 patient, but now thoroughly roused, seemed like a 
 young fiend. It was not sufficient to settle Milne. 
 That little fellow had hardly bitten the dust before 
 Morrison, ignorant of the spirit of anger he had 
 fanned into flame, lay sprawling across the pros- 
 trate figure. He picked himself up and faced his 
 antagonist ; but before he could even close his fists, 
 he was down again, and there was Angus glaring 
 like a maniac just above him. He rose a little 
 more cautiously this time, but the same thing 
 happened again. Angus's right hand went straight 
 for his left eye, and he went down like a shot. 
 After this there was no more fight left in him, and 
 he turned his face to the ground and lay still, 
 sobbing. Milne was home by this time, his route 
 mapped out by one continuous howl. 
 
 The boys looked on the fallen Morrison with 
 derision. Many had old scores to wipe out against 
 him, and gloried in his downfall. He blubbered, 
 and they blubbered, but not in sympathy. 
 
 " Hurrah, hurrah ! " cried And Aird. " Hurrah 
 for Linty ! " 
 
 The master, sitting at his dinner, heard the
 
 WEE MILNE DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. 237 
 
 cheer, and smiled to himself. " I thought there 
 was more in that business than Morrison dis- 
 closed," he said. "It'll do them no harm to have it 
 out among themselves." 
 
 " Come on hame," said Brosie, proud of his hero, 
 and looking as comical in his pride as he did when 
 his face tried to assume an expression of indig- 
 nation. 
 
 " Ay, quick," Pete Fernie shouted, " yonder's 
 Jess Black comin'." 
 
 The boys looked round, beheld the flaming 
 face of the irate mother, and took to their 
 heels. 
 
 Morrison was the only object left on the field 
 when Jess approached ; but he was not yet suffici- 
 ently collected for explanation, and Jess did not 
 seem to be in need of any. She had come primed. 
 All that Bobby could howl when he had reached 
 home was the name of Johnny Morrison. He had 
 been fighting, and, with the intention of exculpating 
 himself in his mother's eyes, had thrown the blame 
 on Johnny, who in fact deserved it. Jess, how- 
 ever, rash as usual, formed her own conclusions, 
 and they would have belied her nature had they 
 been trustworthy. 
 
 " Ye blubberin' brute," she said, bending over
 
 238 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Morrison ; " I believe ye've gotten mair than ye 
 gi'ed him, though he's but a bairn to you." 
 
 Johnny only answered her with a sob, and 
 grasping his coat collar she set him on his feet. 
 
 " What ha'e you to say for yoursel' ? " she 
 demanded. 
 
 " It wasna me," he sobbed, drawing his cuff 
 across his eyes ; "it was - 
 
 " Ye leein' baggage ! " Jess shook him as a 
 terrier might have shaken a rat. " Tak' that, an' 
 that ! " 
 
 Johnny felt a large hand come flopping against 
 the left side of his head, knocking it against a 
 larger and harder one on the right side. This was 
 maddening ; but it was an argument he could not 
 answer, and he lay down on the ground again, 
 kicking with passion and howling with pain. 
 
 Jess's head was held high as she walked away, 
 conscious of vengeance fulfilled. " My word," she 
 muttered, " he'll no touch ane o' mine in a hurry 
 again. It's a gey an' queer thing if that young 
 baggage Linty hasna ha'en a finger in this pie. I 
 saw him runnin' awa' as I cam' forrit. Grand- 
 father, indeed ! "
 
 239 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 
 
 IT was late on Wednesday night when Lowrie 
 returned to Barncraig, and most of the villagers 
 were abed. As they had to be at work by six in 
 the morning, they were not in the habit of sitting 
 up late ; and, besides, this particular night being 
 cold and wet, with a biting wind from the north- 
 east, had not tempted them to prolong their 
 political discussion at the Cox'l. The street was 
 deserted, and Lowrie shuffled along, glad of the 
 opportunity of getting home unseen. He would 
 rise in the morning and resume his work, as if 
 there had been no break in the monotony of his 
 existence. If people did not question him, as 
 was almost certain, he could tell them that he 
 had been to the funeral " o' an auld friend"; and 
 in their kindly way they would respect his reti- 
 cence on the subject of death, and forbear further 
 question. If the curiosity of the villagers was 
 insatiable, their sympathy in times of bereavement 
 was certain, and usually expressed itself by silence.
 
 240 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Lowrie, however, had not arrived altogether 
 unnoticed : the harbour-master related next morn- 
 ing that he had seen him passing over the Cox'l 
 in all the rain, " drenched and drooket," with his 
 umbrella carried carefully under his arm. Such 
 a story would hardly have been credited on the 
 authority of the harbour-master alone ; for he was 
 an old sailor, and told travellers' tales : in the 
 phraseology of Barncraig, " he could lee like a 
 dog lickin' a plate ". But there was another 
 witness, and the word of Andrew Morrison was as 
 good as his bond. Andrew, douce sober man that 
 he was, had an intolerant affection for fact. " I 
 canna awa' wi' stories that's no true," was a 
 favourite expression of his, and he used it as a 
 formula of his faith. Truth was the first article 
 in his creed, and Andrew's conception of truth 
 was clear, concise and simple. Statements not 
 in literal conformity with physical fact were lies ; 
 and there an end. What use quibbling about 
 abstractions? Such were his sentiments, and his 
 character was in keeping, compelling a trust- 
 worthiness sufficient to vindicate for the harbour- 
 master an accidental veracity. On Andrew's 
 authority the story was believed, and the villagers 
 had something to talk about, and grew sentimental
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 241 
 
 as they talked. It was such a pitiable picture 
 that was conjured up. Had they seen it them- 
 selves they might have laughed ; but, related to 
 them, they only saw the solitary figure plodding 
 through the rain, cold and wet, and so thoughtless 
 of his comfort that he was hugging his gingham 
 under his arm. 
 
 " Ye see," Andrew explained, " it was gey an' 
 late : for Adam an' me had been sittin' ower the 
 dam-brod for losh knows how lang. First it was 
 the ' Laird an' Lady,' an' then it was the ' Ayrshire 
 Lassie,' endin' in a single corner, an' we had to 
 come back to the ' Auld Fourteenth ? afore we 
 could mak' it onything else than a draw. Weel, 
 after we were done I cam' awa' 'lang, keepin' close 
 in by the houses an' gey an' glad o' the scoug ; 
 for it was just whole water, when, wha div I see 
 but Swankey, poor fellow, turnin' down Haw Brae ! 
 I was fair dumfoundered. Sure enough he had his 
 umbreir alow his oxter, as if he was feared it 
 would get weet ; his lum hat down to his very 
 e'en ; an' a' cow'ryin' thegether like a body shiverin' 
 o' cauld. He maun ha'e been fair plashin', poor 
 cr'atur'." 
 
 Such was Andrew's version of Lowrie's home- 
 coming ; and the miners listening lost their curiosity 
 
 16
 
 242 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 about his letter and his journey, in their pity for 
 the old man himself. The whole village felt 
 sorry for the lonely poet, and talked of him in 
 whispers, as they were accustomed talking in a 
 home where one lay dead. 
 
 " Poor Swankey!" they said. And there was no 
 contempt in the tone. The words \vere common 
 with them, but ordinarily they were uttered with 
 an overt assumption of superiority ; now, though 
 they were spoken in pity they breathed of respect. 
 
 Next morning the storm was spent, and the sky 
 was no more than flecked with long feathery 
 clouds, too filmy to obscure the blue. The only 
 traces of the night's rain were seen in the bare 
 washed street, and the rutted wynds with oc- 
 casional puddles where the ground was somewhat 
 clayey. The air was sweet and pure, and the sea 
 was settling itself to sleep in a soft undulating 
 swell. 
 
 On his way to school, Linty called round with 
 his books under his arm, and found the old man 
 already at his work, hammering away and hum- 
 ming as he hammered. 
 
 " I've gotten back again, ye see," was his greeting. 
 
 " It was awfu' rainy, was it no ? " Angus asked.
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 243 
 
 He had not time to sit down, and stood holding 
 the door as he spoke. 
 
 "Ay, a sour nicht, Angus. I'm doubtin' I've 
 gotten a glisk o' cauld, I was sair bothered wi' a 
 hoast a' nicht." 
 
 " Was ye weet ? " 
 
 " Ay, man ; a wee bit," he answered with a 
 smile. " I ta'en no thought o' the umbrell' till I 
 was safely housed. Did ye ever hear o' sic a 
 dowted cr'atur' ? But it's just like me." 
 
 Angus did not know what to say to such a 
 confession, and turned away. " I'll be down at 
 night," he said; "it's near nine o'clock a'ready," 
 and he closed the door. 
 
 During the day Lowrie had a number of visitors, 
 but they did not pester him with questions. They 
 were mostly women, and came to comfort him ; 
 and if their visit did not have on Lowrie an effect 
 corresponding with its purpose, they themselves 
 left with an approving conscience. They had 
 done a kindly act, and were satisfied. For the 
 most part they contented themselves with advising 
 him as to his " hoast ". 
 
 " Tak' a warm drink afore ye gang to your bed 
 the nicht," was Girzie's advice, " an' row yourse 
 weel up ; ye'll be a' richt i' the mornin'."
 
 244 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " A half-gill o' the best," May Fairley suggested. 
 " It canna do ye ony harm." 
 
 Even Mag Aird called and comforted him in a 
 way that was peculiarly her own. " It's nothing 
 ava'," Lowrie had said in answer to her dolorous 
 inquiries; "just a bit hoast." 
 
 "Just a bit hoast ? " Mag echoed, sadly shaking 
 her head. " Ye mauna lightly a hoast, Lowrie. 
 There was Tam Aird, my ain brother, had just sic a 
 dry kinkin' hoast as you ha'e, and he didna last 
 mony months. An' Dauvit Marshall him that 
 lived but an' ben frae me when I was married first 
 got a weetin' to the skin, an' was in his grave in 
 a week's time : a strappin' young chap he was too, 
 an' left a widow an' twa bairns. Eh ay ! But 
 you've nobody dependin' on you ; an' that should 
 keep your mind easy. There's aye something to 
 be thankfu' for." 
 
 " Ay, Mag, ay." Lowrie coughed, wondering 
 when her moralising would cease. 
 
 " It was a sudden ca'," she resumed, reverting 
 to Dauvit ; " but Jean didna mourn him that lang 
 either." 
 
 " Did she follow him ? " he asked in an indiffer- 
 ent tone, that might have warned anybody but 
 Mag that she was only wasting time.
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 245 
 
 " Na ! " she answered. " She got another man. 
 No that a man's aye a blessin'," she added dolefully. 
 
 " No aye," Lowrie sympathised, and thought 
 that the same might hold true of a wife. 
 
 Mag sighed. She felt that Lowrie understood 
 the particular case from which she generalised ; 
 and a sigh was more expressive than words could 
 be of her lugubrious pride in affliction. 
 
 "Her widow's weeds cost her a bonny penny 
 too," she continued, " an' she didna wear them 
 that lang. It was a sair loss." 
 
 Whether this last sentence referred to Dauvit 
 or the weeds, Lowrie did not inquire. Her style 
 of comfort was irritating to him, and he felt 
 relieved when she went. " Man was made to 
 m'urn," was her parting consolation ; and Lowrie 
 was left to gather himself together again. 
 
 Of a different stamp was Jean Fairley, who 
 "ca'd to pay that account": and if honesty 
 dictated the payment, the occasion of it might be 
 laid to the credit of her large-heartedness. 
 
 Yet before the day was done, Lowrie was wearied 
 out with his sympathisers. He had much to 
 think about, and longed to be left alone. His 
 mind had got hold of an idea, and he wished to 
 dream over it, to hug it, to turn it round and
 
 246 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 round, and to see it in every possible light. It 
 had come to him, suddenly, as he was journeying 
 home, and, once in his mind, he could not let it 
 go. It was new to him as an idea that might 
 find realisation in fact, but it was not new to 
 him as a wish. Of old it had been no more than 
 an occasional dream ; but now he seemed to see 
 the possibility, nay, more, the probability of the' 
 dream becoming a reality. When it flashed upon 
 him in the train, he had paled and trembled ; and 
 a fellow-passenger seeing him mop his perspiring 
 forehead had offered him a " tastin' " from his 
 bottle. But the idea was a stimulant in itself, 
 and Lowrie felt himself growing younger as he 
 thought it out. 
 
 Now that he was home again, he would have 
 been content for a while just to sit and let it shape 
 itself to all its possibilities. But people would 
 persist in calling ; and, just as he was beginning 
 to fancy that life had something in store for him, 
 and that after all these years he might yet be of 
 some use in the world, they forced him to consider 
 himself an old man who was almost done with 
 life. And who can picture the possibilities of an 
 idea when he is confronted with the consequences 
 of a cough ?
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 
 
 247 
 
 Even the evening was not his own. Had 
 Angus been his only visitor it would have been 
 otherwise ; for Angus respected his moods, and, 
 more than that, it was of his young friend that he 
 was so intently thinking. But Andrew Morrison 
 dropped in ; then the stolid Pillan, who sat on 
 the cobbler's stool smoking rhythmically, with 
 occasional spasmodic lapses into conversation. 
 " Folk canna speak an' smoke at the same 
 time," he had once philosophised, " or they'll let 
 their pipe out," which was a contingency to be 
 guarded against at all costs. So Pillan's re- 
 marks were fitful and brief, as if he were subject 
 to intermittent attacks of inspiration. Nor was 
 Andrew in a talkative mood. He kept in mind 
 that Lowrie had been at a funeral, and he spoke 
 little. It was enough to come in and enjoy a 
 pipe with him; "that would be neighbour-like," 
 as Andrew phrased it, " an' cheer the auld man 
 up a bit ". The only admissible talk in the 
 circumstances was the weather, and that was 
 soon exhausted ; and Andrew had not the fluency 
 of the women folks when coughs and colds were 
 under consideration. Yet even he could not get 
 away from the "hoast ". When he rose to depart, 
 he drew from his pocket a bottle, and set it down
 
 248 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 on the table. " Try a drap o' rum toddy for your 
 nightcap, Lowrie," he said; "it's a grand thing 
 for a cauld." 
 
 " It was ower kind o' ye," was all Lowrie said ; 
 but his eyes spoke thanks, and there was grati- 
 tude in the tone. 
 
 " Hoots, havers ! " Andrew answered, making 
 light of the gift. " A drap rum's neither here nor 
 there. It didna cost that muckle either ; though 
 it's none the waur o' that." 
 
 "Danish?" 
 
 " Ay ; Tinny managed a bottle or twa for me." 
 
 " I'll try it," Lowrie said rising; " I've no doubt 
 it'll be a rale pleasant dose." 
 
 Andrew grinned. "Ye ken what Milne said?" 
 he asked. " He had an awfu' heavy cauld, an' the 
 doctor ordered him a dose o' castor oil. Milne 
 screwed his face an' said nothing. ' An' ye'll tak' 
 it in a glass o' brandy,' says the doctor. Man, he 
 brightened up at this. 'There's sense amon't, 
 doctor,' he says; 'there's sense amon't.'" 
 
 Andrew's joke was most opportune. It took 
 away the abruptness of departure, and he left, 
 feeling that he had made a graceful exit ; which is 
 always a difficult thing to do. 
 
 When at length he was left alone, Lowrie filled his
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 249 
 
 pipe, and sat down smoking himself into a reverie. 
 It was a rare luxury just to let himself be domin- 
 ated by his idea, and allow reverie to lead him 
 whither it would. What a future he foresaw 
 following the present, rich with its golden oppor- 
 tunity ; and the future was not for him; it was for 
 Angus. But the conception was his, and though 
 the opportunity was for Linty to grasp, it was for 
 him to grant. All the next day he sat at his 
 work plodding on with the habit that was second 
 nature, but still thinking. His " hoast " was gone, 
 whether from the effects of the rum toddy, or from 
 the blood-warming influence of his happy hopes, it 
 would be hard to say ; and he was not distracted 
 by casual visitors. The day was his own, and he 
 made the most of it. It is possible to build a heel 
 or stitch a ran, and let the mind wander into the 
 infinite. Indeed, the work of a shoemaker seems 
 to be rather conducive to reflection, and Lowrie's 
 indulgence in it did not give his customers cause 
 to grumble over neglected orders. 
 
 It was a day sunny and silvery, and everything 
 seemed to be in harmony with his dreams; the 
 sea shimmered and sang outside, and the voices of 
 children rang out in their play, thrilling with the 
 very spirit of spring. Lowrie heard without trying
 
 250 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 to listen, and his own thoughts seemed to rhythm 
 to their music. It was the inward ear their voices 
 touched, and the future was filled with the joyous 
 songs of youth and hope. He gazed through the 
 dim panes, across the sparkling sea reaching to 
 the cloudless horizon, and thought of Lizzie : she 
 was happy now, and the past was dead. The 
 long empty years were ended, and a fruitful time 
 was coming. Yes ; that was the secret, nay, the 
 very sum and substance of his pleasant medita- 
 tions, the good time to come. 
 
 When Angus appeared in the evening, the poet 
 was still in a silent mood, and there was little 
 or no conversation. Beyond a word of greeting 
 when he entered, there was nothing said till he 
 closed the book he had sat reading, and was 
 preparing to go. Then Swankey laid down his 
 pipe, and looked earnestly and inquiringly on his 
 young friend. 
 
 " How auld might ye be?" he asked. 
 
 " I'm gaun i' fourteen," Angus replied, as- 
 tonished both at the question and at its ab- 
 ruptness. 
 
 " Ay, ay ! ye're gettin' up. Ye'll soon need to 
 be thinkin' o' what you're gaun to be ? " 
 
 " Ay ! " The answer was dubious. It might
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 251 
 
 have been accepted either as interrogation or 
 assent. 
 
 " Ye'll no be gaun down the pit, will ye?" 
 " My mother doesna want me to gang." 
 " No, laddie, no ; an' I dinna wonder at her; ye 
 ha'ena the build for a collier." 
 
 Angus did not reply. The conversation was 
 taking a peculiar turn, and he did not know what 
 Lowrie was driving at. He usually just talked of 
 books, or what the master had been teaching in 
 school. But now he was away on a new tack, 
 and Linty was taken by surprise. 
 
 " Ha'e ye ony idea o' what ye'd like to be?" 
 Here was something still more difficult to answer, 
 and Angus stood gazing with his large round eyes 
 into the eyes of the poet. This was not a ques- 
 tion easy of solution to any of the lads of Barn- 
 craig, and, indeed, circumstances in most cases 
 saved them from attempting it. There was the 
 colliery at hand, and they could go down the pit 
 just as their fathers and grandfathers had done 
 before them ; but above ground what was there 
 for them ? They might become joiners or black- 
 smiths, tailors or shoemakers, grocers or bakers, 
 but nothing else in Barncraig ; and apprentices 
 for these callings were not in request every day.
 
 252 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 In fact, there had not been an apprentice shoe- 
 maker in the village within Lowrie's remembrance, 
 and the other trades had never more than one at 
 a time. Angus's choice was therefore limited. 
 He might be a tailor, a joiner, or a baker, or he 
 might weigh butter and sugar behind the counter 
 of the store. It was not a matter which he was 
 called on to decide, and he had no preference or 
 prejudice to guide him if it had been. When 
 there was no leaning to any one in particular, it 
 was clearly a case for circumstances to determine. 
 So, at least, Angus philosophically considered. 
 " Jim Allison's time's near out," he said, in 
 answer to Lowrie's question. 
 
 " An' ye would like the teelyer way, would 
 ye?" 
 
 Angus looked puzzled. The prospect of the 
 " board " was not altogether a pleasant one ; it 
 was only no worse than the prospect of the bench 
 or the counter, and Angus was too young to 
 expound his views on such a subject. 
 
 Swankey was smiling in a curious half-humor- 
 ous way, and Angus could not see why. He only 
 smiled like that when he made a joke, which was 
 rare ; and he patted Angus's head which was 
 rarer still as he spoke. " Ay, but we'll mak' a
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 253 
 
 man o' ye yet, Linty ; we'll male' a man o' ye 
 yet." 
 
 The remark seemed to please him, for he 
 repeated it when Angus was gone. " Ay will 
 we," he chuckled; "we'll mak' a man o' Linty 
 yet, an' auld Lowrie'll live to be proud o' him." 
 
 Next morning he was more methodical with his 
 toilet than usual. He was not in the habit of 
 shaving on Saturday, but that was the first thing 
 after breakfast this morning ; and though he 
 donned his ilka-day attire, he brushed his coat 
 very carefully and actually adjusted his scarf 
 before the glass. He exchanged his old greasy 
 cap for one which he sometimes wore when he 
 took a "dander" of a Sunday evening; and, 
 after making himself quite presentable, sat down 
 for a "draw". He did not even begin work. 
 That would have necessitated the leather apron, 
 and certainly have disarranged the cravat which 
 he had so carefully boa'd. Besides, he was not 
 now in a humour for work. He had come to a 
 decision, and was contemplating a visit. Some- 
 thing definite had been arrived at, and he could 
 get no further without advice. 
 
 He sat smoking for a long time after he had 
 got ready, and it was well on in the forenoon ere
 
 254 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 he locked his door and set out. Housewives 
 scraping kettles and pots outside their doors, saw 
 him going up the Windy Wynd, and stopped 
 their work to watch him. What could it mean ? 
 Where was he going? Here was something as 
 novel as the news of his letter. They did not 
 remember ever having seen Lowrie out dressed 
 on a Saturday before. 
 
 " He's awa' in to the master's," remarked Mag 
 Reid, who had crossed the wynd as he passed, to 
 discuss the occurrence with Alice Fernie. They 
 left the kettles alone for a time, and stood with 
 their scrapers in their hands, staring at the door 
 of the schoolmaster's house. 
 
 " What'll he want wi' the master?" Alice asked. 
 1 It's no ilka day ye see Swankey payin' a visit." 
 
 " It beats me to ken," was Mag's reply. " Gin 
 he gang on at this rate, it'll be the minister 
 next." 
 
 Jean Fairley and Jess Black by this time had 
 joined them. 
 
 " It'll be Linty," the former explained ; " he got 
 an awfu' lickin' this week, ye ken." 
 
 " An' weel deserved it, I've no doubt," Jess 
 muttered vindictively ; " an impudent young bag- 
 gage."
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 255 
 
 The others ignored the remark ; it was spoken 
 ill-naturedly. 
 
 "Ay, an' Lowrie's awfu' bound up in Linty," 
 Mag explained; "I wouldna wonder but what 
 ye're right : he's no feared ! " 
 
 That the visit was on Angus's account was 
 perfectly true, but it could not have reference to 
 an incident of which Lowrie knew nothing ; and 
 he had never heard a word about Linty's punish- 
 ment. But the women did not know this, and 
 took it as a matter of course that the "master 
 was gettin' a hearin' frae Swankey about punishin' 
 Linty " ; at which Jess Black felt virtuously in- 
 dignant, siding with the master, who was " sair 
 tormented wi' a wheen ill-conditioned puppies ". 
 
 Marg'et Garrow answered the door when 
 Lowrie knocked, and was so thunderstruck on 
 seeing the visitor that she showed him into the 
 master's room without asking what his business 
 was. Philip Burt had lodged with Marg'et ever 
 since he had come to the village a young man of 
 twenty-five, and his hair was now silver-white ; 
 but he was hale and hearty withal. He was 
 accredited with being crotchety : crotchets were 
 the prerogatives of bachelors, just as auld maids 
 were always accounted pernickety ; but not one of
 
 256 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 the villagers had a harder thing to say of him. 
 He rose as Lowrie entered, and in spite of himself 
 could not help betraying his astonishment. And, 
 indeed, in the circumstances there was some 
 excuse for his too evidently expressed surprise, 
 though the master with his old-world courtliness 
 of manner would have been the last to excuse 
 himself. There was an attempt to hide his con- 
 fusion in his invitation to Lowrie to be seated. 
 
 " Sit down, Lawrence ; sit down, sir," he said, 
 pushing towards him a large easy chair, " it's a 
 pleasurable surprise to have a visit from you." 
 
 Lowrie stood irresolute for a second, as if he 
 felt he ought to refuse the honour of the arm-chair; 
 but not knowing how to phrase his refusal, he 
 settled himself somewhat stiffly and gingerly on 
 the edge of the cushion. There was a feeling that 
 its luxury was not for the like of him. He would 
 have been more at his ease on the old wooden one, 
 which he saw standing in front of the table with 
 the desk ; but it was not his place to choose, and 
 he compromised matters by sitting as uncomfort- 
 ably as possible. 
 
 " I trust there's nothing wrong, Lawrence," Mr. 
 Burt continued, trying to set his visitor at his 
 ease.
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 257 
 
 Lowrie smiled feebly, to show that it was not 
 trouble that had brought him ; but he was still 
 too discomposed to begin conversation. It was 
 more difficult than he had imagined. There was 
 something he had omitted, although he had per- 
 formed the whole ceremony in thought, as he sat 
 smoking that morning. What was it ? Ah ! It 
 flashed upon him all at once. The sight of the 
 master's smoking cap brought it to his recollection. 
 He had forgotten to take off his "snouter". He 
 felt relieved as he remembered, and taking it off 
 slowly with one hand, he carefully smoothed his 
 sparse locks with the other, ere he adjusted it 
 carefully on his knee. His self-possession was 
 returning. 
 
 " I cam' up to ha'e a crack about Linty," 
 he said ; " that's Angus, ye ken, Angus 
 Allan." 
 
 The master was on the alert at once, and his 
 eyes half-closed as he fixed them on Lowrie, who 
 looked up appealing for his help. Perhaps the 
 master could guess the object of his visit, he 
 thought. 
 
 The master did guess, but he was wrong. 
 
 " I punished him on Tuesday," he said, speak- 
 ing slowly and distinctly, "though I regretted it
 
 258 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 afterwards. I think the fault was Morrison's 
 more than his." 
 
 "Punished him, did ye say?" Lowrie echoed 
 in surprise. " Punished Linty?" 
 
 " Has he not been telling you?" There was a 
 look almost of chagrin on the master's face as he 
 asked. Had he been giving himself away ? 
 
 " No him ; though if he'd been i' the wrang, 
 it's the first thing he would ha'e done." 
 
 " That only makes me the more convinced," 
 the master replied ; " I must have been too 
 hasty." 
 
 " I ha'ena a doubt o' it." The remark was 
 somewhat uncomplimentary, but Lowrie meant no 
 harm, and his next words were as certainly not 
 prompted by conventional politeness. " Sit down, 
 Mr. Burt ; sit down yoursel'. I dinna like to see 
 you stan'in' an' me sittin'. I'll gi'e ye this seat ; 
 it's rale comfortable." 
 
 The master took a chair, smiling, and senten- 
 tiously waving aside Lowrie's proffered seat. 
 "And you want to talk about Angus?" he said. 
 
 " Ay, that was what I cam' for." The admis- 
 sion was brief and slightly disconcerting. 
 
 " Well ? " said the master encouragingly. 
 
 " Weel ? " echoed Lowrie.
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 259 
 
 The master did not know what to say. " I've 
 a very high opinion of Angus," he ventured ; " he 
 is one of the best pupils I ever had; a fine head, 
 a fine head." 
 
 "I thought ye would say that," Lowrie burst 
 out with brightening eyes, and at length settling 
 himself comfortably in his chair. "That's what 
 I've been waitin' for you to say." 
 
 This was enigmatical, and the master was as 
 much at sea as ever. He smiled over to Lowrie, 
 and shook his head. " You're very attached to 
 him, Lawrence." 
 
 " Ay ! " Lowrie humbly admitted. " I would 
 like to do my best for him." 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt, Lawrence. We should 
 all like to do what we can for Angus." 
 
 " I thought ye would promise that," Lowrie 
 triumphantly cried ; " I thought ye would." His 
 face was beaming, but the master's was blank. 
 
 "Weel, an' what do ye think Angus should 
 be ? " he continued. 
 
 The master sat thoughtfully rubbing his knees 
 with his hands for a few seconds, ere he replied. 
 " I've sometimes thought of that," he said ; 
 " I've wondered what could be made of him." 
 
 " I kent you would, man. I kent it." Lowrie
 
 260 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 spoke excitedly. " I've been thinkin' o' it for 
 lang, but it's only come hame to me this last day 
 or twa." 
 
 " You have already decided about him then ? 
 And what do you think we should make him ? " 
 
 "Just what ye was thinkin' yoursel', sir," 
 Lowrie answered cautiously ; " the same thought 
 as yoursel'." 
 
 Mr. Burt looked puzzled. Lowrie was evi- 
 dently so enamoured of his own plan, whatever it 
 was, that he imagined it must readily occur to 
 any one. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, and 
 went over in his mind the few trades of the 
 village, but could not fix on one as being particu- 
 larly suited for Angus. 
 
 " Ay, ay, a grand head, as you say," Lowrie 
 mused, breaking in upon the master's thoughts, 
 " an' an awfu' reader. Ay, ay, ye're richt enough, 
 Mr. Burt, Linty's born to be a scholar." 
 
 At length it dawned on the master what Lowrie 
 was driving at, and he fell in at once with his 
 humour. " And so you're for sending Angus to 
 college, Lawrence ? " 
 
 " Ay," said Lowrie ; " I kent that was what ye 
 had i' your mind ; an' it's just what I've been 
 thinking o' mysel'."
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 261 
 
 " It's a noble ambition, Lawrence." 
 
 " I kent it as soon as ye promised to do a' ye 
 could for him," Lowrie continued ; " for how 
 could you help him to ony trade, unless it was a 
 head trade? a profession, Mr. Burt, I should ca' 
 it ; excuse me." 
 
 The master was beginning to feel that this 
 simple old man, by his very simplicity, was read- 
 ing into his words a meaning he himself had not 
 intended them to convey. He must let Lowrie 
 know how impracticable he considered such a 
 proposal. It was not that he would not do all he 
 could for Angus ; but the college meant money, 
 and Mrs. Allan was a widow and poor. Already 
 would she be looking forward to the time when 
 Angus would be a help ; for, although the wage 
 of an apprentice was but a few shillings a week, 
 it would mean a great deal to her. Evidently 
 Lowrie had not considered the matter seriously, 
 or did not know the cost of a college career. He 
 must try, as tenderly as possible, to prove to him 
 that his plans for Angus's education could never 
 be realised. The dream was a very beautiful one, 
 certainly; but it was no more than a dream. 
 
 "Have you consulted Mrs. Allan on this?" he 
 began.
 
 262 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " No," answered Lowrie chuckling; " ye see it's 
 gaun to be a fine surprise for her." 
 
 The case was getting hopeless, and the master 
 was getting impatient. " But do you know if she 
 would approve ? " he asked. 
 
 Lowrie leaned forward, and spoke with an air 
 of the greatest solemnity. "Ye dinna ken her." 
 he said ; " man, she would gi'e her life if it was 
 to better Linty." 
 
 His simplicity was almost childish. He could 
 not or would not consider the sacrifice he was 
 imposing on Mrs. Allan. It might simplify 
 matters to go into detail at once, and prove to 
 him from statistics that he was merely dallying 
 with an illusion. Mr. Burt bent forward, resting 
 his elbows on his knees, and, with his right fore- 
 finger on his left thumb, prepared to annihilate 
 him with figures. " Let us count the cost of a 
 college career," he suggested. 
 
 Lowrie rubbed his hands joyfully. " Ay, ay ! " 
 he said ; " that's whaur I needed your help most. 
 I'm a poor hand at figures." 
 
 The master agreed with him, but did not say 
 so. "Let us take twenty-six weeks as the session," 
 he said, " and, for lodgings, fifteen shillings, or, at 
 least, very barely, ten shillings a week."
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 263 
 
 " Say twel' ; his mother'll do his mendin' an' 
 washin'." 
 
 "Well, at twelve," continued the master, "that 
 comes to fifteen pounds twelve shillings ; matri- 
 culation fee, one pound ; fees for three classes, 
 nine guineas ; altogether twenty-six pounds one 
 shilling. Twenty-six pounds, one shilling, no 
 pence," he emphasised, as if he were reading an 
 answer to a class in arithmetic; and then sitting 
 up to watch its effect on Lowrie. But it had not 
 the effect he anticipated. 
 
 Lowrie seemed thoughtful enough, but not in 
 the slightest disconcerted. "I think we'll 
 manage," he said. 
 
 Mr. Burt made a gesture of impatience. Like 
 most schoolmasters he was inclined to be dog- 
 matic, and he felt that his array of figures ought 
 to have been convincing. " Explain yourself," he 
 said briefly. " I am certainly at a loss to know 
 how it can be done." 
 
 " Weel, ye see," Lowrie began apologetically, 
 "that's what I cam' up about. I thought I 
 would do my best for Linty, an' since you've 
 promised to do yours, I think I see my way." 
 He drew out his handkerchief, and mopped his 
 forehead thoughtfully.
 
 264 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " Ye ken I was at a funeral on Tuesday ? " he 
 continued. 
 
 The master nodded. 
 
 "Weel, I dinna ken how to tell ye a' about it; 
 but but when the will was read, everything was 
 left to Lawrence Robin, Barncraig that's me." 
 
 He paused again to collect himself; this part 
 of the explanation was the hardest of all, and he 
 was in a state of perspiration. 
 
 "The lawyer," he resumed, " telled me that 
 it'll no come short o' a hunder pound odds ; an' 
 though that'll maybe no do out the four year, it'll 
 aye be a help. It a' cam' into my head when I 
 was i' the train (an' me so ill at a train when I 
 was gaun !), but I'll no say a word against them 
 now. I'd often thought on it afore, but a' at 
 once I saw how it could be done." 
 
 He stopped, and looked up timidly into the 
 master's face, as if he feared there might yet be 
 some obstacle which he in his ignorance had not 
 reckoned on. But the master sat perfectly still, 
 looking with filmy eyes on the old ill-clad figure 
 in his chair. 
 
 " You mean, that you are going to devote all 
 this money, to to to Angus's education?" he at 
 length asked.
 
 LOWRIE PAYS A VISIT. 265 
 
 " Every penny ! " Lowrie replied simply. 
 
 The master rose. He drew out his handker- 
 chief, and began walking up and down the room, 
 blowing his nose intermittently, and with great 
 vigour. Presently, he came to where Lowrie 
 sat, and stood still, gazing down with quivering 
 eyelids into the suspenseful face. Reaching out 
 his hand to the old man, he gave him a grip that 
 made the poor poet wince. 
 
 " You're you're a Christian," he blurted out, 
 " if ever there was one ! " 
 
 Lowrie rose, and put on his cap, but he did not 
 reply. He was thinking not of himself, but of Angus. 
 
 " We'll mak' a man o' him yet," he said at the 
 door. "I'm awfu' glad that ye'll help him wi' his 
 lessons. I kent ye would do it ; but it's rale 
 kind o' ye, Mr. Burt rale kind o' ye, an' I thank 
 ye for it." 
 
 " We'll have a talk about it again," were the 
 master's parting words. " Meantime, we'd better 
 keep it to ourselves. Good-day, Lawrence. 
 Good-day." 
 
 " Good-bye, sir! Good-bye. It was mair than 
 kind o' ye ; " and he went away smiling. " Ay 
 ay," he chuckled, " we've gotten him on the 
 rails now ; Linty's on the rails, an' we'll mak' a 
 man o' him atween's ! "
 
 2 66 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 MINISTER AND DOMINIE. 
 
 WHEN he was left alone Philip Burt lit his pipe, 
 and began pacing up and down the floor of his 
 room in a very thoughtful mood. A visit from 
 Swankey was in itself so extraordinary as to give 
 assurance that its object was a matter of no little 
 importance, but the master had neither surmised 
 its purpose, nor dreamed of the great spirit of 
 renunciation that prompted it. But Swankey had 
 done more than disclose his plans for Angus's 
 education ; he had disclosed himself. The master 
 had never known the old man before. How could 
 he ? He had never had anything more than 
 merely formal dealings with Lowrie ; he knew him 
 as a cobbler with an eccentricity that found vent 
 in rhyme, or, as the master had always considered 
 it, doggerel : that much and no more. All along 
 he had regarded him with a patronising pity that 
 was not very far removed from contempt ; but now 
 that he beheld Lowrie in a new light, he was 
 ashamed of his former feeling. Although, when
 
 MINISTER AND DOMINIE. 267 
 
 the old man had entered his room, he had re- 
 ceived him graciously, and tried to set him at his 
 ease, he knew that he had done so in a spirit of 
 condescension flattering to his own vanity; and the 
 recognition of this was already to him a sting of 
 self-reproach. " Another case of the Pharisee and 
 the publican ! " he muttered, in bitter self-accusa- 
 tion. 
 
 Had he ever associated with him, he was bound 
 to have become aware of the simplicity and unsel- 
 fishness of Lowrie's nature ; for the master was a 
 man of observation, and his habit of estimating 
 disposition and capability was not confined to 
 school. But character requires close study ; and 
 in the case of one so shrinking and sensitive as 
 Lowrie, acquaintance would not have afforded 
 opportunities for the just appreciation of impulse 
 and motive. Now, however, his sympathy was 
 touched into being, and he saw clearly. In spite 
 of his wretched appearance, his threadbare clothes, 
 and his pronounced gaucheries, the old poet looked 
 almost heroic in the dignity of voluntary renun- 
 ciation. 
 
 Mr. Burt pondered over Lowrie's plan for 
 Angus, and caught some of his childlike faith in 
 the future. Angus was his favourite pupil ; and if
 
 268 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 it were possible to send him to the university, no 
 one would rejoice more than he himself would. 
 The prospect was pleasing, and carried him away 
 on the wings of a day dream that brought a flush 
 to his cheek and a light to his eye. Angus's 
 studies would be his studies ; he would share in 
 his hopes and his trials ; and in his pupil's career 
 he would live over again those years of college life 
 which seemed to him now little else than tradi- 
 tions of a former existence. Yes ; certainly it 
 would be glorious if Angus could be sent to 
 college, a boon for Angus himself, who was 
 naturally a studious lad and would do his old 
 school credit, and a joy for the master, who would 
 take pride in the success of his pupil. But could 
 it be dfone ? To fall in with Lowrie's plan seemed 
 very like trading on the old man's generosity, a 
 generosity that might, at the most, be but im- 
 pulsive ; and Philip Burt was too shrewd not to 
 know how transitory generous impulses are, 
 sincere as vows made in wine, and as soon for- 
 gotten. So flattering to human nature are they 
 that the glow of self-satisfaction is experienced in 
 their conception ; and when the approbation of 
 conscience is anticipated, it is seldom earned. 
 That Lowrie was sincere enough he did not
 
 MINISTER AND DOMINIE. 269 
 
 for a moment doubt ; but sincerity is one thing, 
 and constancy is another and a different thing. 
 Lowrie might regret his promise and withdraw it. 
 " Strike while the iron is hot," the business mind 
 might have urged ; "take him at his word." But 
 Philip Burt was not worldly minded, and would 
 have been deaf to any such advice. It might be 
 expedient, it might even in a sense be wise ; but 
 would it be fair to keep the old man bound for 
 years by a promise made, perhaps, rashly ? Even 
 assuming that Lowrie had considered the question 
 seriously, and fully understood the responsibility 
 he was undertaking, would it be right to accept 
 his offer ? Was it not rather the office of a friend 
 to dissuade him from such quixotism ? He was 
 an old man already, and it was but a miserable 
 pittance he earned at his trade. What a boon 
 this legacy might be for himself, saving him from 
 the weekly worry of contriving to make ends meet, 
 and even adding a little of luxury to the declining 
 years of his life ! And here he was proposing to 
 devote it all, " every penny," as he said, to Angus's 
 education ! It was magnanimous, but not to be 
 entertained seriously. 
 
 Yet, setting aside all such considerations, the 
 master could not but admit that he had caught
 
 270 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 some of Lowrie's own hopefulness and faith. One 
 of his pupils at the university, perhaps carrying 
 off medals and prizes ! There was fascination in 
 the prospect, and it might yet be made more than 
 a dream. He would do his best to have it fulfilled. 
 That was his promise to Lowrie ; and he would 
 keep it not merely because it was a promise, but 
 because of the glamour and glory of the prospect. 
 Even supposing Lowrie were unable to give the 
 assistance he had volunteered, were there no other 
 means of maintaining Angus at the university, and 
 of keeping his mother from want while he was 
 there ? That Mrs. Allan would stint and starve 
 herself for Angus's sake, he was convinced ; nor 
 would she let any one know of her self-sacrifice. 
 But she had a sore enough struggle, and it would 
 be a serious responsibility for one to do anything 
 tending to prolong that struggle, at the same 
 time making it harder. On the other hand, some 
 means might be devised whereby no sacrifice 
 would be imposed on either Mrs. Allan or on 
 Lowrie. He would consult the minister about it. 
 
 That was the result of Philip Burt's forenoon 
 deliberations and reflections. 
 
 After dinner, he sauntered along to the manse, 
 and found the minister busy in his garden ; but as
 
 MINISTER AND DOMINIE. 271 
 
 Mr. Burt approached, he stuck his trowel in the 
 earth, and the two made their way to the summer 
 house at the end of the garden. This was a 
 favourite resort of the minister's; and many a 
 sermon had been thought out, as he sat and 
 enjoyed his cigar or briar in its leafy seclusion. 
 Embowered in trees, for it stood just at the edge 
 of the wood, it looked right over the village, 
 commanding a view of the coast for miles and 
 miles ; while the great voice of the grey old sea, 
 reaching into the hazy horizon, seemed here to 
 soften, that it might harmonise with the melody 
 of blackbird or mavis. 
 
 "Glorious view, isn't it?" the minister re- 
 marked as he sat down. 
 
 "Very fine." Mr. Burt rarely used superlatives, 
 but there was no indifference in his tone. No 
 doubt, he felt the entrancing beauty of the view, 
 more than many who would have wasted words 
 in spasms of admiration ; and Mr. Johnson was 
 also saving of speech. After they had got their 
 pipes lit, both sat puffing away in silence, follow- 
 ing the sails of schooners as they lessened and 
 were lost in the distance. 
 
 They enjoyed their smoke all the better because 
 of the view, and, mayhap, the view all the more
 
 272 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 because of their smoke ; for their pipes were 
 drawing well, and it wanted two hours of tea- 
 time. 
 
 "I wish to consult you; to have your advice," 
 Philip Burt began, breaking the silence, " on a 
 matter of importance." 
 
 The minister looked grave at once, and took 
 his briar from his lips. " Another deserving 
 case ? " he queried. 
 
 Philip smiled. " No, Mr. Johnson ; a wrong 
 guess. It's something pleasant this time." 
 
 " Ah ! " It was a simple ejaculation, but what 
 a world of relief there was in it ! He stretched 
 himself out on the seat as if he were suiting the 
 action to the tone. " Fire away, then, Philip : 
 I'm all attention/' 
 
 " I had a very strange visitor this forenoon," 
 the master began. " I daresay you couldn't guess, 
 though you set your brains a-steep." 
 
 "A lady?" The minister guessed, speaking 
 with affected surprise. 
 
 " No," Philip answered, somewhat gravely ; 
 " but a gentleman, certainly. It was no other 
 than Lawrence Robin." 
 
 " Swankey?" ejaculated the minister, rising on 
 his elbow, and dropping his pipe in astonishment.
 
 MINISTER AND DOMINIE. 273 
 
 " Yes, Swankey." 
 
 "Well, well," the minister mused, ''that's as 
 extraordinary as his letter. And what was the 
 object of his visit ? I'll say this of Swankey, that 
 he would be the last man in Barncraig to bother 
 one needlessly. You know," he queried, as if he 
 were confessing a weakness, "that I've rather a 
 liking for old Swankey?" 
 
 " And so have I, now." The master spoke very 
 seriously, and so emphasised the last word that 
 the minister was impressed ; and he listened 
 very intently while Mr. Burt recounted the fore- 
 noon's conversation. 
 
 When Philip had finished, the minister was 
 lying with his hand shading his eyes. " A noble 
 man ! " he murmured. " Poor old Lowrie ! " 
 
 There was silence for a time, broken only by 
 the rich flute-like notes of a blackbird, that had 
 commenced warbling outside. 
 
 " You hear the blackie ? " he continued. 
 " Whenever I hear of any beautiful action 
 like this, my heart seems so full that I should 
 just like to let myself out in such a song as his. 
 He must be singing Lowrie's praise for us; it's 
 too early for his gloaming lilt." 
 
 " Do you think we should accept this money of 
 18
 
 274 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Lowrie's?" Mr. Burt asked. "It seems to me 
 that it would be almost robbery to do so." 
 
 Mr. Johnson rose from the seat and stood at 
 the door of the summer house ere he replied. 
 " It would hurt him very much if you refused," 
 he said; "besides, what have you or I got to do 
 with it ? It is Lowrie's own business, and he is 
 only asking your help. I daresay we can both do 
 a little, and I shall not be ashamed to accept 
 his initiative." 
 
 " It appears to me altogether quixotic," the 
 other urged. 
 
 " And yet that is just the man I fancied Swankey 
 to be. I have only chatted with him now and 
 again ; but this only bears out the opinion I had 
 already formed of him. No, no, Philip. We 
 shall let Lowrie do what he will with his own, 
 even though Angus should never actually need 
 his money ; and Lowrie himself will never be in 
 
 actual want so long as But here comes 
 
 Mrs. Johnson announcing tea. The afternoon 
 has flown past." 
 
 The master rose as Mrs. Johnson came forward, 
 and bowed with his old-world stateliness. 
 
 "How d'ye do, Philip?" she said, extending 
 her hand. She spoke in a low sweet voice, which
 
 MINISTER AND DOMINIE. 275 
 
 just retained enough of its Scots accent to 
 render it pleasant and piquant. " She's a snod 
 body, the minister's wife," Dauvit Briggs often 
 repeated ; "a fussy affectionate cr'atur'." And he 
 expressed very correctly the feeling of the village. 
 She was a " wee body," whom no one would have 
 wished taller ; and she looked even less than she 
 was by the side of her tall dignified husband. 
 " It's pleasant to look up to one's husband," she 
 had more than once remarked to Mr. Burt. 
 
 " Philip and I have had a serious talk," the 
 minister remarked. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson's eyebrows contracted slightly, 
 giving to her face an expression at once question- 
 ing and pitiful. " Is it another case of illness, 
 Philip?" 
 
 The minister smiled. " No," he said, before 
 Philip could reply ; " it's not a question of wines 
 and jelly this time." 
 
 " I'm so glad," she innocently replied. 
 
 " It's a very pleasant subject to-day," the 
 master assured her ; " and it concerns a favourite 
 of yours." 
 
 "Could you have imagined, Philip, that she 
 would have grudged the jelly so much?" Mr. 
 Johnson's hand rested fondly on his wife's head
 
 276 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 as he spoke ; and in spite of the affected solemnity 
 of his tone, she was too well accustomed to his 
 banter to take his words seriously. 
 
 " You know, Philip," she answered in her de- 
 fence, somewhat laughingly, somewhat in earnest, 
 "that I don't grudge the jelly, but I do grudge 
 the pots. I've to get in a fresh stock every 
 season." 
 
 " Her heart hankers after the pots, Philip," the 
 minister said, speaking with an expression of pity 
 and pain, and shaking his head very sadly. 
 
 " Well, well," his wife answered ; " it's tea cups 
 and not jelly pots that my heart hankers after at 
 present. Come away, and I'll hear at table what 
 you grave and reverend seigniors have been 
 discussing." 
 
 " We were having a long consultation about 
 Lawrence Robin," Philip began, at tea ; " and 
 about one who is a favourite of yours, Angus 
 Allan." 
 
 " And a favourite of your own, Philip." 
 
 " That's a grave charge," the minister remarked, 
 with a serious look, " to accuse a schoolmaster of 
 favouritism." 
 
 " And yet I can't refute it," Philip apologetically 
 answered ; " but that's a personal matter. We
 
 MINISTER AND DOMINIE. 277 
 
 were talking about Lawrence and Angus, as I 
 said." And he again told the story of Lowrie's 
 visit to him, and of the future the old man was 
 projecting for Linty. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson was much affected by the story. 
 " Poor Lowrie!" she said. " It would be a shame 
 to deprive him of his money." 
 
 "And yet," Philip mused, " Mr. Johnson thinks 
 Lowrie would feel hurt if we refused it." 
 
 Mrs. Johnson looked questioningly to her 
 husband for explanation. If he thought so, then 
 it must be right ; and he would be able so to state 
 his view that she would be convinced, and see 
 eye to eye with him. She had perfect faith in his 
 judgment. 
 
 " I do not think it a matter in which we are 
 called on to interfere," he replied. " Lowrie pro- 
 poses to use his money in this way, and does not 
 ask if we should advise him to do so. All he asks 
 is that Philip shall help Angus with his lessons. 
 That Philip is willing to do ; and if there is any 
 way in which I can help, I shall be pleased to do 
 what I can to send Angus to college." 
 
 " I should like that too, by all means," said his 
 wife. 
 
 "But without using Lowrie's legacy?" The
 
 278 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 master's tone was questioning, but he gave the 
 impression that he was stating his view of the 
 case. 
 
 " But," the minister argued, " we are proceeding 
 as if the initiative were ours. Now, we are only 
 seconding old Swankey's motion, which, I say again, 
 I do with all my heart. Let him do what he will 
 with his own. If he has made up his mind to 
 devote his little fortune to Angus's education, I do 
 not think any argument of ours would move him 
 from his purpose. On the other hand, if we do a 
 little to help him, it will make his sacrifice all the 
 easier for him." 
 
 The master sat silent for a time. He was only 
 half convinced, and while he held to the hope of 
 seeing his pupil at the university, he shrank from 
 entertaining Lowrie's proposal. 
 
 " I'm afraid," he presently observed, " I must 
 give in to you. The glamour of the university is 
 too fascinating for an old dominie. I should be 
 proud to see one of my pupils there. Yet, could 
 it not be done without touching Lowrie's legacy? 
 There might be another way." 
 
 " Indeed ! " Mr. Johnson looked over at his 
 friend, with a puzzled expression on his face. 
 " And what is your proposal ? "
 
 MINISTER AND DOMINIE. 279 
 
 " A bursary." 
 
 " Well, yes. I hadn't thought of that. There 
 is no reason why he should not be able to lift 
 one. He has a year or two yet to prepare." 
 
 "I could help him with his mathematics; as 
 for Greek and Latin, I never was particularly 
 bright in classics, and I'm afraid I'm very rusty 
 now. If you could spare an hour or two a 
 week " 
 
 " I should certainly be delighted to do so." 
 
 " That would be so nice," Mrs. Johnson ex- 
 claimed, seeming to see the whole business settled. 
 " And you would not need Lowrie's money." 
 
 " That, of course, we have nothing to do with," 
 her husband said decidedly. " We can help 
 Angus without interfering with Lowrie's plans." 
 
 "There is only one other thing I should advise," 
 Philip resumed, " and I do so reluctantly. But, 
 in the face of poor old Lowrie's generosity, it 
 would ill become me to talk of self-sacrifice. I 
 must lose Angus, my favourite pupil." 
 
 He spoke so solemnly, and looked so distressed 
 withal, that neither of his hearers ventured to 
 reply. He had something to explain to them, 
 and their earnest attention was as expressive of 
 sympathy as of interest.
 
 280 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " You see, it will be some years till he is ready 
 for the university, and he might be earning a 
 little money while he is keeping up his studies. 
 I understand Mr. Bell, of Santserfs you know he 
 is a certificated teacher is at present in need of a 
 pupil teacher, and I think I could get him to take 
 Angus on trial." 
 
 " It seems a sensible arrangement," the minister 
 remarked, not very enthusiastically ; for he felt 
 sorry for his old friend. 
 
 " It's a beautiful plan, Philip," Mrs. Johnson 
 admitted ; " but " 
 
 " I know what you'd say, Mrs. Johnson. It 
 will be hard to pass Angus over to another ; but, 
 after all, I'm bound to lose him. When this 
 Education Act comes into operation, there will 
 be changes in Barncraig, as elsewhere." 
 
 Mr. Johnson was silent. He knew not what to 
 say. He would be sorry to see his old friend, 
 after many years of faithful service, dismissed, 
 to make way for a younger, and, perhaps, a less 
 efficient teacher. But Mr. Burt was not the 
 parish teacher, and would have to go. 
 
 " I daresay," Philip mused with a pathetic 
 smile ; " it just means a short rest before the end. 
 My frosty pow whispers to me, Respice finem."
 
 MINISTER AND DOMINIE. 281 
 
 Mrs. Johnson looked quite distressed. " Your 
 cup is empty, Philip," she said. " Let me fill it. 
 This is a fresh infusion." 
 
 "This wifie mine has kept the good wine until 
 now," the minister remarked banteringly, as he 
 passed the cups. 
 
 " That's not complimentary to the first cup," 
 she answered. "A bit of cake, Philip?" 
 
 " Do you think," the minister asked, reverting 
 again to the subject under discussion, " that 
 Angus will approve of our serious deliberations?" 
 
 "Or Mrs. Allan?" his wife struck in. 
 
 " I believe she will," the master said ; " and 
 Angus is certainly a very studious lad. But we 
 must talk it over with both of them." 
 
 " I could see Mrs. Allan, and have a talk with 
 her," the minister said. " Or, better still, couldn't 
 Mrs. Johnson undertake this mission ? Do you 
 think we might trust to her delicate diplomacy ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I think that will answer admirably, and 
 you might see her yourself later. I shall have a 
 talk with Lawrence and with Angus." 
 
 " It's quite a little conspiracy." Mrs. Johnson 
 spoke quite delightedly. 
 
 "And therefore you'll enjoy it. Did you ever 
 know a lady who did not love intrigue, Philip ? "
 
 282 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 "Now, now," she said, "you're not serious. 
 You mustn't speak any more till you finish your 
 tea." 
 
 " O mamma ! " The door was flung open, and 
 a little girl came running in. " O mamma, I'm so 
 hungry for my tea." 
 
 " Yes, dearie," her mother said, preparing a cup 
 lor her. " Don't you see Uncle Philip ? " 
 
 " How d'ye do, Uncle Philip?" she cried across 
 the table. " I shall kiss you after tea. I'm so 
 hungry." 
 
 The old schoolmaster was a great favourite of 
 Jessie's. He had mysterious pockets from which 
 he could drag sweets, picture books, and, on rare 
 occasions, a doll. She had made friends with him 
 before she could say his name, and when she did 
 learn to speak, she had claimed kinship with him, 
 promoting him to the dignity of " uncle ". 
 
 " Have you been playing with Maggie Ness 
 this afternoon ? " 
 
 "Yes, mamma; and Angus came into the garden 
 with his book, and read a nice long story. Some 
 honey, mamma ? " 
 
 " Yes, dearie ; now take care of your dress." 
 
 "And so Angus reads you stories?" the father 
 asked.
 
 MINISTER AND DOMINIE. 283 
 
 " Yes, papa; when he brings his book." 
 
 " And what was Angus's story about, Jessie?" 
 
 " O Uncle Philip, it was a nice story, about a 
 poor boy, and he hadn't no clothes but rags, and 
 no mother and no father. And he hadn't no place 
 to live in but a hole in a tree. And there was an 
 old man lived there, but he was poor too ; and the 
 boy was very kind to him because he was old, and 
 had white hair, just like yours, Uncle Philip. 
 Just a little more cream, mamma; a wee, wee 
 drop." 
 
 " But he wasn't an old man after all," she 
 resumed, " and he wasn't poor." She gazed over 
 into Mr. Hurt's attentive face, and spoke almost 
 in a whisper. Then she clapped her hands and 
 shouted : " He was a fairy, Uncle Philip a fairy in 
 disguise ; and he changed the little boy into a 
 prince, with grand clothes of velvet and gold, and 
 a sword at his side, and, and he lived happy ever 
 afterwards." 
 
 " What a pretty story, Jessie ! " 
 
 " And there was a princess too, Uncle Philip. 1 
 forgot about her ; but it's all printed in the book ; 
 and a lovely picture." 
 
 " But you haven't told us the name of the story, 
 dearie."
 
 284 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 "O mamma," she cried, "I don't know its name. 
 It's an awful big word that I can't say. I just 
 call it Angus's story." 
 
 " And a very good name too ! " her father 
 answered. " What think you, Uncle Philip?" 
 
 " Very appropriate indeed," he replied. "Angus's 
 Story. A very appropriate title ! " 
 
 " Now," said her mother, " here's a nice slice of 
 cake and honey. It's very good of Angus to read 
 you stories from his book. You didn't bring 
 Maggie Ness in to tea with you ? Did she go 
 away with Angus? Take care, dearie, or you'll 
 lose the honey."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 THE TALK OF THE TOWN. 
 
 IN Barncraig secret negotiations were well-nigh 
 an impossibility. Private affairs might be com 
 ducted with the utmost circumspection ; but even 
 the subtlest diplomacy was certain to rouse curi- 
 osity, and had to be content if it managed to 
 baffle it. Where every trivial detail was a subject 
 of conversation the relation of events was almost 
 instinctively determined. For villagers consider 
 community of life as of the nature of kinship, 
 involving certain duties and allowing certain 
 privileges ; and, of these privileges, the right of 
 discussing a neighbour's affairs is not the least. 
 What happened at the harbour is heard on the 
 Poun's ; what was whispered in the store was 
 repeated at Haw Head, and proclaimed openly 
 at the Cox'l. 
 
 Before the villagers had recovered from their 
 excitement over Lowrie's letter, and his unpre- 
 cedented journey, they were trying to get at the 
 motive of his visit to the master. That this was
 
 286 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 an event of importance was indicated by the 
 fact that the master had since returned the visit, 
 and had a long talk with the poet. Nor could it 
 be a question of boots or shoes. Eben Reid had 
 soled a pair of boots for Mr. Burt just the previous 
 week ; and, as he was careful to announce in his 
 idle moments, which were many, " he was busy 
 makin' him a new pair". Besides, it does not 
 take the matter of two hours to " measure a 
 foot ". Then, on the following day, the minister 
 himself had called on Lowrie, which was certainly 
 a circumstance exceptional enough to lead curious 
 folk into speculation. Moreover, he had come 
 directly from Mrs. Allan's, whom his wife had 
 visited in the forenoon ; and that gave them 
 something to go upon. All this visiting had 
 something to do with Linty, the goodwives rea- 
 soned " they could put twa and twa thegether 
 as quick as most folk," and their decision was 
 sustained by the Cox'l. This verdict was further 
 confirmed and ratified on the Wednesday evening 
 by the news that " Linty had been to see the 
 master at his lodgings ". There could be no doubt 
 now ; " thae ongauns a' pointed to something 
 concernin' Linty". So much, arrived at deduc- 
 tively, opened up a vast field for speculation ; and
 
 THE TALK OF THE TOWN. 287 
 
 it was curious how nearly their conjectures came 
 to the truth. 
 
 ; ' They'll be gaun to mak' a scholar o' Linty," 
 Andrew Morrison surmised. 
 
 The evening was cold and wet, and he had 
 dropped in on Eben, "to ha'e a crack an' a smoke". 
 The seat at the Cox'l was not eligible in rainy 
 weather, and Eben's house, just adjoining, was 
 the nearest port in a storm. 
 
 " That's what I was thinkin' mysel'," Eben 
 answered. " He's an awfu' laddie for books ; so 
 was his father afore him." 
 
 " Ay, it runs i' the blood. Weet, Pete ! " This 
 last was spoken to Peter Fernie and Sandy Briggs, 
 who had just entered. 
 
 " That's po'try, Andrew," Sandy remarked ; 
 " ye've surely been seein' Swankey." 
 
 " It's no my fau't he has sic a name," Andrew 
 answered. He resented the accusation, and spoke 
 gruffly. " The very bairns at the school mak' 
 metre wi' Peter." 
 
 "Ay, it's an unfort'nate name," Pete himself 
 admitted ; "but it's like a red head; ye've just to 
 thole what ye canna mak' a better o'." 
 
 Such irrelevant talk annoyed Eben. " If we 
 havena been seein' Swankey," he admitted, " we
 
 288 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 were thinkin' about him, Sandy, afore ye cam' in, 
 an' Linty." 
 
 "Was ye now?" Sandy oratorically asked. 
 " Ay, man, an' wha's no ? " 
 
 " Ha'e ye heard ony thing?" Andrew saw from 
 Sandy's face that he had news to tell. 
 
 " No that muckle, Andrew ; but it was about a 
 namesake o' yours." 
 
 " Andrew Allison ? Ay, man, I was hearin' 
 about that mysel'. He has been gey sair worrited 
 since his wife's death ; an' it's the best thing he 
 can do." 
 
 " He's gi'ein' up his shop at the term," Peter 
 blandly informed Eben. 
 
 " That's piper's news, Pete." 
 
 Sandy turned to Eben and chuckled. 
 
 " An' I suppose it's piper's news to ye that 
 Linty's mother's takin' it aff his hands ? " 
 
 "What?" Eben ejaculated, completely thrown 
 off his guard ; " ye're haverin', man ! It'll tak' a 
 wheen pounds to buy Andrew out." 
 
 " Ay will't," Sandy continued, " a hantle mair 
 than you're worth. But the money's ready as 
 soon as Andrew likes to quit. The minister made 
 him the offer : an' Andrew telled me himsel'." 
 
 Eben was at his wits' end. "That beats a'," he
 
 THE TALK OF THE TOWN. 289 
 
 commented. " Ministers is no that fond o' partin' 
 wi' their bawbees." 
 
 " Ou, but that's the mystery o't, Eben. The 
 siller's no his ; he's only hudin' it on trust for a 
 friend." 
 
 Eben sniggered. If he had to be indebted to 
 Sandy for such an important item of news he 
 might at least cover his annoyance with a sarcas- 
 tic remark. " Imphm ! " he sneered; "it's easy 
 dealin' whangs aff other folk's leather ; an' the 
 ministers are grand hands at that." 
 
 " You've little room to complain," Andrew told 
 him ; " he has never ha'en a sicht o' siller o' 
 yours." 
 
 "There, we're quits, Andrew." 
 
 " Ay," Peter observed ; " he gets his boots frae 
 Santserfs." 
 
 "An' his stipen' frae Barncraig," added Eben, 
 who, though not a church-goer, felt that he was 
 airing a grievance. 
 
 " But ye're no speirin' wha's providin' the 
 siller," Sandy complained. He had come primed, 
 and was nettled at the want of interest. The 
 remark, however, brought them up with a jerk, 
 and they became eagerly attentive. 
 
 " Have ye heard ? " Andrew queried. 
 19
 
 290 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " Maybe I have, an' maybe I havena, Andrew." 
 There was not much to be got from the answer, 
 but the tone implied that he had his own thoughts 
 on the subject. " Wha can it be?" Eben did not 
 like to ask directly for information, preferring to 
 come by it in a roundabout way. " She has no 
 rich relations belangin' her ; no that relations are 
 likely to help i' the day o' need." 
 
 " He maybe doesna bide in Barncraig," Sandy 
 oracularly admitted ; " an' he's maybe no a man 
 o' your ain trade, Eben ; I'm no sayin' different, 
 an', of course, I may be wrang 
 
 " Of course, ye are ! " Eben blurted out. " If 
 he has enough for decent burial gin his time 
 comes, it'll be mair than some folks that pay their 
 rates reg'lar expect." 
 
 "Swankey?" Morrison incredulously questioned. 
 " Ye're surely makin' a mistak', Sandy." 
 
 " I mentioned no names," Sandy answered ; 
 " but ye canna hinder me frae thinkin'." 
 
 " No ! " Eben's tone was contemptuous, " even 
 though it be nonsense." 
 
 " Weel, Eben," Briggs advised, speaking in the 
 calm level tone of the man convinced that events 
 will prove him right, " ye'd as lief sift the matter 
 for yoursel' ; but afore ye begin to ferret out the
 
 THE TALK OF THE TOWN. 291 
 
 richt man, would it no be as weel to prove I'm 
 wrang ? " 
 
 He had said his say, and was now peering 
 through the misty panes. "It's lookin' fair-wise, 
 I see : I'll need to be movin'. Are ye in fettle for 
 a game, Andrew? " 
 
 "What's to hinder ye ha'ein' ane here?" Eben 
 asked. It was not a night for open-air discussion, 
 and he did not wish to be left alone. " There's 
 the brod an' men, an' here's the table." 
 
 " Ay,' ; Andrew concurred, " that'll save ye frae 
 trailin' alang the town. Bring to your chair." 
 
 They sat down at the table and arranged the 
 men ; and there was silence in the room, Andrew 
 and Sandy bending studiously over the board, and 
 Peter and Eben standing behind, thoughtfully 
 watching the progress of the game. Talk was 
 out of the question ; not a word would be uttered 
 till they rose to go, and bade Eben good-night. 
 
 Eben and Andrew were not the only persons 
 who had come to the conclusion that the minister 
 and the master meant to make a scholar of Angus. 
 It was the talk of the town. The women pro- 
 phesied that Linty would "wag his pow in a 
 pu'pit yet " ; while the men hoped, with a certain
 
 292 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 reserve of doubt, that book-learning might be for 
 his good. They were inclined to regard it as a 
 dangerous experiment ; the older ones recollecting 
 the story of a promising lad that the town had 
 talked about when they were young. About 
 Andrew Allison's shop, however, there could be 
 no doubt ; for Andrew was so eager to be quit of 
 it that he left before the term day, and Mrs. 
 Allan became the newsagent of Barncraig. 
 " The stock was bought up for her," she said, 
 " by a friend " ; but that was all she would 
 tell ; " she wasna at liberty to divulge his 
 name ". 
 
 That being the case, the villagers were left to 
 guess. Some said it was the minister, others 
 gave Mr. Burt the credit ; but few mentioned 
 Lowrie's name. 
 
 " Swankey, poor man," they said, " has enough 
 to do to mak' ends meet." 
 
 Sandy Briggs, however, nodded his head very 
 sagely when he was questioned, and said "he 
 had his ain thoughts ". But Sandy was a man 
 who took notions into his head, and stuck to them 
 against all argument. There was no man in the 
 village more respected ; but that counted for little 
 in matters of opinion. So the neighbours heard
 
 THE TALK OF THE TOWN. 293 
 
 what he had to say, and took it for what it was 
 worth : it was a notion of Sandy's. 
 
 Angus himself was now getting lessons in 
 Latin and Greek from the minister. Twice a 
 week did he go along to the manse, on Wednes- 
 day evening, and again on Saturday forenoon ; 
 while, in school, Mr. Burt was doing what he 
 could for him in mathematics and English. The 
 one part of the master's scheme for Angus's educa- 
 tion that Lowrie would not listen to was that he 
 should leave the school in Barncraig, and trudge 
 morning and evening to and from Santserfs. 
 
 " You've brought the laddie as far on as he is," 
 he told Mr. Burt, " an' he'll bide wi' you as lang 
 as you bide. If so be that ye have to gang soon, 
 a' the mair need o' him makin' the maist o' his 
 time when he has the chance." 
 
 Mr. Burt urged that he might be earning money 
 as a pupil teacher at Santserfs; but it was in vain. 
 Lowrie would not hear of it, nor would Mrs. Allan. 
 
 " I've aye been provided for as yet," she told 
 the minister, when he tried to point out the 
 advantages of Mr. Burt's proposal. " I'm no 
 waur aff the day than I was yesterday; an' it's 
 the day I've to do wi'. I lippen the morn to 
 Him."
 
 294 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 So it was arranged that Angus should stay on 
 under Mr. Burt as long as Mr. Burt was to be 
 teacher in Barncraig. And, on his own account, 
 the master was pleased that it should be so 
 When the time came that he must retire, and a 
 new teacher should be appointed in his place, 
 Angus might then become a pupil teacher, and, 
 without having to leave the old school, could be 
 earning a little for a year or two before entering 
 the university. 
 
 In time the villagers got used to the idea of 
 one of their own lads going to the university, and 
 they began to talk of Angus as " the stoodent ". 
 There was something of an aristocratic sound 
 about the word, and they liked to say it. But 
 the mystery of the money remained. They dis- 
 cussed it again and again, but could not come to 
 an unanimous finding; which was disappointing. 
 Some of them tackled Lowrie on the subject, 
 but he did not help to clear up matters. All that 
 the miners could get out of him was that Linty's 
 father would likely have sent his son to college, 
 had he been spared; "for himsel'," he added, 
 " there was nothing he would like mair to see 
 than Linty at the university, an' he might win 
 there yet ; it was hard to say ".
 
 THE TALK OF THE TOWN. 295 
 
 But Lowrie could tell them nothing of the friend 
 who had helped Mrs. Allan, except that " that was 
 her business, no his ; an', if they would excuse 
 plain speakin', he didna think it was theirs either". 
 
 One Wednesday night, when Angus was re- 
 turning from the manse, Eben hailed him up, 
 ostensibly to hear about his studies. 
 
 " Weel, Angus," he said, " an' how faur are ye 
 on now ? " 
 
 This was a very general question ; and Angus 
 only smiled for answer. 
 
 "I hear ye're studyin' Greek an' Latin? Ay? 
 Ha'e ye a Greek book wi' ye ? " 
 
 Angus handed him a copy of Homer, which he 
 had only begun to read ; and Eben put on his 
 spectacles to examine it. 
 
 The others crowded about him, and peered into 
 the page, mystified with the unwonted characters. 
 They set down Angus as a scholar on the spot. 
 
 " What do ye ca' the book ? " the general 
 asked. 
 
 " Homer ! " 
 
 "Homer?" Pillan spoke in an awed whisper. 
 " I've heard the name. He was blind, wasn't he? 
 Ay, I was sure o't. Blind Harry they used to ca'
 
 296 
 
 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 him ; but that would just be by way o' a by-name 
 amon' friends." 
 
 " Can ye read that ? " Tyler asked, tapping the 
 book with the stem of his pipe. 
 
 "I'm just learnin','' Angus answered ; " but the 
 minister can read it as quick as you read the 
 papers." 
 
 "' Most extraordinar' ! " Morrison exclaimed. 
 
 " It'll cost a bonny penny to keep ye at the 
 college, Angus ! " Eben had closed the book, and 
 was peering over his spectacles, very learned 
 like. 
 
 " The master says it'll cost ten guineas a year 
 for no mair than the classes." 
 
 " That's fair robbery ! " Morrison looked round 
 the faces of his neighbours for confirmation of his 
 words, and nobody denied them. " Ten guineas!" 
 he repeated ; " it's a sma' fortune." 
 
 "It'll tak' a lang time to gather that." Eben 
 was addressing Angus again. " Are ye begun to 
 stock your purley yet ? " 
 
 Angus only shook his head. He wanted his 
 book back, so that he might get away ; but Eben 
 did not mean to part with it yet. 
 
 "There's a friend o' your mother's, isn't there?" 
 he ventured, when Pillan interrupted.
 
 THE TALK OF THE TOWN. 297 
 
 "Ye're faur enough, Eben, my man," he told 
 him ; " gi'e the stoodent his book, an' mind your ain 
 affairs." 
 
 And Dav Allan backed him up. 
 
 " Eben has a crap for a' corn," he muttered in 
 a disgusted tone, " an' caresna how it's come by. 
 What a bairn '11 let fa' in foolishness, he would 
 pick up as wisdom." 
 
 Andrew Morrison frowned at Eben, and shook 
 his head ; and Sandy Briggs was too indignant for 
 words. 
 
 " Let me see your other book, Linty," said 
 Andrew, trying to make amends for Eben's im- 
 pertinence. "Is it Greek an' a'?" He spoke as 
 if he had an absorbing interest in the language. 
 
 "Ay," Linty answered; "it's the New Testament." 
 
 " The Testament ? " Morrison handled the book 
 quite reverently. " Would ye mind pointin' out 
 His name ? " 
 
 Angus did so, and Sandy came and looked at it. 
 " That would be what they would ca* Him in His 
 day," Andrew said. " I would tak' it awfu' kind 
 o' ye, Linty, if ye would write it on a bit o' paper 
 for me." 
 
 " I'll write a' the Lord's Prayer for ye, if ye like, 
 the nicht."
 
 298 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " Will ye now? An' His name at the boddom 
 o't?" 
 
 " Write twa, when ye're at it, Linty," Sandy 
 pleaded ; " if it'll no tak' ye ower lang." 
 
 And Angus promised to do so. 
 
 " Never heed folk's clavers and clashes," Andrew 
 whispered, handing back the book. His eyes 
 were on Eben as he spoke. " Clashes is no 
 learnin'. Keep you by that book, an' your 
 mother '11 ne'er ha'e cause to be ashamed o' ye." 
 
 Briggs opened out on Eben, as soon as Angus 
 was gone. " Man, I wonder at ye," he said. 
 " He's no man ava' that tries to get the better o' 
 a bairn." 
 
 " Hoots ! " Eben objected, "ye're makin' a sang 
 about nothing. If he didna want to answer a 
 straight-forrit question, he could hud his tongue. 
 An', forby, Linty's no a bairn or else he's no a 
 stoodent." 
 
 " He's a bairn to you," Pillan answered. 
 " When nothing can excuse ye, man, excuses are 
 a waste o' wind." 
 
 " There's a mystery about that friend an' his 
 money," Eben argued, directing the conversation 
 into a different channel, '' that we would a' like to 
 faddom."
 
 THE TALK OF THE TOWN. 
 
 299 
 
 "A faddom's ower faur," Briggs answered him, 
 " when a foot-rule would bring ye till't." 
 
 "Nonsense!" Eben snorted and prepared to 
 annihilate Sandy with facts. 
 
 " First there was that letter to Lowrie," he 
 began, summarising the whole subject as he had 
 done often enough already, and ticking off the 
 items on his fingers ; " then he gangs awa' frae 
 hame, an' he's just a day or so back again when 
 he gangs to see the master. The very same day 
 the master an' the minister has a lang crack. 
 Then the master ca's on Lowrie, an' after him 
 the minister himsel', comin' straight frae Angus's 
 mother. Next we have Angus ca'in' on the 
 master, an' afore ye ken whaur ye are, he's a 
 stoodent learnin' Greek an' Latin ; his mother 
 has bought out Andrew Allison, an' she's sellin' 
 stationery an' sma' wares, as ye see on the sign. 
 What's the thread that huds a' thae ongauns 
 thegether? That's what I would like to ken." 
 
 " It's no a thread," Sandy Briggs calmly re- 
 plied ; " it's a rosety end, an' Swankey had the 
 makin' o't." 
 
 To which Eben disdainfully answered, "Havers!" 
 
 But Sandy stuck to his point, and months 
 afterwards, when the mystery was referred to,
 
 300 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 asserted that there was " no mystery, save to 
 them that made it for themsel's ". 
 
 Still the town kept talking, and the same story 
 was told over and over again. It was not a 
 subject that could be dismissed in a breath ; for 
 Barncraig dearly loved a mystery, provided it 
 gave reasonable scope for speculation. This one, 
 however, baffled the good folks altogether, pro- 
 bably because, as Sandy Briggs kept telling them, 
 they were " seekin' for a key that was i' the lock ". 
 
 Meantime, Angus was pursuing his studies, 
 struggling through Greek verbs and Latin syntax 
 under Mr. Johnson, and spending his time in 
 school at English and mathematics. And month 
 by month, and week by week, the time was 
 drawing nearer when Mr. Burt would no longer 
 be "the master" in Barncraig. Angus was with 
 him until the day he left ; and that was a mem- 
 orable day in the lives of both, and a memorable 
 day in the annals of the village as well.
 
 301 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH. 
 
 THROUGH the west window of the schoolroom, 
 the sunlight slanted soft and subdued, laying the 
 window itself, foreshortened and rhombus-shaped, 
 in outline on the floor. There was the buzz and 
 hum of childish voices from the second class, 
 sitting with their backs to the desk, conning their 
 reading lesson till the master should come to 
 hear them. At present, he was setting down 
 sums for the " Tenpenny," grouped on the further 
 side of the blackboard, which stood in the middle 
 of the floor, facing both ends of the room. Beyond 
 the "Tenpenny," the "Thruppenny" were sitting, 
 a hollow square, writing on slates. Round about 
 them sat the first class at desks fixed to the walls, 
 so that the children had their faces to the 
 windows. The boys of this class were writing 
 out in their copy-books answers to the test ques- 
 tions at the end of their history lesson. 
 
 Close beside the master's desk sat Linty, 
 puzzling through the Second Book of Euclid. 
 
 There was something of a subdued excitement
 
 302 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 about the children this afternoon, such an ex- 
 citement as is felt rather than heard. The pupils 
 were quieter even than usual ; but yet their 
 thoughts were not concentrated on their lessons. 
 Ever and again their eyes would wander from 
 their work, and they would look for a second or 
 two fixedly on the master's thoughtful face. Oc- 
 casionally a couple of heads were laid together, 
 and, after a brief conversation carried on in a 
 whisper, the faces, with a puzzled expression 
 upon them, turned, as if they were seeking to 
 know his thoughts. 
 
 But Mr. Burt himself was hardly conscious of 
 the children's curiosity. He went about his work 
 in a mechanical way, like one doing things from 
 mere habit. Nor was it that his thoughts were 
 away from school. On the contrary, it was of 
 school and school-work alone that he was think- 
 ing; of the many years he had taught in Barn- 
 craig ; of the generations of children that had 
 passed through his hands. For more than thirty 
 years, the village had known him as " the master ". 
 And now his title was to go to another; Philip 
 Burt's reign was over. In the words of the 
 miners, " his day's darg was done " ; and this was 
 his last afternoon in school.
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH. 303 
 
 The " Tenpenny " were now busy filling their 
 slates with figures, and the master was ready to 
 attend to the second class. But he did not take 
 the lesson they had been preparing. 
 
 " Turn back to page thirty-seven," he said ; and 
 the books opened to it almost of themselves. It 
 was the master's favourite lesson ; and some of 
 the boys knew it by heart, they had read it so 
 often. The reading began, and Mr. Burt walked 
 up and down the floor, his hands behind his back, 
 and his head bent, apparently listening; but he 
 heard, in the voices of the children, the voices of 
 their fathers and mothers, reading, years and years 
 ago, the lessons they were reading again to-day. 
 And this was the last time he would hear it 
 read. 
 
 By the time the patch of sunlight had crept 
 along the floor till it was broken on the stand of 
 the blackboard, the reading was finished, and the 
 children turned round to the desks. Now came 
 the "Tenpenny's time"; and presently their voices 
 were heard above the hum from the first and second 
 classes. 
 
 It was while the reading lesson of this class was 
 going on that Linty heard a gentle rap on the 
 window just above him; and looking up beheld the
 
 304 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 serious face of Andrew Morrison pressed against 
 one of the panes. As soon as he caught Linty's 
 eye, Andrew nodded to him, and pursed his lips, 
 warning him not to draw the master's attention. 
 Then, by way of further emphasis, he held up a 
 closed fist and frowned. But Linty only nodded 
 back to Andrew, answering the frown with a 
 smile : he must have known what Andrew meant. 
 
 But Sandy Burt, who was sitting next to Linty, 
 did not know. " Wha's he cockin' his nieve at ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Ssh ! " Linty whispered. " It's no to let the 
 master ken." 
 
 Morrison shook his fist again as a parting 
 warning, and disappeared, only to be succeeded by 
 Dav Allan, who went through the same absurd 
 performance as Andrew. Then Allan gave place 
 to Eben Reid, who also held up a warning fist, 
 and screwed his face into a diabolical frown. 
 For a second or so Willie Tyler's face was seen 
 peering in at another window. But that was 
 almost opposite the "Tenpenny," where the master 
 was ; and with an apologetic nod he disappeared 
 again. 
 
 The boys of the first class had seen all this, but 
 the other classes knew nothing about it till they
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH. 305 
 
 were dismissed, and came bounding out into the 
 open air, shouting as if they had just escaped 
 from prison. Bob Tyler was the first to get out. 
 As soon as the inner door was flung open, he sent 
 his books spinning through the air to the very 
 middle of the Cross. 
 
 "Hurray! hurray," he yelled, taking a hop, 
 step and leap after them, and followed by a mob 
 as wildly excited as himself. But ere he had 
 passed the outer door, a powerful hand gripped 
 Bob by the collar, and he tumbled half strangled 
 into the arms of his father. The mad rush of the 
 followers was stopped in a second, and hurrahing 
 died on their lips. They stood gaping at the 
 figures gathered about the door. There was 
 Andrew Morrison, Rob Allan, Dav Allan, all the 
 Allans of the place, Eben Reid, Sandy Briggs, 
 Little Ekky, and even old Swankey no less. There, 
 too, leaning against the wall, was Pillan, the first 
 time they had seen him out since he had been 
 nearly mangled to death in the pit little more than 
 a month ago. And Bob Tyler, the wildest in the 
 class, was hanging limp in his father's hands. 
 
 " Ye young vagabond ! " Tyler was saying to his 
 son, at the same time shaking him nearly out of 
 his clothes. " Ye young vagabond ! what do ye
 
 306 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 mean hurrayin' like that ? D'ye no think shame 
 o' yoursel' ? " 
 
 Bob tried to pull himself together, but did not 
 answer. He hurrahed every afternoon when 
 school was over. What the father had mistaken 
 for a shout of joy to be rid of their old teacher 
 was no more than an expression of boyhood's 
 delight in^fresh air and freedom. Bob could not 
 understand what was wrong. 
 
 Eben now brought out his mull, and whilst 
 deliberating through a series of pinches, critically 
 examined the captive. Eben examined everything 
 critically : it was a habit he had. His conse- 
 quential bearing was imposing; and silence terri- 
 fied the culprit more than his father's words. 
 
 "Will I clout his lugs, Eben?" the father 
 asked. 
 
 " Cut them aff," Little Ekky advised, opening a 
 great pruning knife he was particularly proud of. 
 
 Bob was not a bit frightened at this suggestion : 
 it was a penalty often enough threatened, but 
 never inflicted. 
 
 " Let him aff wi' an admonition." Eben spoke 
 with judicial austerity; and Bob drew his sleeve 
 across his eyes, quaking. " I wasna doin' ony- 
 thing," he whined.
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANG ETH. 307 
 
 " Weel, dinna let me catch you doin't again," 
 his father warned, emphasising his words with a 
 parting shake ; arid Bob was free. 
 
 " Now, awa' hame wi' ye ! " Morrison ordered, 
 addressing himself to the crowd of boys, "as quick 
 as ye like ; an' none o' that hurrayin' on the 
 master's last day i' the school." 
 
 " Awa' ! " Pillan added, holding up his stick ; and 
 the crowd slunk off, feeling that they must have 
 been misbehaving, though in what way they could 
 not guess. 
 
 " It's because the master's leavin'," Nrfmish 
 surmised ; and that was the nearest the boys 
 could come to an explanation. 
 
 When the boys had reached the head of the 
 wynd, the men again betook themselves to the 
 end window of the school. "When he hears the 
 first class their Bible," Morrison explained, leading 
 the way, " he aye sits wi' his back to the window, 
 an' we can see without bein' seen." 
 
 Under the end window a plank had been placed, 
 resting on a couple of boxes, which must have 
 been brought up from the store. Tyler was the 
 first to climb up, which he did with such a sug- 
 gestion of mystery and caution in his movements 
 that he might have been mistaken for a burglar.
 
 308 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Shoving his cap in his pocket, and gripping the 
 ledge of the window with both hands, he slowly 
 drew himself up from a kneeling posture, till his 
 eyes just peered over the window frame. 
 
 " A' richt," he whispered to the others ; " he's 
 on his stool. Ye can just see his held pow, an' 
 the laddies wi' their Bibles open, readin'." Others 
 thereupon scrambled up, till a row of heads 
 stretched from side to side of the broad window. 
 Pillan, who could not climb, remained below, Little 
 Ekky and Swankey keeping him company. But 
 they were not left altogether out in the cold ; for 
 Morrison kept up a running commentary on what 
 was going on inside. 
 
 " Linty's readin'," he began. " It's the sermon; 
 I can hear the ' blesseds ' comin' in wi' ilka verse. 
 It's an auld favourite that wi' him. . . . The 
 readin's done now, an' he's explainin' it a' to 
 them, layin' it aff finger about. But ye canna 
 hear a cheep ; he maun be speakin' awfu' low." 
 
 "Isn't the laddies awfu' attentive?" Rob Allan 
 whispered. " Look, that's Andrew answerin' the 
 now." And he spoke with all a father's pride. 
 " I'll need to ha'e Helen telled about him." 
 
 " D'ye see the face o' the auld man ? " Pillan 
 asked.
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH. 309 
 
 "Just a glisk o't, whiles," Morrison answered; 
 " but it's a rale pictur'... The sklentin' licht's 
 playin' on his pow, an' the hair glistenin' like 
 snaw when the moon's full." 
 
 " I could tell ye what he's sayin' the now," 
 Tyler whispered. " Mony's the time we got that 
 chapter." 
 
 " It would be ill to beat," was Pillan's opinion. 
 
 Through the whole lesson they kept watching 
 and whispering, occasionally listening when one 
 or other of the boys was reading; for some of 
 them spoke loud enough to be heard distinctly 
 outside. So intent were they that they did not 
 see two figures coming over the Cross towards 
 the school ; and they were more than astonished 
 when the school door opened, and the minister 
 entered, accompanied by a stranger. 
 
 " Did ye no notice onybody come ower the 
 Cross?" Morrison whispered down to Pillan ; 
 and, without waiting an answer : " The minister's 
 in, an' a stranger wi' him ". 
 
 " He's weel putten on too," Dav Allan com- 
 mented. 
 
 "Look at his boots," Eben said; "he's no a 
 common five-eight that : I aye gang by the 
 boots."
 
 310 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 "A stranger?" Pillan inquired. "What's he 
 like ? " 
 
 "Youngish," Tyler answered him; "on the richt 
 side o' thirty, I would say ; a mou'tache but 
 no mair ; a wiselike chap, the women would ca' 
 him." 
 
 " It'll be the new master," Ekky guessed. 
 
 "That'll be it," Morrison agreed. "He's 
 shakin' hands wi' the master." 
 
 " Him that'll aye be the master to hiz," said 
 Ekky. 
 
 " He'll be a good man if he fills his shoon," 
 Pillan dolefully reflected. 
 
 " He's no so " Morrison was saying, when 
 
 the whole row of heads suddenly ducked under 
 the ledge. 
 
 " If he's as quick i' the uptak' as i' the e'e- 
 sicht " Dav Allan gave as his opinion " he'll 
 do." 
 
 "Did the minister see us, Dav?" Andrew 
 anxiously inquired. 
 
 " No, nobody but him." 
 
 Andrew gave a sigh of relief. " I wouldna like 
 him to catch us glowerin' in, like cats round a 
 hen's crib. An' he'll be waitin' to see the chair, 
 himsel'. He ga'e a pound till't."
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH. 311 
 
 " An' could weel afford it." The opinion was 
 Eben's; and the others took no notice. Tyler was 
 again at the window, and signing to them that 
 all was safe. 
 
 " What are they doin' now ? " Ekky asked. 
 
 Morrison held a hand down to him for silence. 
 " They're a' stan'in'," he whispered. " It's as I 
 thought ; the minister's gaun to put up the 
 prayer." 
 
 The whole row of them at the window turned 
 their heads aside, and looked to the ground. 
 Pillan, who had begun to smoke, stuck his pipe 
 in his waistcoat pocket, and leaned with both 
 hands over his stick. Ekky and Swankey stared 
 vacantly at the trees just behind the paling, and 
 there was silence for a time. 
 
 Morrison clambered down as soon as the prayer 
 was finished. " It's time we was gettin' round," 
 he said. " Will ye gi'e it aff loof, Eben ? " 
 
 Eben smiled somewhat ruefully, and scratched 
 his head. ' : I had it a' i' my head last nicht," he 
 answered ; " but I'm thinkin' it's a' gone to fro- 
 like penny beer." 
 
 "I havena thought what I'll say," Andrew 
 mused ; " but it'll no be muckle. I'll just look the 
 auld man i' the face, an' the regard I ha'e for
 
 312 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 him '11 find words someway. That's what I'm 
 lippenin' on." 
 
 Dav Allan and Tyler, who had walked away 
 abruptly, as soon as they had climbed down from 
 the window, were out of sight by the time the 
 others had reached the school door. 
 
 "You gang in first," Ekky said, shoving Eben 
 on in front; "you've most cheek." And Eben, 
 taking the remark as a compliment, led the 
 way. 
 
 The first class, though the prayer was over, still 
 remained ; for Linty had signed to them to sit 
 down again. But Mr. Burt hardly noticed what 
 they did. He was standing by his desk talking 
 with the minister, and the man who was to 
 succeed him as teacher. When, however, the 
 door opened, and a string of visitors entered, 
 skulking the one behind the other, like men 
 ashamed of themselves, he turned and stared at 
 them in silent amazement. Then he noticed the 
 boys, and they were grinning with delight. From 
 them he turned to the minister, who also was 
 smiling, and then back to the visitors standing 
 sheepishly and apologetically silent. No one 
 offered to explain. 
 
 " Speak up, man," Morrison whispered, nudging
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH. 313 
 
 Eben with his elbow ; " d'ye no see he's putten 
 about ? " 
 
 "What is it. Andrew?" the master asked. 
 " Sit down, Lawrence ; sit down, Alex." But 
 they preferred to stand. 
 
 "Ye see, sir, we're no a' here yet," Eben, after 
 clearing his throat very audibly, explained. " Dav 
 Allan an' Willie Tyler's to come yet, an' we canna 
 proceed without them, for there awa' for't. Ay, 
 here they come now." 
 
 The miners moved to the side, making way for 
 Allan and Tyler, who had just entered carrying 
 between them a large easy-chair. This they 
 placed by the master's side, and without a word 
 fell back again amongst their neighbours. 
 
 The master now understood, and so did the 
 boys. As soon as they saw the chair set down 
 such a cheering went up as was never heard in 
 school, except on closing days before the summer 
 vacation. The cheering put the miners somewhat 
 at their ease, and brought smiles to their serious 
 faces. " Now's your time, Eben," they urged, and 
 Eben stepped forward. 
 
 Now Eben may have had a speech prepared. 
 Indeed, he swears to this day that "he could gi'e it 
 aff loof the nicht afore ; an' that it was a braw
 
 3 M SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 ane ". But he certainly disappointed his friends, 
 and the sensation he made was not the sensation 
 he had dreamed of. Had he been speaking to the 
 miners alone, there is little doubt but that he 
 would have acquitted himself with distinction. 
 But the minister was listening, and there was a 
 stranger intently watching him out of a pair of 
 piercing eyes. The very boys disconcerted him, 
 and Eben lost his grand opportunity. 
 
 " Sir," he began, " some o' us here, some o' us 
 here," he repeated, stumbling at the very outset ; 
 " some o' us here have been bairns." The pro- 
 fundity of this reflection must have staggered 
 him ; for he paused. 
 
 " That's true," Pillan grunted, sotto voce, " but 
 no to the point." 
 
 " Some o' us, I mean," the orator tried again, 
 " was bairns under ye ; an' if others o' us was 
 done wi' schoolin' afore your day, we've a' trusted 
 our ain bairns to your care." 
 
 Pillan shook his head, discouraged. "That's 
 to the point now," he muttered ; " but no true." 
 
 Eben overheard the remark, and corrected him- 
 self, " leastways, savin' mysel' an' Swankey there." 
 But the thread of his speech was lost, and he was 
 brought to a standstill. He felt the eyes of all
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH. 315 
 
 upon him, and knew that he was making a fool of 
 himself, which finished him completely. After a 
 painful pause he pointed to the chair. " That's 
 to you," he wound up, "frae hiz, an' mair than hiz. 
 Andrew '11 gi'e ye the rest." 
 
 "The po'try, man; the po'try," Morrison prompt- 
 ed, pushing him forward again. 
 
 " Ay," Eben resumed, " there was a verse o' 
 po'try, but it's clean gone out o' my head an' a'. 
 It was about a pipe an' an armchair ; ' cosy ' was 
 what he ca'd it, an' your feet in a pair o' slippers. 
 I can mind that, for it's i' my line. But maybe 
 Swankey '11 mind it, himsel'. It was him that 
 made it, an' it wasna bad ava'." 
 
 Poor Swankey shook his head, trembling at 
 the very suggestion. He could not have spoken 
 a word, though he had tried. 
 
 " Weel, weel," Eben observed, " it's no muckle 
 matter now." 
 
 " No ! " Pillan fiercely agreed. 
 
 " Andrew, as I said, '11 gi'e ye mair. It's your 
 turn, Andrew." And Eben retired, wiping the 
 perspiration from his face. Not once in his life 
 before, as far as he cculd remember, had he been 
 at a loss for words. 
 
 Andrew now fished from his pocket a massive
 
 316 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 gold chain, and, stepping forward, put the gift 
 into Mr. Burt's hands. 
 
 "There's no a man i' the toun that hasna gi'en 
 something," he said. " It might no be muckle, 
 but it was gi'en wi' goodwill, like the widow's 
 mite ; an' the vally o' a gift's i' the gi'ein'. A 
 thruppenny bit '11 ser' lads an' lassies for a token 
 to their deein' day ; an' this is no mair than a 
 token o' the respec' we ha'e for ye, an' the esteem 
 we hud ye in. I'm no a man o' words, like Eben; 
 but ye ken what I mean, an' ye maun just tak' 
 the will for the deed." 
 
 This speech pleased the boys immensely, and 
 they yelled their appreciation. The miners 
 clapped their hands and felt proud of themselves ; 
 for wasn't Andrew one of them ? Pillan hobbled 
 up to shake hands with him. " Eben was 
 thinkin' ower muckle about himsel', an' the grand 
 way he would lay it aff," he explained ; " an' so 
 he fell through it ; but you've brought us round 
 to the wind again." 
 
 Mr. Burt was too agitated yet for reply, but he 
 did what appealed to his friends more directly 
 than a speech would have done. Putting on the 
 chain, he fastened it to his watch, and then seated 
 himself in the chair.
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGE TH. 317 
 
 Pillan thumped his stick on the floor, and 
 roared: "That's grand; man, that's grand!" 
 Even Little Ekky became demonstrative, rubbing 
 his hands, and daring anybody to deny that " it 
 suited him, just suited him ". 
 
 After the outburst had calmed down, Mr. Burt 
 rose again and thanked them briefly. 
 
 " This makes my going easy," he said. 
 
 " An easy-chair," Pillan interpolated. 
 
 " And I cannot tell you how much I appreciate 
 your gift, or how deeply I feel your kindness. 
 We have known each other now for more than 
 thirty years ; but the old must give place to the 
 young, and, in this case, the old system gives 
 place to a new. The old order changeth, I think 
 for the better. Allow me now to introduce to 
 you Mr. Craig, my successor. I trust that you 
 and he will always get along as pleasantly in 
 the future as we have done in the past." 
 
 Mr. Craig then shook hands with them all 
 round, which was the best thing he could have 
 done ; they became his friends and champions on 
 the spot. 
 
 "And here is your first pupil-teacher," introducing 
 him to Angus. " If you find him lazy or careless," 
 he added with a smile, "you have only to mention
 
 318 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 the matter to his guardian here, Lawrence 
 Robin." 
 
 Old Briggs, who was standing by, caught at 
 the word "guardian," and turned exultingly to 
 Eben. "Is that no what I telled ye? The 
 money cam' frae Swankey." Whereat Eben 
 sniffed. 
 
 But Lowrie himself was frightened at the name. 
 "No, no, sir; no a guardian," he corrected, "just 
 a friend." 
 
 Mr. Craig may have thought the friendship a 
 strange one, but he did not say so. 
 
 After a short speech from the minister, the 
 ceremony was over. Then the chair had to be 
 carried in triumph to the master's lodgings, the 
 boys leading the way, and, with their capering 
 and shouting, bringing the whole town out to see. 
 Marg'et received them graciously, allowing Allan 
 and Tyler to carry the chair into the master's 
 room themselves. 
 
 " It's gaun to stand there," she said, pointing 
 to a corner of the hearthrug. " I've been fechtin' 
 wi' the room a' day, to see whaur it would stand 
 best." 
 
 " And you've actually laid down a new rug," the 
 master said.
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH. 319 
 
 " Ay, I couldna thole a new chair stan'in' by 
 a threadbare rug. Men folk never thinks o' thae 
 things. Isn't it a grand match?" she asked with 
 a gulp of pride. 
 
 Poor Marg'et had been scraping and saving for 
 months back to buy a " new goun that she'd set 
 her heart on " ; but she would not have missed 
 contributing her mite towards the master's 
 present for all the gowns in Christendom. And 
 now, the rest of her hoard had been spent on a 
 rug; and Marg'et was a proud woman. 
 
 " Couldna ha'e matched better, tho' I'd bought 
 them thegether," she said to herself in the kitchen, 
 after Allan and Tyler had gone, and the hurrahing 
 in the street had ended. " What a blessin' I 
 had the money by me ! " 
 
 At the Cox'l that night the great subject of 
 conversation was the new education. Briggs 
 did not see any necessity for a change, and was 
 pessimistic. " Ilka month we get a new moon," 
 he observed, " but it aye turns out to be the auld 
 ane after a', neither bigger nor brighter." 
 
 And Pillan was no more hopeful than Sandy. 
 " The old order changeth," he discoursed, quoting 
 from the master's speech ; " but I dinna like 
 sudden changes. An' it cam' awfu' sudden on 

 
 320 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 me," he added, dolefully regarding his stick. " A 
 bit rum'le i' the roof, an' I was a wreck. I'll 
 never be the man I was." 
 
 But the most of them, although inclined to be 
 suspicious of all innovation, were cautious men, 
 and waited to see how the ne\v education worked 
 before they passed judgment. The old order had 
 changed, they clearly recognised ; but the change 
 was greater than Barncraig could guess. Now-a- 
 days, when the old folks see the village that is and 
 think of the village that was, they talk of the 
 old school and the old master. " It's no the 
 toun it used to be," they mourn ; whereat the 
 younger generation smiles indulgently, for old 
 folks must be humoured. " Ye havena travelled 
 wi' the times," it says. 
 
 But that indeed is their consolation.
 
 3 2I 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 SWANKEY AT THE KIRK. 
 
 SEVERAL years had passed, calm and uneventful, 
 in Barncraig. One quiet evening in summer, the 
 miners had gathered as usual at the Cox'l. The 
 company was little altered. Two or three of the 
 old familiar faces were amissing, certainly ; but 
 others who had previously been wont to frequent 
 the Poun's are here to fill their places. When 
 men come to be the fathers of families the days 
 of their quoiting are done, and setting their faces 
 westward they take up with the soberer pleasures 
 of the Cox'l. 
 
 Eben walks up and down, discursive as of old, 
 and looking as young as he did a decade ago. 
 Andrew Morrison and Dav Allan are visibly 
 ageing; and Pillan, sorely shattered, still hobbles 
 about with the help of a stick. Tyler is bearded 
 now and slightly grey ; and Marshall is neither so 
 lanky nor so tall as he used to be. A new-comer 
 sits where the " Powlit " was wont to sit ; for old 
 
 2 r
 
 322 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 Briggs and he have done their darg, and passed 
 " ower the Cox'l " for ever. 
 
 Talk is calmly conversational, as befits a still 
 summer evening, when the voice of the sea is 
 heard soft and continuous, like the murmuring of 
 a shell. Eben is not in the key for argument, and, 
 discoursing of many things, dogmatises on none ; 
 the others, contributing no more than an oc- 
 casional expression of agreement, listen, reflect- 
 tively smoking. Little Ekky is observed coming 
 slowly up the brae with a spade and a rake over 
 his shoulder. He has come from the Manse 
 Gardens, and may have an hour or so yet among 
 his own flowers. 
 
 Now there was nothing in Ekky's appearance 
 as he came forward to suggest that he knew 
 something more than his neighbours. He plodded 
 up the brae with the same methodical step, that 
 the miners knew as well as they knew his face. 
 Evening after evening did he pass about the same 
 hour, and, without even turning his head, threw 
 them an expressionless aside anent the weather 
 as he went. But on this particular evening, 
 when he reached the Cox'l he stopped, and turning 
 to Morrison, as if he had been the only person 
 present, addressed him particularly. "Ay, Andrew,"
 
 SWAN KEY AT THE KIRK. 323 
 
 he said, with a touch of solemnity in his tone, 
 " come Sabbath, ye'll see Swankey at the kirk." 
 
 Then he moved on, and, before they fully com- 
 prehended the meaning of his words, he was out 
 of hearing. 
 
 The miners looked to Eben for enlightenment, 
 but he was as much at a loss as they were ; and 
 he felt annoyed, when he reflected that his 
 surprise must have been apparent to them all. 
 
 " What a way to blurt out news!" he grumbled; 
 " as weel ha'e it dirled out on the drum." 
 
 "News?" It was Pillan who spoke, and there 
 was as much meaning in the word, as any one of 
 them could have packed into a sentence. 
 
 " Weel," Tyler deliberated, " I wouldna like to 
 ca' Ekky a lear; but - He shook his head, 
 
 implying that he saw no alternative. 
 
 Eben was mollified, and spoke sarcastically. 
 "Ca' him a saunt, Willie, if ye're so mealy mou'ed; 
 that's no to stand in the way o' a whud, if it's to 
 ser his turn." 
 
 " Dinna be measurin' your neighbour's corn wi' 
 your ain lippey, Eben," Dav Allan advised. "You 
 have a leeshens to lee ; but Ekky's no a cobbler. 
 Stick to your last, as the saw says ; it's weel kent 
 what ye'll no stick to."
 
 324 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " Hoots ! " Eben mildly objected, " dinna get 
 into a rapture, man. I'll ha'e your boots done 
 this week, for certain." 
 
 " Dav's quite richt," Morrison struck in. 
 " Ekky's no a man to waste words least ava' on 
 lees." 
 
 " An' he was comin' straight frae the minister's 
 when he said it," John Rennie added in all 
 seriousness. 
 
 " That settles it," Pillan remarked, so pointedly 
 that Eben was disconcerted ; one could never 
 tell whether Pillan meant to be serious or sar- 
 castic. 
 
 : ' I wouldna wonder but what it's the minister 
 that has telled him," Allan suggested. 
 
 " But here's Helen hersel' comin' alang," 
 Tyler announced ; " she'll be able to gi'e us the 
 crack o' the manse." 
 
 They moved forward a step, and, turning their 
 faces harbour-wards, stood in a group waiting the 
 approach of Helen Reid, who came tripping 
 towards the Cox'l. Helen was Mrs. Johnson's 
 servant girl, and, consequently, might be expected 
 to know something of church matters. And, to- 
 night, when she came abreast of the group 
 intently watching her, she smiled to see their
 
 SWANKEY AT THE KIRK. 325 
 
 serious faces, and nodded, as much as to say that 
 she understood. 
 
 " So you've heard the news a'ready ? " The 
 question was meant for them all, but addressed 
 to her father. Morrison took it upon himself to 
 answer, considering that Ekky and he were old 
 friends. 
 
 " Ay," he said, quoting Ekky's words. " Come 
 Sabbath, we'll see Swankey at the kirk." 
 
 Helen laughed. " What does it matter to me 
 wha gangs or wha bides at hame ? That's your 
 concern, that sees no higher than the book board ; 
 but I aye keep my e'en on the pu'pit, wonderin' if 
 I'll please him wi' his dinner." 
 
 " A stranger ? " Allan asked. 
 
 " Weel, no," was the reply; " no mair a 
 stranger to you than I am mysel' an' no our ain 
 minister either." 
 
 Eben leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. 
 "Linty ? " 
 
 Helen drew herself up with becoming dignity. 
 " The Rev. Angus Allan, if you please, Eben. It's 
 no for you to speak so o' your betters ; an' Mrs. 
 Johnson ca'd him that the day. That's something 
 for you to crack about," she added, turning along 
 the street ; "an' I'se warrant ye'll mak' the most o't.'
 
 326 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 And she was right. They did talk that night 
 and for many nights afterwards, but not of the 
 Rev. Angus Allan. That was a name unfamiliar 
 and unendeared to them, and they could hardly 
 bring themselves to utter it, preferring to speak of 
 him by the name they had known him by from 
 childhood. There were those who had been at 
 school with him, and he was " Linty " to them. 
 The older ones remembered his father before him, 
 and he also had been " Linty ". Angus Allan was 
 a name only for special occasions, such as a 
 baptism or a funeral ; and the addition of 
 " Reverend " made it particularly foreign and 
 formal. 
 
 " We a' ken Linty," Morrison reasoned, " an' it 
 sounds cauldrife-like to speak o' the laddie as the 
 Rev. Angus Allan. If he mak's a bungle o't, an' 
 gars us be creetics, we'll read'lys ha'e to gi'e him 
 his new-fangled name ; but I canna mou'-band it 
 just yet. It's expectin' ower muckle aff friends." 
 
 But Barncraig did not for a moment imagine 
 that Angus would make a " bungle of it ". The 
 miners looked for great things of him. Had 
 they not seen his name flourishing in the local 
 paper year by year, when extracts were made from 
 the university prize lists? And not only in the
 
 SWAN KEY AT THE KIRK. 327 
 
 local paper, but it had been printed in the Scotsman, 
 which was a great thing. 
 
 " Linty has lifted the medal for Humanity," 
 Eben, with a Scotsman in his hand, once an- 
 nounced at the Cox'l ; and the miners were 
 pleased. " It was just what they might ha'e 
 expected : Linty had aye been a tender-hearted 
 laddie." 
 
 But now his college career was ended, and he 
 was going to preach in the church of his native 
 village. That was but right, the good folks 
 thought. Now that they were to hear him preach, 
 they would see for themselves if he was the 
 scholar the "papers" said. "Hearsay's no evi- 
 dence," Eben reminded his hearers that night : 
 " but on Sabbath we'll hear wi' our ain ears, an' 
 see for oursel's." 
 
 "Does that mean that you're gaun, Eben?" 
 Morrison asked in some surprise. 
 
 "What for no, Andrew? I've a wark wi' the 
 laddie; an' I'd like to countenance him, if it was 
 just for his father's sake. A fu' kirk '11 gi'e him a 
 good set aff." 
 
 Morrison did not know how to answer. It did 
 not seem to him a right motive for church attend-
 
 328 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 ance ; and yet he would be pleased to see Eben 
 present. 
 
 Allan, however, took the matter less seriously. 
 "I could gi'e him a text, Eben," he said, "if 
 you're to be there : What went ye out for to 
 see?" 
 
 But Eben knew his Bible, though he was no 
 church-goer. " Ay, man ? An' ye'll be thinkin' 
 that I'm the reed shaken wi' the wind ! But mair 
 likelys he'll be speirin', Is Saul also amon the 
 prophets ? " 
 
 Morrison was not the man to hear texts bandied 
 about in this way ; and he addressed himself 
 warningly to Eben, pointing his remarks with the 
 stem of his pipe. " Ay, an' Saul was a promisin' 
 man when folk could so speak o' him. It was 
 after he'd turned him to the witch o' Endor that 
 he cam' to a graceless end. Ye used to attend 
 the kirk yoursel', Eben, an', no doubt, ye've heard 
 him that's dead singin' wi' a' his heart, ' Then will 
 I to God's altar go \ What was a favourite 
 psalm o' the father's may weel ser' the son for a 
 text." 
 
 This was a terrible long speech for Morrison ; 
 and he walked away at once, leaving the company 
 reflective.
 
 SWANKEY AT THE KIRK. 329 
 
 "It gaed grand to Invocation" he confided to 
 Pillan, hirpling along by his side ; " but we never 
 hear the auld tunes now ava'." 
 
 " The Bible's print to Eben," Pillan snapped 
 out in his epigrammatic way ; " but print's no 
 Scriptur'." 
 
 " No," Andrew agreed ; " it wants the speerit. 
 Nobody kenned that better than Angus Allan ; 
 an' if the natur' gangs wi' the name, we'll be gettin' 
 a text to hud by, an' a sermon we can carry wi' us 
 frae the pu'pit to the pit." 
 
 So did they talk at the Cox'l that night, and so 
 did the whole town talk next day, and every day 
 that week. Little Ekky's prediction passed from 
 lip to lip, and everybody heard it gladly and 
 believed. Neighbour called to neighbour across 
 the street, " Come Sabbath, ye'll see Swankey at 
 the kirk ; " and the answer came back direct as 
 an echo, " Ay, we'll no need to miss that ". 
 
 They were all eager to see how Linty would 
 acquit himself. He was one of themselves, and 
 there was a feeling of pride in knowing that one 
 born and brought up in the village, was now to 
 " wag his pow in a pu'pit ". Had they not them- 
 selves prophesied that of him years ago? In the 
 store, Mag Aird was the only one who hinted at
 
 330 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 failure. But Mag affected gloomy views in regard 
 to most things, and she was specially annoyed by 
 the news that Eben was to be at church. That 
 was an aggravation not to be borne lightly. 
 " Makin' the House o' God a den o' robbers an' 
 thieves ! " she muttered ; but those present were 
 too much interested in Angus himself to pay 
 much heed. Even Jess Black, his old enemy, 
 stood up for him, and looked forward to the 
 pleasure of listening to his sermon. 
 
 " There'll be a big turn-out on Sabbath," she 
 said, and thought of her new bonnet. 
 
 " Big enough o' the kind o' them," Mag re- 
 joined. 
 
 "Ay," said Jess, " Eben's to be there as weel as 
 yoursel', I was hearin'." 
 
 " Weel, weel," said Grace Forbes, " that's 
 neither here nor there. It's Linty we're speakin' 
 about, no Eben." 
 
 "Linty! Linty !" Mag repeated. "Just think 
 o' a minister wi' sic a name the name for a silly 
 bird ! " 
 
 " Is that a' ye have against him, Mag? " 
 
 Mag looked at Grace fixedly. " A bairn ! " she 
 continued. " Yesterday, as ye might say, at school ; 
 an' the day, takin' it upon him to expound the
 
 SWAN KEY AT THE KIRK. 331 
 
 Word to them that ha'e come through trial an' 
 tribulation, an' ken what life is." 
 
 " Out o' the mouth o' babes," was Grace's 
 answer. 
 
 But this displeased Mag more and more. "Tak' 
 tent how you quote Scriptur'," she warned. " Sic 
 solemn sayin's is for the congregation o' the 
 saints, an' no for a gatherin' like this." 
 
 But even she had little to urge against Linty, 
 save the fact of his youth, which, the others 
 reminded her, was a fault daily mending. 
 
 Some of the women leaving the store called on 
 Mrs. Allan, to have a talk with her; but she had 
 little to tell them. Angus was coming home on 
 Saturday, and would stay for a few days. On 
 Sunday, by agreement with Mr. Johnson, he was 
 to occupy the pulpit in the forenoon. " It's a 
 promise o' lang standin' atween them," Mrs. 
 Allan said. " When the minister first begoud to 
 gi'e him his lessons, he said that Angus would 
 need to gi'e him a day as soon as he was 
 licensed." And now, this day that the mother 
 had been looking forward to for so many years, 
 was almost come. 
 
 On the Sabbath morning the villagers turned 
 out with the first toll of the bell, and before it had
 
 332 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " rung in," there was not an empty seat in the 
 church. Andre w^Morri son and Little Ekky, stand- 
 ing by the " plate," beamed with pleasure. " It's 
 packet," Andrew whispered, looking inside the 
 building. 
 
 Ekky nodded energetically, and, giving a side- 
 long glance at the heaped-up plate, chuckled. 
 " Sabbath day though it was," he afterwards 
 apologised to Andrew, " I couldna help it." 
 
 As soon as the bell had ceased, Angus came 
 out of the session house, followed by the precentor, 
 and Ekky closed the door behind them. 
 
 " He fills the goun," he observed to Andrew, 
 " an' it'll tak' a hantle mair than five foot four " 
 Ekky's own height " to do that." 
 
 "Ay," said Andrew, well pleased, " an' he'll fill 
 the pu'pit too ; it hings fine frae his shouthers." 
 
 The eyes of the whole congregation were fixed 
 on Angus, when he rose to give out the psalm. 
 His face, naturally pale, was paler than usual this 
 morning ; but it was still the face of the " Linty " 
 they had known as a boy, " wi' a look o' his 
 father," the old folks gladly recognised, " in his 
 e'en, an' playin' about his lips". 
 
 What Angus himself saw at first was a crowd of 
 faces, amongst which he only slowly picked out those
 
 SWAN KEY AT THE KIRK. 333 
 
 of his particular friends. There were those who 
 had been his companions at school, in almost 
 every pew of the church, all men and women now, 
 and many of them married. On the other hand, 
 many who had been familiar figures to him when 
 he was a boy were absent; and in the seats where 
 they had worshipped so regularly, Sabbath after 
 Sabbath, their children and grandchildren sat to- 
 day, clad in mourning. He could see his mother, 
 and how white her hair looked under the widow's 
 bonnet ; he had not thought of her ageing till 
 now. She was sitting in a corner seat, withdraw- 
 ing as far as she could, from the eyes of her neigh- 
 bours. If she might just see her laddie and hear 
 his voice, then the great longing of her heart 
 would be satisfied, and she would sing the song 
 that Simeon sang of old. Lowrie, dressed again 
 in the frock coat he had worn only once before, is 
 seated side by side with the old master. The 
 two are old friends now, and to-day are more 
 nervous than is Angus himself. Right in the 
 front pew is Eben, calm and critical as ever, 
 although Mag, with sphinx-like face and stony 
 eyes, sits just on the other side of the passage. 
 If they had reached across, their hands might 
 have touched ; but Mag's thoughts were not of the
 
 334 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 narrow passage, but of a " great gulf that divided 
 them " ; and Eben was thinking of Linty. A 
 little further back is Maggie Ness, the belle of 
 the village now, rosy with pleasure when her 
 round grey eyes are fixed on her old schoolfellow's 
 face. From the very back seat, under the shadow 
 of the loft where the minister sat, a pair of deep 
 blue eyes were quick to observe Maggie's yearn- 
 ing gaze ; and Jessie smiled ; and then she felt 
 ashamed of herself, and thought of poor Maggie 
 with tenderness and pity. Bending over the 
 Bible, she remembered that she was in the House 
 of God, and she listened to the voice of Angus. 
 
 In the session house, Andrew and Little Ekky 
 are hurrying through the counting of the collec- 
 tion, so that they may miss as little of the service 
 as possible. But there was more to count than 
 usual, and they could only listen to the singing 
 of the opening psalm without taking part in it, 
 which was a sad disappointment to both of them. 
 
 "Listen, listen!" Andrew excitedly whispered; 
 " it's Invocation, an' we ha'ena sung it for years, as 
 I was sayin' to Pillan the other nicht." 
 
 " I ha'ena heard that since his father's time," 
 Ekky said, with his ear held towards the 
 door.
 
 SWAN KEY AT THE KIRK. 335 
 
 "No, Ekky, no; an' we ha'ena the chance o' 
 joinin' in." 
 
 Andrew rose as he spoke, and stepped to the 
 door on tip-toe. " I canna stand it, Ekky," he 
 said, " I'll need to get it out. It's ower grand a 
 bass to miss." "Ma-ay harp !" 
 
 A fuller burst of song told Ekky what Andrew 
 had done. He was standing with his head 
 thrown back, sending his deep bass through the 
 half-opened door, ringing into the church. 
 
 The singing ceased, and Andrew closed the 
 door, sighing profoundly. " Isn't it provokin', 
 Ekky ? Invocation on our day at the plate, an' 
 Rob Allan and Tarn Reid, that couldna tell French 
 frae the Flo'ers o' the Forest, sittin' like dummies 
 inside ! But it has aye been the way. The 
 tune's hoven awa'." 
 
 " Pearls to swine ! " Ekky laconically answered. 
 
 But Andrew was compensated afterwards, for 
 every tune that day was one of his old favourites. 
 It was marvellous to the old folks, five tunes that 
 had rarely been sung for years, and to psalms 
 that they all knew by heart, every one of them ! 
 They could not understand it, till Fernie explained 
 to them on Monday night, when they met to 
 discuss the sermon and the preacher.
 
 33 6 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 " There's no mystery about it," he said. " Linty 
 himsel' sent for me on Saturday afternoon, to 
 speir if I minded the tunes his father was fondest 
 o' ; an' would I sing them ? I kenned them weel 
 enough, an' just to oblige him, no that I've ony 
 partic'lar fancy for them, mysel', I ga'e them a 
 skirl through at our practisin' at nicht, an' we was 
 ready for him by the Sabbath. I had the pickin' 
 o' both psalm an' tune." 
 
 " They were both picket lang afore you cam' 
 near the precentor's box," Morrison told him. 
 " It said a lot for the laddie gaun by his father's 
 favourites, an' he pleased mair than his mother in 
 that." 
 
 " Ay, man," Dav Allan corroborated, " I havena 
 ha'en sic a sing for years ; after the first three I 
 was certain o' a good sermon, an' got better than 
 I bargained for." 
 
 " It was a grand sermon, without doubt," Eben 
 announced with an authoritative air. " Some o' 
 ye'll maybe be thinkin' I'm no judge o' a 
 sermon ? " 
 
 Pillan looked up inquiringly. " Did ye say 
 ' maybe,' Eben ? " 
 
 Eben did not answer. " If I'm no i' the way o' 
 hearin' sermons," he continued, " I'm the mair
 
 SWANKEY AT THE KIRK. 337 
 
 likelys to be unprejudiced ; an' 7 say yon was 
 grand." 
 
 The others agreed with him in this, leaving the 
 matter of his special qualification an open ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " Tell us something we dinna ken," was Tyler's 
 advice. 
 
 " Ou, I might be able to do that too, Willie. 
 If auld Briggs had lived to see this day, he would 
 ha'e been crawin' ower us a'." 
 
 "Ay, man?" It was Morrison who spoke. 
 " Some thought like that gaed through my head 
 an' a', yesterday." 
 
 " I could see that he was preachin' about 
 Swankey, mysel'," Dav Allan observed. " It was 
 when he telled us that kirk-gaun didna mak' a man 
 a Christian, an' that the speerit o' Christianity 
 was like the modest gowan that ye see glintin' by 
 the road-side, an'll hardly grow in a hot-house. 
 When he cam' to that, I saw him lookin' straight 
 at Lowrie, an' his e'en sayin' : ' I mention no 
 names, but ye ken wha I mean '. " 
 
 " Ye're on the lines, Dav," Eben graciously 
 admitted ; " but ye're no there yet. What did ye 
 think about the thirteenth Corinthians, a' about 
 
 Charity ? Then there was his text about no 
 
 22
 
 338 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 lettin' the left hand ken what the richt hand 
 did." 
 
 " That thine alms be in secret" Morrison reverently 
 corrected. " That was his text." 
 
 " I forgot the exact words, Andrew ; but I ga'e 
 the sense. An', crownin' a', there was that story 
 o' the Christian that ga'e a' his fortune to let an 
 orphan laddie ha'e the chance in life he'd missed 
 himsel'. It was no parable, yon." 
 
 " No ! " said Rennie. " Ye dinna need to tell 
 us that. If ye think we dinna ken the 
 parables 
 
 "I mean to say it was personal, John," Eben 
 explained. 
 
 John turned away in disdain. " It's you that's 
 personal, my man ; an' impudent into the bar- 
 gain." 
 
 " But what struck me most ava'," Eben re- 
 sumed, "was when he closed the Book, an' leanin' 
 ower, said, ' I was an hungered an' ye gave me 
 meat ; I was thirsty an' ye gave me drink ; I was 
 a stranger an' ye took me in ; naked an' ye 
 clothed me.' It was most impressive. For his 
 face was to Lowrie, an' I'm thinkin' the whole 
 kirk ta'en a gley at the old man sittin', wi' his e'en 
 glistenin', an' the master aside him howdin' his in
 
 SWAN KEY AT THE KIRK. 339 
 
 his hankey. I kenned what the sermon meant, 
 when I saw yon." 
 
 " Weel, there's ae thing, >: Allan averred, "an' 
 that's no twa " an emphasising phrase only used 
 when one was profoundly in earnest " if so be 
 it's the case that auld Swankey provided the 
 money, he has cast his bread upon the waters, for 
 Linty '11 never see him in want." 
 
 " An' a lad that can preach a sermon like yon 
 '11 no be out o' a kirk lang. Our stoodent's no to 
 be a sticket stibbler." 
 
 " Did ye see his mother ? " Pillan asked, an- 
 swering in his own way, " It touched me ". What 
 he meant was perhaps not very clear ; but, as the 
 others did not ask, it may be assumed that they 
 knew. 
 
 Thus did the miners talk that Monday night, 
 and at the same time the old master was dis- 
 cussing the same subject with Lowrie. But 
 Lowrie's heart was too full for words. He only 
 nodded now and again, when Mr. Burt referred to 
 some special passage in the sermon, contenting 
 himself with the remark : " We've made a man o' 
 him amon' us; an' he was worth makin' a man 
 o'". Then he would turn his head aside, asking 
 some imaginary sceptic, with a gulp of fierce-
 
 34 SUNSHINE AND HAAR. 
 
 ness in his voice: "Was he no now? was he 
 no? " 
 
 It was only when the master was leaving that 
 Lowrie said anything at all about the sermon. 
 
 " There was a bit that touched me in particu- 
 lar," he confessed; "gaed near to garrin' me 
 greet." 
 
 The master smiled, knowing as he did that 
 Lowrie's eyes had not been once free from tears 
 through the whole service. 
 
 " It was when he quoted yon verse about the 
 end. D'ye mind? A double verse, eight lines, 
 eight lines full." 
 
 " Yes, Lowrie. I thought it very poetical and 
 most appropriate." 
 
 " Do you say so, sir ? " He leaned forward, his 
 eyes beaming with pride, his voice trembling with 
 emotion, and spoke in a whisper : " The po'm 
 was mine, sir ; it was a verse o' my ain po'ms. 
 Ay ! " he was peering through the window and 
 thinking aloud, " Lizzie : A Sang o' Love, page 
 nine." 
 
 FINIS.
 
 *
 
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