•^^^©EDITHA SERIESi 
 

 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Mrs. Charles Beaumont 
 
Cornell university Library 
 PR 4074.J58 
 
 Jess/ 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924012813741 
 
Jess. 
 
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 EDITHA SERIE-S 
 
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 Y. S S jz^ 
 
 /P> j^ ^^ jS^ j^ 
 
 By 
 J. M. BARRIE 
 
 V^ith Illustrations by 
 ETHELDRED BREEZE BARRY 
 
 H. M. CALDAVELL CO. 
 PUBLISHERS J^ ^ ^ 
 NEW^YORK ta BOSTON 
 
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 i^^ 
 
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 v?. 
 
 ^%AC^.^■ 
 
 Copyright, /8g8 
 By Dana Estes & Company 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 OHAPTEE 
 
 I. The House on the Beab 
 
 II. On the Track op the Minister 
 
 III. Preparing to Receive Company 
 
 rv. Waiting foe the Doctor 
 
 V. Dead this Twenty Years . 
 
 VI. The Statement of Tibbie Birse 
 
 VII. A Cloak with Beads 
 
 VIII. Making the Best of It 
 
 IX. Visitors at the Manse 
 
 X. How Gavin Birse Put It to Mag 
 
 XI. The Son from London 
 
 XII. Leeby and Jamie . 
 
 XIII. A Tale op a Glove 
 
 XIV. The Last Night . 
 XV. Jess Left Alone . 
 
 XVT. Jamie's Home-coming 
 
 Lowney 
 
 PAGE 
 
 11 
 
 21 
 
 28 
 
 36 
 
 44 
 
 55 
 
 61 
 
 71 
 
 80 
 
 87 
 
 95 
 
 107 
 
 116 
 
 124 
 
 132 
 
 139 
 
LIST OP ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PAQE 
 
 Jess ........ Frontispiece 
 
 The elbow of the brae 17 
 
 "Leeby, as yet in deshabille, was shaving hee 
 
 father at a tremendous rate " . . .33 
 
 « Twenty years had passed since Joey ran down 
 
 the brae to play " 45 
 
 '"She telt me . . . 'at when a man mairit he 
 
 SHOULD please 'imsbl" " 77 
 
 "'It was ower dark to see his face richt'" . 143 
 
JESS 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE. 
 
 ON the bump of green round which the brae 
 twists, at the top of the brae, and within cry 
 of T'nowhead Farm, still stands a one-story house, 
 whose whitewashed walls, streaked with the discolor- 
 ation that rain leaves, look yellow when the snow 
 comes. In the old days the stiff ascent left Thrums 
 behind, and where is now the making of a suburb was 
 only a poor row of dwellings and a manse, with 
 Hendry's cot to watch the brae. The house stood 
 bare, without a shrub, in a garden whose paling did 
 not go all the way around, the potato pit being only 
 kept out of the road, that here sets off southward, 
 by a broken dyke of stones and earth. On each side 
 of the slate-coloured door was a window of knotted 
 glass. Ropes were flung over the thatch to keep the 
 j-oof on in wind. 
 
 u 
 
12 JESS. 
 
 Into this humble abode I would take any one who 
 cares to accompany me. But you must not come in a 
 contemptuous mood, thinking that the poor are but 
 a stage removed from beasts of burden, as some 
 cruel writers of these days say; nor will I hare 
 you turn over with your foot the shabby horsehair 
 chairs that Leeby kept so speckless, and Hendry 
 weaved for years to buy, and Jess so loved to look 
 upon. 
 
 I speak of the chairs, but if we go together into 
 the " room " they will not be visible to you. For a 
 long time the house has been to let. Here, on the 
 left of the doorway, as we enter, is the room, without 
 a shred of furniture in it except the boards of two 
 clo»ed-in beds. The flooring is not steady, and here 
 and there holes have been eaten into the planks. You 
 can scarcely stand upright beneath the decaying ceil- 
 ing. Worn boards and ragged walls, and the rusty 
 ribs fallen from the fireplace, are all that meet your 
 eyes, but I see a round, imsteady, waxcloth-covered 
 table, with four books lying at equal distances on it. 
 There are six prim chairs, two of them not to be 
 sat upon, backed against the walls, and between the 
 window and the fireplace a chest of drawers, with a 
 snowy coverlet. On the drawers stands a board with 
 coloured marbles for the game of sohtaire, and I have 
 only to open the drawer with the loose handle to 
 bring out the dambrod. In the carved wood frame 
 over the window hangs Jamie's portrait ; in the only 
 other frame a picture of Daniel in the den of lions, 
 
TEE BOUSE ON THE BRAE. 13 
 
 sewn by Leeby in wool. Over the chimney-piece with 
 its shells, in which the roar of the sea can be heard, 
 are strung three rows of bird's eggs. Once again we 
 might be expecting company to tea. 
 
 The passage is narrow. There is a square hole 
 between the rafters, and a ladder leading up to it. 
 You may climb and look into the attic, as Jess liked 
 to hear me call my tiny garret-room. I am stiffer 
 now than in the days when I lodged with Jess dur- 
 ing the summer holiday I am trying to bring back, 
 and there is no need for me to ascend. Do not laugh 
 at the newspapers with which Leeby papered the gar- 
 ret, nor at the yarn Hendry stuffed into the windy 
 holes. He did it to warm the house for Jess. But 
 the paper must have gone to pieces and the yarn 
 rotted decades ago. 
 
 I have kept the kitchen for the last, as Jamie did 
 on the dire day of which I shall have to tell. It has 
 a flooring of stone now, where there used to be hard 
 earth, and a broken pane in the window is indiffer- 
 ently stuffed with rags. But it is the other window 
 I turn to, with a pain at my heart, and pride and 
 fondness, too, the square foot of glass where Jess sat 
 in her chair and looked down the brae. 
 
 Ah, that brae ! The history of tragic little Thrums 
 is sunk into it like the stones it swallows in the 
 winter. We have all found the brae long and steep 
 in the spring of life. Do you remember how the 
 child you once were sat at the foot of it and wondered 
 if a new world began at the top ? It climbs from a 
 
14 jEaa. 
 
 shallow burn, and we used to sit on the brig a long 
 time before venturing to climb. As boys we ran up 
 the brae. As men and women, young and in our 
 prime, we almost forgot that it was there. But the 
 autumn of life comes, and the brae grows steeper; 
 then the winter, and once again we are as the child 
 pausing apprehensively on the brig. Yet are we no 
 longer the child ; we look now for no new world at 
 the top, only for a little garden and a tiny house, and 
 a hand-loom in the house. It is only a garden of 
 kail and potatoes, but there may be a line of daisies, 
 white and red, on each side of the narrow footpath, 
 and honeysuckle over the door. Life is not always 
 hard, even after backs grow bent, and we know that 
 all braes lead only to the grave. 
 
 This is Jess's window. For more than twenty 
 years she had not been able to go so far as the door, 
 and only once while I knew her was she ben in the 
 room. With her husband, Hendry, or their only 
 daughter, Leeby, to lean upon, and her hand clutch- 
 ing her staff, she took twice a day, when she was 
 strong, the journey between her bed and the window 
 where stood her chair. She did not lie there looking 
 at the sparrows or at Leeby redding up the house, 
 and I hardly ever heard her complain. All the sewing 
 was done by her ; she often baked on a table pushed 
 close to the window, and by leaning forward she 
 could stir the porridge. Leeby was seldom off her 
 feet, but I do not know that she did more than 
 Jess, who liked to tell me, when she had a moment 
 
THE HOUSE ON THE BBAE. 15 
 
 to spare, that she had a terrible lot to be thankful 
 for. 
 
 To those who dwell in great cities Thrums is only 
 a small place, but what a clatter of life it has for me 
 when I come to it from my schoolhouse in the glen. 
 Had my lot been cast in a town I would no doubt 
 have sought country parts during my September 
 holiday, but the schoolhouse is quiet even when the 
 summer takes brakes full of sportsmen and others 
 past the top of my footpath, and I was always light- 
 hearted when Craigiebuckle's cart bore me into the 
 din of Thrums. I only once stayed during the whole 
 of my holiday at the house on the brae, but I knew 
 its inmates for many years, including Jamie, the son, 
 who was a barber in London. Of their ancestry I 
 never heard. With us it was only some of the articles 
 of furniture, or perhaps a snuff-mull, that had a genea- 
 logical tree. In the house on the brae was a great 
 kettle, called the boiler, that was said to be fifty years 
 old in the days of Hendry's grandfather, of whom 
 nothing more is known. Jess's chair, which had 
 carved arms and a seat stuffed with rags, had been 
 Snecky Hobart's father's befpre it was hers, and old 
 Snecky bought it at a roup in the Tenements. Jess's 
 rarest possession was, perhaps, the christening robe 
 that even people at a distance came to borrow. Her 
 mother could count up a himdred persons who had 
 been baptised in it. 
 
 Every one of the hundred, I believe, is dead, and 
 even I cannot now pick out Jess and Hendry's grave ; 
 
16 juss. 
 
 but I heard recently that the christening robe is still 
 in use. It is strange that I should still be left after 
 so many changes, one of the three or four who can 
 to-day stand on the brae and point out Jess's window. 
 The little window commands the incline to the point 
 where the brae suddenly jerks out of sight in its 
 climb down into the town. The steep path up the 
 commonty makes for this elbow of the brae, and thus, 
 whichever way the traveller takes, it is here that he 
 comes first into sight of the window. Here, too, those 
 who go to the town from the south get their first 
 glimpse of Thrums. 
 
 Carts pass up and down the brae every few minutes, 
 and there comes an occasional gig. Seldom is the 
 brae empty, for many live beyond the top of it now, 
 and men and women go by to their work, children to 
 school or play. Not one of the children I see from 
 the window to-day is known to me, and most of the 
 men and women I only recognise by their likeness to 
 their parents. That sweet-faced old woman with the 
 shawl on her shoulders may be one of the girls who 
 was playing at the game of palaulays when Jamie 
 stole into Thrums for the last time ; the man who is 
 leaning on the commonty gate gathering breath for 
 the last quarter of the brae may, as a barefooted 
 callant, have been one of those who chased Cree 
 Queery past the poorhouse. I cannot say ; but this 
 I know, that the grandparents of most of these boys 
 and girls were once young with me. If I see the 
 sons and daughters of my friends grown old, I also 
 
i^ 
 
 " THE ELBOW OP THE BEAE." 
 
THE BOUSE ON THE BBAE. 19 
 
 see the grandchildren spinning the peerie, and hun- 
 kering at I-dree-I-dree — I-droppit-it, — as we did so 
 long ago. The world remains as young as ever. 
 The lovers that met on the commonty in the gloaming 
 are gone, but there are other lovers to take their 
 place, and still the commonty is here. The sun had 
 sunk on a fine day in June, early in the century, 
 when Hendry and Jess, newly married, he in a rich 
 moleskin waistcoat, she in a white net cap, walked to 
 the house on the brae that was to be their home. So 
 Jess has told me. Here again has been just such 
 a day, and somewhere in Thrums there may be just 
 such a couple, setting out for their home behind a 
 horse with white ears instead of walking, but with 
 the same hopes and fears, and the same love light in 
 their eyes. The world does not age. The hearse 
 passes over the brae and up the straight burying- 
 ground road, but still there is a cry for the christening 
 robe. 
 
 Jess's window was a beacon by night to travellers 
 in the dark, and it will be so in the future when there 
 are none to remember Jess. There are many such 
 windows still, with loving faces behind them. Prom 
 them we watch for the friends and relatives who are 
 coming back, and some, alas! watch in vain. Not 
 every one returns who takes the elbow of the brae 
 bravely, or waves his handkerchief to those who 
 watch from the window with wet eyes, and some 
 return too late. To Jess, at her window always when 
 she was not in bed, things happy and mournful and 
 
20 JE88. 
 
 terrible came into view. At this window she sat for 
 twenty years or more looking at the world as through 
 a telescope; and here an awful ordeal was gone 
 through after her sweet, untarnished soul had been 
 given back to God. 
 
CHAPTER n. 
 
 ON THE TEACK OP THE MINI8TEB. 
 
 ON the afternoon of the Saturday that carted me 
 and my two boxes to Thrums, I was ben in the 
 room playing Hendry at the dambrod. I had one of 
 the room chairs, but Leeby brought a chair from the 
 kitchen for her father. Our door stood open, and as 
 Hendry often pondered for two minutes with his hand 
 on a " man," I could have joined in the gossip that 
 was going on but the house. 
 
 " Ay, weel, then, Leeby," said Jess, suddenly, " I'll 
 warrant the minister'll no be preachin' the morn." 
 
 This took Leeby to the window. 
 
 " Yea, yea," she said (and I knew she was nodding 
 her head sagaciously). I looked out at the room 
 window, but all I could see was a man wheeling an 
 empty barrow down the brae. 
 
 "That's Robbie Tosh," continued Leeby; "an' 
 there's na doot 'at he's makkin' for the minister's, 
 for he has on his black coat. He'll be to row the 
 minister's luggage to the post-cart. Ay, an' that's 
 Davit Liman's barrow. I ken it by the shaft's bein' 
 
 21 
 
22 JE88. 
 
 spliced wi' yarn. Davit broke the shaft at the saw- 
 miU." 
 
 " He'll be gaen awa for a curran (number of) 
 days," said Jess, " or he would juist hae ta'en his bag. 
 Ay, he'll be awa to Edinbory, to see the lass." 
 
 " I wonder wha'U be to preach the morn — tod, it'll 
 likely be Mr. Skinner, frae Dimdee; him an' the 
 minister's chief, ye ken." 
 
 " Ye micht gang up to the attic, Leeby, an' see if 
 the spare bedroom vent (chimney) at the manse is 
 gaen. We're sure, if it's Mr. Skinner, he'U come wi' 
 the post frae Tilliedrum the nicht, an' sleep at the 
 manse." 
 
 " Weel, I assure ye," said Leeby, descending from 
 the attic, " it'll no be Mr. Skinner, for no only is the 
 spare bedroom vent no gaen, but the blind's drawn 
 doon frae tap to fut, so they're no even airin' the 
 room. Na, it canna be him ; an' what's mair, it'll be 
 naebody 'at's to bide a' nicht at the manse." 
 
 " I wouldna say that ; na, na. It may only be a 
 student; an' Marget Dundas (the minister's mother 
 and housekeeper) michtna think it necessary to put 
 on a fire for him." 
 
 " Tod, I'll tell ye wha it'll be. I wonder I didna 
 think o' 'im sooner. It'll be the lad Wilkie ; him 'at's 
 mither mairit on Sam'l Duthie's wife's brither. They 
 bide in Cupar, an' I mind 'at when the son was here 
 twa or three year syne he was juist gaen to begin the 
 diveenity classes in Glesca." 
 
 " If that's so, Leeby, he would be sure to bide wi' 
 
ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. 23 
 
 Sam'l. Hendry, hae ye heard 'at Sam'l Duthie's 
 expeckin' a stranger the nicht ? " 
 
 " Hand yer tongue," replied Hendry, who was 
 having the worst of the game. 
 
 " Ay, but I ken he is," said Leeby, triumphantly, to 
 her mother, " for ye mind when I was in at Johnny 
 Watt's (the draper's), Chirsty (Sam'l's wife) was buyin' 
 twa yards o' chintz, an' I couldna think what she 
 would be Tjantin' 't for ! " 
 
 " I thocht Johnny said to ye 'at it was for a present 
 to Chirsty's auntie ? " 
 
 " Ay, but he juist guessed that ; for, though he tried 
 to get oot o' Chirsty what she wanted the chintz for, 
 she wouldna tell 'im. But I see noo what she was 
 after. The lad Wilkie'U be to bide wi' them, and 
 Chirsty had bocht the chintz to cover the airmchair 
 wi'. It's ane o' thae hair-bottomed chairs, but terrible 
 torn, so she'll hae covered it for 'im to sit on." 
 
 " I wouldna wonder but ye're richt, Leeby ; for 
 Chirsty would be in an oncommon fluster if she 
 thocht the lad's mither was likely to hear 'at her 
 best chair was torn. Ay, ay, bein' a man, he 
 wouldna think to tak aff the chintz an' hae a look 
 at the chair withoot it." 
 
 Here Hendry, who had paid no attention to the 
 conversation, broke in : 
 
 " Was ye speirin' had I seen Sam'l Duthie ? I saw 
 'im yesterday buyin' a fender at Will'um Crook's 
 roup." 
 
 "A fender.' Ay, ay, that settles the queistion," 
 
24 JE8S. 
 
 said Leeby ; " I'll warrant the fender was for Chirsty's 
 parlour. It's preyed on Chirsty's mind, they say, 
 this fower-and-thirty year 'at she doesna hae a richt 
 parlour fender." 
 
 " Leeby, look ! That's Eobbie Tosh wi' the barrow. 
 He has a michty load o' luggage. Am thinkin' the 
 minister's bound for Tilliedrmn." 
 
 " Na, he's no, he's gaen to Edinbory, as ye micht 
 ken by the bandbox. That'll be his mither's bonnet 
 he's takkin' back to get altered. Ye'U mind she was 
 never pleased wi' the set o' the flowers." 
 
 " Weel, weel, here comes the minister himsel', an' 
 very snod he is. Ay, Marget's been puttin' new 
 braid on his coat, an' he's carryin' the sma' black 
 bag he bocht in Dundee last year ; he'll hae's nicht- 
 shirt an' a comb in't, I dinna doot. Ye micht rin 
 to the corner, Leeby, an' see if he cries in at Jess 
 McTaggart's in passin'." 
 
 "It's my opeenion," said Leeby, returning ex- 
 citedly from the corner, " 'at the lad Wilkie's no 
 to be preachin' the morn, after a'. When I gangs 
 to the corner, at ony rate, what think ye's the first 
 thing I see but the minister an' Sam'l Duthie meetin' 
 face to face. Ay, weel, it's gospel am tellin' ye when 
 I say as Sam'l flung back his head an' walkit richt 
 by the minister ! " 
 
 " Losh keep's a', Leeby ; ye say that ? They maun 
 hae haen a quarrel." 
 
 " I'm thinkin' we'll hae Mr. Skinner i' the poopit 
 the morn, after a'." 
 
ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTEB. 26 
 
 "It may be, it may be. Ay, ay, look, Leeby, 
 whatna bit kimmer's that wi' the twa jugs in her 
 hand?" 
 
 " Eh ? Ou, it'll be Lawyer Ogilvy's servant lassieky 
 gaen to the farm o' T'nowhead for the milk. She 
 gangs ilka Saturday nicht. But what did ye say, — 
 twa jugs ? Tod, let's see ! Ay, she has so, a big jug 
 an' a little ane. The little ane'll be for cream ; an', 
 sal, the big ane's bigger na usual." 
 
 " There maun be something gaen on at the lawyer's 
 if they're buyin' cream, Leeby. Their reg'lar thing's 
 twopence worth o' milk." 
 
 " Ay, but I assure ye that sma' jug's for cream, an' 
 I dinna doot mysel but 'at there's to be fowerpence 
 worth o' milk this nicht." 
 
 " There's to be a puddin' made the morn, Leeby. 
 Ou, ay, a' thing points to that ; an' we're very sure 
 there's nae puddin's at the lawyer's on the Sabbath 
 onless they hae company." 
 
 " I dinna ken wha they can hae, if it be na that 
 brither o' the wife's 'at bides oot by Aberdeen." 
 
 " Na, it's no him, Leeby ; na, na. He's no weel to 
 do, an' they wouldna be buyin' cream for 'im." 
 
 " I'll run up to the attic again, an' see if there's 
 ony stir at the lawyer's hoose." 
 
 By and by Leeby returned in triumph. 
 
 " Ou, ay," she said, " they're expectin' veesitors at 
 the lawyer's, for I could see twa o' the bairns dressed 
 up to the nines, an' Mistress Ogilvy doesna dress at 
 them in that wy for naething." 
 
26 JES8. 
 
 "It fair beats me, though, Leeby, to guess wha's 
 comin' to them. Ay, but stop a meenute, I wouldna 
 wonder, no, really I wouldna wonder but what it'll 
 be — " 
 
 " The very thing 'at was passin' through my head, 
 mother." 
 
 "Ye mean 'at the lad Wilkie'U be to bide wi' 
 the lawyer i'stead o' wi' Sam'l Duthie ? Sal, am 
 thinkin' that's it. Ye ken Sam'l an' the lawyer 
 married on cousins; but Mistress Ogilvy ay lookit 
 on Chirsty as dirt aneath her feet. She would be 
 glad to get a minister, though, to the hoose, an' so 
 I warrant the lad Wilkie'U be to bide a' nicht at the 
 lawyer's." 
 
 " But what would Chirsty be doin' gettin' the 
 chintz an' the fender in that case?" 
 
 " Ou, she'd been expeckin' the lad, of course. Sal, 
 she'll be in a michty tantrum aboot this. I wouldna 
 wonder though she gets Sam'l to gang ower to the 
 U. P.'s." 
 
 Leeby went once more to the attic. 
 
 " Ye're wrang, mother ! " she cried out. " Wha- 
 ever's to preach the morn is to bide at the manse, 
 for the minister's servant's been at Baker Duff's 
 buying short-bread, — half a lippy, nae doot." 
 
 " Are ye sure o' that, Leeby ? " 
 
 " Oh, am certain. The servant gaed in to Duff's 
 the noo, an', as ye ken fine, the manse fowk doesna 
 deal wi' him, except they're wantin' short-bread. He's 
 Auld Kirk." 
 
OJfr TBE TRACK OF THE MINISTJBB. 27 
 
 Leeby returned to the kitchen, and Jess sat for a 
 time ruminating. 
 
 " The lad Wilkie," she said at last, triumphantly, 
 " '11 be to bide at Lawyer Ogilvy's ; but he'll be gaen 
 to the manse the morn for a tea-dinner." 
 
 " But what," asked Leeby, " aboot the milk an' the 
 cream for the lawyer's ? " 
 
 " Ou, they'll be ha' en a puddin' for the supper the 
 nicht. That's a michty genteel thing, I've heard." 
 
 It turned out that Jess was right in every par- 
 ticular. 
 
CHAPTER m. 
 
 PEEPAEING TO EECBIVB COMPANY. 
 
 LBEBY was at the fire brandering a quarter of 
 steak on the tongs, when the house was flung 
 into consternation by Hendry's casual remark that 
 he had seen Tibbie Meahnaker in the town with her 
 man. 
 
 " The Lord preserve's ! " cried Leeby. 
 
 Jess looked quickly at the clock. 
 
 « Half fower ! " she said, excitedly. 
 
 " Then it canna be dune," said Leeby, falling 
 despairingly into a chair, "for they may be here 
 ony meenute." 
 
 "It's most michty," said Jess, turning on her 
 husband, " 'at ye should tak a pleasure in bringin' 
 this hoose to disgrace. Hoo did ye no tell's suner ? " 
 
 " I fair forgot," Hendry answered, " but what's a' 
 yer steer ? " 
 
 Jess looked at me (she often did this) in a way 
 that meant, " What a man is this I'm tied to ! " 
 
 " Steer ! " she exclaimed. " Is't no time we was 
 makkin' a steer ? They'll be in for their tea ony 
 meenute, an' the room no sae muckle as sweepit. Ay, 
 an' me lookin' like a sweep; an' Tibbie Mealmaker 
 
PREPABING TO RECEIVE COMPANY. 29 
 
 'at's sae partikler genteel seein' you sic a sicht as ye 
 are ! » 
 
 Jess shook Hendry out of his chair, while Leeby 
 began to sweep with the one hand, and agitatedly to 
 unbutton her wrapper with the other. 
 
 " She didna see me," said Hendry, sitting down 
 forlornly on the table. 
 
 "Get a£f that table!" cried Jess. "See hand o' 
 the besom," she said to Leeby. 
 
 " For mercy's sake, mother," said Leeby, " gie yer 
 face a dicht, an' put on a clean mutch." 
 
 "I'll open the door if they come afore you're 
 ready," said Hendry, as Leeby pushed him against 
 the dresser. 
 
 " Ye daur to speak aboot openin' the door, an' you 
 sic a mess ! " cried Jess, with pins in her mouth. 
 
 " Havers ! " retorted Hendry. " A man canna be 
 aye washin' at 'imsel'." 
 
 Seeing that Hendry was as much in the way as 
 myself, I invited him up-stairs to the attic, whence we 
 heard Jess and Leeby upbraiding each other shrilly. 
 I was aware that the room was speckless ; but for all 
 that Leeby was turning it upside down. 
 
 " She's aye ta'en like that," Hendry said to me, 
 referring to his wife, " when she's expectin' company. 
 Ay, it's a peety she canna tak things cannier." 
 
 " Tibbie Mealmaker must be some one of impor- 
 tance ? " I asked. 
 
 " Ou, she's naething by the ord'nar* ; but ye see she 
 was mairit to a Tilliedrum man no lang syne, an' 
 
30 JS88. 
 
 they're said to hae a michty grand establishment. Ay, 
 they've a wardrobe spleet new; an' what think ye 
 Tibbie wears ilka day ? " 
 
 I shook my heard. 
 
 " It was Chirsty Miller 'at put it through the toon," 
 Hendry continued. " Chirsty was in Tilliedrum last 
 Teisday or Wednesday, an' Tibbie gae her a cup o' 
 tea. Ay, weel, Tibbie telt Chirsty 'at she wears hose 
 ilka day." 
 
 " Wears hose ? " 
 
 " Ay. It's some michty grand kind o' stockin'. I 
 never neard o't in this toon. Na, there's naebody in 
 Thrums 'at wears hose." 
 
 " And who did Tibbie get ? " I asked ; for in 
 Thrums they say, "Wha did she get?" and "Wha 
 didhetak?" 
 
 " His name's Davit Curly. Ou, a crittur fu' o' 
 maggots, an' nae great match, for he's juist the 
 Tilliedrum bill-sticker." 
 
 At this moment Jess shouted from her chair (she 
 was burnishing the society teapot as she spoke), 
 " Mind, Hendry McQumpha, 'at upon nae condition 
 are ye to mention the bill-stickin' afore Tibbie ! " 
 
 " Tibbie," Hendry explained to me, " is a terrible 
 vain tid, an' doesna think the bill-stickin' genteel. 
 Ay, they say 'at if she meets Davit in the street wi' 
 his paste-pot an' the brush in his hands she pretends 
 no to ken 'im." 
 
 Every time Jess paused to think she cried up 
 orders, such as : 
 
PREPABINQ TO BECMIVE COMPANY. 31 
 
 " Dinna call her Tibbie, mind ye. Always address 
 her as Mistress Curly." 
 
 " Shak' hands wi' baith o' them, an' say ye hope 
 they're in the enjoyment o' guid health." 
 
 " Dinna put yer feet on the table." 
 
 " Mind, you're no to mention 'at ye kent they 
 were in the toon." 
 
 " When onybody passes ye yer tea say, ' Thank 
 ye.'" 
 
 " Dinna stir yer tea as if ye was churnin' butter, 
 nor let on 'at the scones is no our ain bakin'." 
 
 " If Tibbie says ony thing aboot the china yer no to 
 say 'at we dinna use it ilka day." 
 
 " Dinna lean back in the big chair, for it's broken, 
 an' Leeby's gi'en it a lick o' glue this meenute." 
 
 " When Leeby gies ye a kick aneath the table 
 that'll be a sign to ye to say grace." 
 
 Hendry looked at me apologetically while these 
 instructions came up. 
 
 " I winna dive my head wi' sic nonsense," he said ; 
 " it's no for a man body to be sae crammed fu' o' 
 manners." 
 
 " Come awa doon," Jess shouted to him, " an' put 
 on a clean dickey." 
 
 "I'll better do't to please her," said Hendry, 
 " though for ain part I dinna like the feel o' a 
 dickey on week-days. Na, they mak's think it's 
 the Sabbath." 
 
 ■ Ten minutes afterwards I went down-stairs to see 
 how the preparations were progressing. Fresh 
 
32 JE88. 
 
 muslin curtains had been put up in the room. 
 The grand footstool, worked by Leeby, was so 
 placed that Tibbie could not help seeing it ; and 
 a fine cambric handkerchief, of which Jess was 
 very proud, was hanging out of a drawer as if by 
 accident. An antimacassar lying carelessly on the 
 seat of a chair concealed a rent in the horsehair, 
 and the china ornaments on the mantelpiece were 
 so placed that they looked whole. Leeby's black 
 merino was hanging near the window in a good 
 light, and Jess's Sabbath bonnet, which was never 
 worn, occupied a nail beside it. The tea-things 
 stood on a tray in the kitchen bed, whence they 
 could be quickly brought into the room, just as if 
 they were always ready to be used daily. Leeby, 
 as yet in deshabille, was shaving her father at a 
 tremendous rate, and Jess, looking as fresh as a 
 daisy, was ready to receive the visitors. She was 
 peering through the tiny window-blind looking for 
 them. 
 
 " Be cautious, Leeby," Hendry was saying, when 
 Jess shook her hand at him. 
 
 " Wheesht," she whispered ; " they're comin'." 
 
 Hendry was hustled into his Sabbath coat, and 
 then came a tap at the door, a very genteel tap. 
 Jess nodded to Leeby, who softly shoved Hendry 
 into the room. 
 
 The tap was repeated, but Leeby pushed her father 
 into a chair and thrust " Barrow's Sermons " open into 
 his hand. Then she stole about the house, and 
 
' LEEBY, AS YET IN DESHABILLE, WAS SHAVING HER 
 FATHER AT A TREMENDOUS RATE." 
 
PBEPABING TO BECMIVM COMPANY. 35 
 
 swiftly buttoned her -wrapper, speaking to Jess by 
 nods the while. There was a third knock, where- 
 upon Jess said, in a loud, Englishy voice : 
 " Was that not a chap (knock) at the door ? " 
 Hendry was about to reply, but she shook her fist 
 at him. Next moment Leeby opened the door. I was 
 up-stairs, but I heard Jess say : 
 
 " Dear me, if it's not Mrs. Curly — and Mr. Curly ! 
 And hoo are ye ? Come in, by. Weel, this is indeed 
 a pleasant surprise ! " 
 
CHAPTER rV. 
 
 WAITING POK THE DOCTOR. 
 
 JESS had gone early to rest, and the door of her 
 bed in the kitchen was pulled to. From her 
 window I saw Hendry buying dulse. 
 
 Now and again the dulseman wheeled his slimy 
 boxes to the top of the brae, and sat there stolidly on 
 the shafts of his barrow. Many passed him by, but 
 occasionally some one came to rest by his side. 
 Unless the customer was loquacious, there was no 
 bandying of words, and Hendry merely unbuttoned 
 his east-trouser pocket, giving his body the angle at 
 which the pocket could be most easily filled by the 
 dulseman. He then deposited his halfpenny and 
 moved on. Neither had spoken, yet in the country 
 they would have roared their predictions about 
 to-morrow to a ploughman half a field away. 
 
 Dulse is roasted by twisting it around the tongs 
 fired to a red heat, and the house was soon heavy 
 with the smell of burning seaweed. Leeby was at 
 the dresser munching it from a broth plate, while 
 Hendry, on his knees at the fireplace, gingerly tore 
 off the blades of dulse that were sticking to the tongs, 
 and licked his singed fingers. 
 
WAITING FOB THE DOGTOB. 37 
 
 " Whaur's yer mother ? " he asked Leeby. 
 
 " Ou," said Leeby, " whaur would she be but in her 
 bed?" 
 
 Hendry took the tongs to the door, and would have 
 cleaned them himself, had not Leeby (who often 
 talked his interfering ways over with her mother) 
 torn them from his hands. 
 
 " Leeby ! " cried Jess at that moment. 
 
 "Ay," answered Leeby, leisurely, not noticing, as 
 I happened to do, that Jess spoke in an agitated 
 voice. 
 
 " What is't ? " asked Hendry, who liked to be told 
 things. 
 
 He opened the door of the bed. 
 
 " Yer mother's no weel," he said to Leeby. 
 
 Leeby ran to the bed, and I went ben the house. 
 
 In another two minutes we were a group of four in 
 the kitchen, staring vacantly. Death could not have 
 startled us more, tapping thrice that quiet night on 
 the window-pane. 
 
 " It's diphtheria," said Jess, her hands trembling 
 as she buttoned her wrapper. 
 
 She looked at me, and Leeby looked at me. 
 
 " It's no, it's no ! " cried Leeby, and her voice was 
 as a fist shaken at my face. She blamed me for 
 hesitating in my reply. But ever since this malady 
 left me a lonely dominie for life, diphtheria has been 
 a knock-down word for me. Jess had discovered a 
 great white spot on her throat. I knew the symptoms. 
 
 " Is't dangerous ? " asked Hendry, who once had a 
 
38 JESS. 
 
 headache years before, and could still refer to it as 
 a reminiscence. 
 
 " Them 'at has't never recovers," said Jess, sitting 
 down very quietly. A stick fell from the fire, and 
 she bent forward to replace it. 
 
 " They do recover ! " cried Leeby, again turning 
 angry eyes on me. 
 
 I could not face her ; I had known so many who 
 did not recover. She put her hand on her mother's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Mebbe ye would be better in yer bed," suggested 
 Hendry. 
 
 No one spoke. 
 
 « When I had the headache," said Hendry, " I was 
 better in my bed." 
 
 Leeby had taken Jess's hand, — a worn old hand 
 that had many a time gone out in love and kindness 
 when younger hands were cold. Poets have sung and 
 fighting men have done great deeds for hands that 
 never had such a record. 
 
 " If ye could eat something," said Hendry, " I 
 would gae to the flesher's for't. I mind when I had 
 the headache, hoo a small steak — " 
 
 " Gae awa for the doctor, rayther," broke in 
 Leeby. 
 
 Jess started, for sufferers think there is less hope 
 for them after the doctor has been called in to pro- 
 nounce sentence. 
 
 " I winna hae the doctor," she said, anxiously. 
 
 In answer to Leeby's nods, Hendry slowly pulled 
 
WAITING FOS, TEE DOCTOB. 39 
 
 out his boots from beneath the table, and sat looking 
 at them, preparatory to putting them on. He was 
 beginning at last to be a little scared, though his face 
 did not sho-w it. 
 
 " I winna hae ye," cried Jess, getting to her feet, 
 " ga'en to the doctor's sic a sicht. Yer coat's a' 
 yarn." 
 
 " Havers," said Hendry, but Jess became frantic. 
 
 I offered to go for the doctor, but while I was 
 up-stairs looking for my bonnet I heard the door 
 slam. Leeby had become impatient, and darted off 
 herself, buttoning her jacket, probably, as she ran. 
 When I returned to the kitchen, Jess and Hendry 
 were still by the fire. Hendry was beating a charred 
 stick into sparks, and his wife sat with her hands in 
 her lap. I saw Hendry look at her once or twice, 
 but he could think of nothing to say. His terms of 
 endearment had died out thirty-nine years before 
 with his courtship. He had forgotten the words. 
 For his life he could not have crossed over to Jess 
 and put his arm around her. Yet he was uneasy. 
 His eyes wandered around the poorly lit room. 
 
 " Will ye hae a drink o' watter ? " he asked. 
 
 There was a sound of footsteps outside. 
 
 " That'll be him," said Hendry in a whisper. 
 
 Jess started to her feet, and told Hendry to help 
 her ben the house. 
 
 The steps died away, but I fancied that Jess, now 
 highly strung, had gone into hiding, and I went after 
 her. I was mistaken. She had lit the room lamp, 
 
40 JE88. 
 
 m 
 
 turning the crack in the globe to the wall. The 
 sheepskin hearth-rug, which was generally carefully 
 packed away beneath the bed, had been spread out 
 before the empty fireplace, and Jess was on the arm- 
 chair hurriedly putting on her grand black mutch 
 with the pink flowers. 
 
 " I was juist makkin' myself respectable," she said, 
 but without life in her voice. 
 
 This was the only time I ever saw her in the room. 
 
 Leeby returned panting to say that the doctor 
 might be expected in an hour. He was away among 
 the hills. 
 
 The hour passed reluctantly. Leeby lit a fire ben 
 the house, and then put on her Sabbath dress. She 
 sat with her mother in the room. Never before had 
 I seen Jess sit so quietly, for her way was to work 
 until, as she said herself, she was ready " to fall into 
 her bed." 
 
 Hendry wandered between the two rooms, always 
 in the way when Leeby ran to the window to see if 
 that was the doctor at last. He would stand gaping 
 in the middle of the room for five minutes, then 
 slowly withdraw to stand as drearily but the house. 
 His face lengthened. At last he sat down by the 
 kitchen fire, a Bible in his hand. It lay open on 
 his knee, but he did not read much. He sat there 
 with his legs outstretched, looking straight before 
 him. I believe he saw Jess young again. His face 
 was very solemn, and his mouth twitched. The fire 
 sank into ashes unheeded. 
 
WAITING FOB THE DOCTOR. 41 
 
 I sat alone at my attic window for hours, waiting 
 for the doctor. From the attic I could see nearly all 
 Thnmis, but, until very late, the night was dark, and 
 the brae, except immediately before the door, was 
 blurred and dim. A sheet of light canopied the 
 square as long as a cheap Jack paraded his goods 
 there. It was gone before the moon came out. 
 Figures tramped, tramped up the brae, passed the 
 house in shadow and stole silently on. A man or 
 boy whistling seemed to fill the valley. The moon 
 arrived too late to be of service to any wayfarer. 
 Everybody in Thrums was asleep but ourselves, and 
 the doctor who never came. 
 
 About midnight Hendry climbed the attic stair and 
 joined me at the window. His hand was shaking as 
 he pulled back the blind. I began to realise that his 
 heart could still overflow. 
 
 " She's waur," he whispered, like one who had lost 
 his voice. 
 
 For a long time he sat silently, his hand on the 
 blind. He was so different from the Hendry I had 
 known, that I felt myself in the presence of a strange 
 man. His eyes were glazed with staring at the turn 
 of the brae where the doctor must first come into 
 sight. His breathing became heavier, till it was a 
 gasp. Then I put my hand on his shoulder, and he 
 stared at me. 
 
 " Nine and thirty years come June," he said, speak- 
 ing to himself. 
 
 For this length of time, I knew, he and Jess 
 
42 JESB. 
 
 had been married. He repeated the words at In- 
 tervals. 
 
 "I mind — " he began, and stopped. He was 
 thinking of the spring-time of Jess's life. 
 
 The night ended as we watched; then came the 
 terrible moment that precedes the day, — the moment 
 known to shuddering watchers by sick-beds, when a 
 chill wind cuts through the house, and the world 
 without seems cold in death. It is as if the heart 
 of the earth did not mean to continue beating. 
 
 " This is a fearsome nicht," Hendry said, hoarsely. 
 
 He turned to grope his way to the stairs, but 
 suddenly went down on his knees to pray. 
 
 There was a quick step outside. I arose in time to 
 see the doctor on the brae. He tried the latch, but 
 Leeby was there to show him in. The door of the 
 room closed on him. 
 
 From the top of the stair I could see into the dark 
 passage, and make out Hendry shaking at the door. 
 I could hear the doctor's voice, but not the words he 
 said. There was a painful silence, and then Leeby 
 laughed joyously. 
 
 "It's gone!" cried Jess; "tiie white spofs 
 gone ! Ye juist touched it, an' it's gone ! Tell 
 Hendry." 
 
 But Hendry did not need to be told. As Jess 
 spoke I heard him say, huskily, " Thank God ! " 
 and then he tottered back to the kitchen. When the 
 doctor left, Hendry was still on Jess's armchair, 
 trembling like a man with the palsy. Ten minutes 
 
WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR. 43 
 
 afterwards I was preparing for bed, when he cried up 
 the stair : 
 
 " Come awa' doon." 
 
 I joined the family party in tiie room; Hendry was 
 sitting close to Jess. 
 
 " Let us read," he said, firmly, " in the fourteenth 
 of John." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 DEAD THIS TWENTY YEABS. 
 
 IN the lustiness of youth there are many who 
 cannot feel that they, too, will die. The first 
 fear stops the heart. Even then they would keep 
 death at arm's length by making believe to disown 
 him. Loved ones are taken away, and the boy, the 
 girl, will not speak of them, as if that made the con- 
 queror's triumph the less. In time the fire in the 
 breast bums low, and then in the last glow of 
 the embers, it is sweeter to hold to what has been 
 than to think of what may be. 
 
 Twenty years had passed since Joey ran down the 
 brae to play. Jess, his mother, shook her staff fondly 
 at him. A cart rumbled by, the driver nodding on 
 the shaft. It rounded the corner and stopped sud- 
 denly, and then a woman screamed. A handful of 
 men carried Joey's dead body to his mother, and that 
 was the tragedy of Jess's life. 
 
 Twenty years ago, and still Jess sat at the window, 
 and still she heard that woman scream. Every other 
 living being had forgotten Joey ; even to Hendry he 
 was now scarcely a name, but there were times when 
 
m 
 
 ip^^J' 
 
 "Twenty years had passed since Joey kax down the 
 brae to play." 
 
DEAD THIS TWENTY TEARS. 47 
 
 Jess's face quivered and her arms went out for her 
 dead boy. 
 
 " God's will be done," she said, " but oh, I grudged 
 him my bairn terrible sair. I dinna want him back 
 noo, an' ilka day is takkin' me nearer to him, but for 
 mony a lang year I grudged him sair, sair. He was 
 juist five minutes gone, an' they brocht him back deid, 
 my Joey." 
 
 On the Sabbath day Jess could not go to church, 
 and it was then, I think, that she was with Joey 
 most. There was often a blessed serenity on her face 
 when we returned, that only comes to those who have 
 risen from their knees with their prayers answered. 
 Then she was very close to the boy who died. Long 
 ago she could not look out from her window upon the 
 brae, but now it was her seat in church. There on the 
 Sabbath evenings she sometimes talked to me of Joey. 
 
 " It's been a fine day," she would say, " juist like 
 that day. I thank the Lord for the sunshine noo, but 
 oh, I thocht at the time I couldna look at the sun 
 shinin' again." 
 
 " In all Thrums," she has told me, and I know it 
 to be true, " there's no a better man than Hendry. 
 There's them 'af s cleverer in the wys o' the world, 
 but my man, Hendry McQumpha, never did naething 
 in all his life 'at wasna weel intended, an' though his 
 words is common, it's to the Lord he looks. I canna 
 think but what Hendry's pleasin' to God. Oh, I 
 dinna ken what to say wi' thankfulness to him when 
 I mind hoo guid he's been to me. There's Leeby 'at 
 
48 jsas. 
 
 I couldna hae done withoot, me bein' sae silly (weak 
 bodily), an' Leeby's stuck by me an' gien up her life, 
 as ye micht say, for me. Jamie — " 
 
 But then Jess sometimes broke down. 
 
 " He's so far awa," she said, after a time, " an' aye 
 when he gangs back to London after his holidays he 
 has a fear he'll never see me again, but he's terrified 
 to mention it, an' I juist ken by the wy he taks haud 
 o' me, an' comes runnin' back to tak haud o' me 
 again. I ken fine what he's thinkin', but I daurna 
 speak. 
 
 " Guid is no word for what Jamie has been to me, 
 but he wasna bom till after Joey died. When we got 
 Jamie, Hendry took to whistlin' again at the loom, 
 and Jamie juist filled Joey's place to him. Ay, but 
 naebody could fill Joey's place to me. It's different 
 to a man. A bairn's no the same to him, but a fell 
 bit o' me was buried in my laddie's grave. 
 
 " Jamie an' Joey was never nane the same nature. 
 It was aye something in a shop, Jamie wanted to be, 
 an' he never cared muckle for his books, but Joey 
 hankered after being a minister, young as he was, an' 
 a minister Hendry an' me would hae done our best to 
 mak him. Mony, mony a time after he came in frae 
 the kirk on the Sabbath he would stand up at this 
 very window and wave his hands in a reverent way, 
 juist like the minister. His first text was to be, 
 ' Thou God seest me.' 
 
 " Ye'U wonder at me, but I've sat here in the lang 
 fore-nichts dreamin' 'at Joey was a grown man noo, 
 
DEAD THIS TWENTY TEARS. 49 
 
 an' 'at I was puttin' on my bonnet to come to the 
 kirk to hear him preach. Even as far back as twenty 
 years an' mair I wasna able to gang aboot, but Joey 
 would say to me, ' We'll get a carriage to ye, mother, 
 so 'at ye can come and hear me preach on "Thou 
 God seest me." ' He would say to me, ' It doesna do, 
 mother, for the minister in the pulpit to nod to ony 
 o' the fowk, but I'll gie ye a look an' ye'U ken if s 
 me.' Oh, Joey, I would hae gien you a look, too, an' 
 ye would ha kent what I was thinkin'. He often said, 
 ' Ye'U be proud o' me, will ye no, mother, when ye 
 see me comin' sailin' alang to the pulpit in my gown?' 
 So I would hae been proud o' him, an' I was proud to 
 hear him speakin' o't. ' The other fowk,' he said, 
 ' will be sittin' in their seats wonderin' what my text's 
 to be, but you'll ken, mother, an' you'll turn up to 
 " Thou God seest me," afore I gie oot the chapter.' 
 Ay, but that day he was coffined, for all the minister 
 prayed, I found it hard to say, ' Thou God seest me.' 
 It's the text I like best noo, though, an' when Hendry 
 an' Leeby is at the kirk, I turn't up often, often in 
 the Bible. I read frae the beginning o' the chapter, 
 but when I come to ' Thou God seest me,' I stop. Na, 
 it's no 'at there's ony rebellion to the Lord in my 
 heart noo, for I ken he was lookin' doon when the 
 cart gaed ower Joey, an' he wanted to tak my laddie 
 to himsel. But juist when I come to 'Thou God 
 seest me,' I let the Book lie in my lap, for aince a 
 body's sure o' that they're sure o' all. Ay, ye'U laugh, 
 but I think, mebbe juist because I was his mother, 'at 
 
50 JEB8. 
 
 though Joey never lived to preach m a kirk, he's 
 preached frae ' Thou God seest me,' to me. I dimia 
 ken 'at I would ever hae been sae sure o' that if it 
 hadna been for him, an' so I think I see 'im sailin' 
 doon to the pulpit juist as he said he would do. I 
 seen him gien me the look he spoke o' — ay, he looks 
 my wy first, an' I ken it's him. Naebody sees him 
 but me, but I see him gien me the look he promised. 
 He's so terrible near me, an' him dead, 'at when my 
 time comes I'll be rale willin' to go. I diima say that 
 to Jamie, because he all trembles ; but I'm auld noo, 
 an' I'm no nane loath to gang." 
 
 Jess's staff probably had a history before it became 
 hers, for, as known to me, it was always old and black. 
 If we studied them sufficiently we might discover that 
 staves age perceptibly just as the hair turns gray. At 
 the risk of being thought fanciful I dare to say that in 
 inanimate objects, as in ourselves, there is honourable 
 and shameful old age, and that to me Jess's staff was 
 a symbol of the good, the true. It rested against her 
 in the window, and she was so helpless without it 
 when on her feet, that to those who saw much of her 
 it was part of herself. The staff was very short, 
 nearly a foot having been cut, as I think she once 
 told me herself, from the ori^nal, of which to make 
 a porridge thieval (or stick with which to stir por- 
 ridge), and in moving Jess leant heavily on it. Had 
 she stood erect it would not have touched the floor. 
 This was the staff that Jess shook so joyfully at her 
 boy the forenoon in May when he ran out to his 
 
DEAD THIS TWENTY TEAB8. 51 
 
 death. Joey, however, was associated in Jess's mem- 
 ory with her staff in less painful ways. When she 
 spoke of him she took the dwarf of a staff in her 
 hands, and looked at it softly. 
 
 " It's hard to me," she would say, " to believe 'at 
 twa an' twenty years hae come and gone since the 
 nicht Joey hod (hid) my staff. Ay, but Hendry was 
 straucht in thae days by what he is noo, an' Jamie 
 wasna born. Twa an' twenty years come the back 
 end o' the year, and it wasna thocht 'at I could live 
 through the winter. ' Ye'U no last mair than 
 anither month, Jess,' was what my sister Bell said, 
 when she came to see me, an' yet here I am aye 
 sittin' at my window, an' Bell's been i' the kirkyard 
 this dozen years. 
 
 " Leeby was saxteen month younger than Joey, an' 
 mair quiet like. Her heart was juist set on helpin' 
 aboot the hoose, an' though she was but fower year 
 auld she could kindle the fire an' red up (clean up) 
 the room. Leeby's been my savin' ever since she was 
 fower year auld. Ay, but it was Joey 'at hung aboot 
 me maist, an' he took notice 'at I wasna gaen out as 
 I used to do. Since sune after my marriage I've 
 needed the stick, but there was days 'at I could gang 
 across the road an' sit on a stane. Joey kent there 
 was something wrang when I had to gie 'at up, an' 
 syne he noticed 'at I couldna even gang to the window 
 unless Hendry kind o' carried me. Na, ye wouldna 
 think 'at there could hae been days when Hendry did 
 that, but he did. He was a sort o' ashamed if ony o' 
 
52 JH8S. 
 
 the neighbours saw him so affectionate like, but he 
 was terrible taen up aboot me. His loom was doon 
 at T'nowhead's Bell's father's, an' often he cam awa 
 up to see if I was ony better. He didna let on to the 
 other weavers 'at he was comin' to see what like I 
 was. Na, he juist said he'd forgotten a pirn, or his 
 cruizey lamp, or onything. Ah, but he didna mak 
 nae pretence o' no carin' for me aince he was inside 
 the hoose. He came crawlin' to the bed no to wauken 
 me if I was sleepin', an' mony a time I made belief 'at 
 I was, juist to please him. It was an awfu' business 
 on him to hae a young wife sae helpless, but he wasna 
 the man to cast that at me. I mind o' sayin' to him 
 one day in my bed, • Ye made a poor bargain, Hendry, 
 when ye took me.' But he says, 'Not one soul in 
 Thrums'U daur say 'at to me but yersel, Jess. Na, 
 na, my dawty, you're the wuman o' my choice ; there's 
 juist one wuman i' the warld to me, an' that's you, my 
 ain Jess.' Twa an' twenty years syne. Ay, Hendry 
 called me fond like names, thae no every-day names. 
 What a straucht man he was ! 
 
 " The doctor had said he could do no more for me, 
 an' Hendry was the only ane 'at didna gie me up. 
 The bairns, o' course, didna understan', and Joey 
 would come into the bed an' play on the top o' me. 
 Hendry would hae ta'en him awa, but I liked to hae 
 'im. Ye see, we was lang married afore we had a 
 bairn, an' though I couldna bear ony other weight on 
 me, Joey didna hurt me, somehoo. I liked to hae 
 'im so close to me. 
 
JtEAJ) THIS TWESTY TEABS. 53 
 
 " It was tiiTOii^ that 'at he came to bray my staff. 
 I coDldna help often timikin' o' what like the hoose 
 would be when I was gone, an' aboot Leeby an' Joey 
 left so yonng. So, when I coold say it without 
 greetin', I said to Joey 'at I was goin' far awa, an' 
 would he be a terrible gnid laddie to his father an' 
 Leeby when I was gone ? He aye joist said. • Pinna 
 gang, motiier, dinna gang," but one day Hendry came 
 in frae his loom, Mid says Joey, • Father, whaur's my 
 mother gaen to, awa frae vtsV FU never forget 
 Hendry's face. His mooth jmst opened an" shut twa 
 or tiiree times, an' he walked quick ben to the room. 
 I cried oot to him to come back, but he didna ojme, 
 so I sent Joey for him. Joey came nmnin' back to 
 me sayin', • Mother, mother, am awfu' fleid (fright- 
 ened), for my father's greetin' sair.' 
 
 " A' thae things took a hand o" Joey, an' he ended 
 in gien us a fleg (fright). I was sleepin' ill at the 
 time, an' Hendry was ben sleepin' in the room wi' 
 Leeby. Joey bein' wi' me. Ay, wed, one nicht I 
 woke up in the dark an' put oot my hand to "im. 
 an' he wasna there. I sat up wi' a terrible start, an" 
 syne I kent by the cauld 'at ihe door maun be open. 
 I cried out quick to Hendry, but he was a soond 
 sleeper, an' he didna hear me. Ay, I dinna ken boo 
 I did it, but I got ben to the room an' shook him up. 
 I was near daft wi' fear when I saw Leeby wasna 
 there, either. Hendry couldna tak it in a' at aince, 
 but sone he had his trousers on, an' he made me lie 
 down on his bed. He said he wouldna more till I 
 
54 JE88. 
 
 did it, or I wouldna hae dune it. As sune as he was 
 oot o' the hoose cryin' their names I sat up in my bed 
 listenin'. Sune I heard speakin', an' in a minute 
 Leeby comes runnin' in to me, roarin' an' greetin'. 
 She was barefeeted, and had juist her nichtgown on, 
 an' her teeth was chatterin'. I took her into the 
 bed, but it was an hour afore she could tell me ony- 
 thing, she was in sic a state. 
 
 " Sune after Hendry came in carryin' Joey. Joey 
 was as naked as Leeby, and as cauld as lead, but he 
 wasna greetin'. Instead o' that he was awfu' satis- 
 fied like, and for all Hendry threatened to lick him 
 he wouldna tell what he an' Leeby had been doin'. 
 He says, though, says he, 'Ye'U no gang awa noo, 
 mother; no, ye'U bide noo.' My bonny laddie, I 
 didna fathom him at the time. 
 
 " It was Leeby 'at I got it frae. Ye see, Joey had 
 never seen me gaen ony gait withoot my staff, an' he 
 thocht if he hod it I wouldna be able to gang awa. 
 Ay, he planned it all oot, though he was but a bairn, 
 an' lay watchin' me in my bed till I fell asleep. 
 Syne he creepit oot o' the bed, an' got the staff, and 
 gaed ben for Leeby. She was fleid, but he said it 
 was the only wy to mak me 'at I couldna gang awa. 
 It was juist ower there whaur thae cabbages is 'at he 
 dug the hole wi' a spade, an' buried the staff. Hendry 
 dug it up next mornin'." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE STATEMENT OP TIBBIE BIESE. 
 
 ON a Thursday Pete Lownie was buried, and when 
 Hendry returned from the funeral Jess asked if 
 Davit Lunan had been there. 
 
 " Na," said Hendry, who was shut up in the closet- 
 bed, taking off his blacks, " I heard tell he wasna 
 bidden." 
 
 " Yea, yea," said Jess, nodding to me, significantly. 
 " Ay, weel," she added, " we'll be hae'n Tibbie ower 
 here on Saturday to deve's (weary us) to death aboot 
 it." 
 
 Tibbie, Davit's wife, was sister to Marget, Pete's 
 widow, and she generally did visit Jess on Saturday 
 night to talk about Marget, who was fast becoming 
 one of the most fashionable persons in Thrmns. 
 Tibbie was hopelessly plebeian. She was none of 
 your proud kind, and if I entered the kitchen when 
 she was there she pretended not to see me, so that, if 
 I chose, I might escape without speaking to the like 
 of her. I always grabbed her hand, however, in a 
 frank way. 
 
 On Saturday Tibbie made her appearance. From 
 the rapidity of her walk, and the way she was sucking 
 
 ss 
 
56 jEsa. 
 
 in her mouth, 1 know that she had strange things 
 to unfold. She had pinned a f^ray shawl about htn- 
 shoulders, and wore a black mutoh over her dangling 
 gray curls. 
 
 " It's you, Tibbie," I heard Jess my, as tlio door 
 opened. 
 
 Tibbie did not knock, not considering herself grand 
 enough for ceremony, and indeed Joss would have 
 resented her knocking. On the other hand, w1i(>ii 
 Leeby visited Tibbie, she knocked as poliitily tm if Hho 
 were collecting for the precentor's proHoiit. All this 
 showed that we wore superior socially to Tilibio. 
 
 "Ay, hoo are ye, Jess?" Tibbie said. 
 
 "Muokle aboot it," answered .Joss; "jiust al'f an' 
 on ; ay, an' hoo hae ye been yerscl' ? " 
 
 " Ou," said Tibbie. 
 
 I wish I could write " ou " as Tibliie said it. With 
 her it was usually a sentence in itsoH'. SomdtiineH it 
 was a more bark, again it ox|)n^8sod indignation, sur- 
 prise, rapture ; it might be a chock ufion emotion or 
 a way of leading up to it, and often it lusted for lialf a 
 minute. In this instance it was, 1 should say, im inti- 
 mation that if Jess was ready 'JMbbio would \)on\n. 
 
 " So Pote Lownie's gone," said Joss, whom 1 could 
 not see from ben the hoiiHo. 1 had n good glini|iHe of 
 Tibbie, however, through the open doorways. Sbo luul 
 the armchair on the south side, as she would have snid, 
 of the fireplace. 
 
 " He's awa," assented Tibbie, primly. 
 
 I heard the lid of the kettle dancing, and then cumo 
 
THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIBSE. 57 
 
 a prolonged " ou." Tibbie bent forward to whisper, 
 and if she had anything terrible to tell I was glad of 
 that, for when she whispered I heard her best. For 
 a time only a murmur of words reached me, distant 
 music with an " ou " now and again that fired Tibbie 
 as the beating of his drum may rouse the martial spirit 
 of a drummer. At last our visitor broke into an agi- 
 tated whisper, and it was only when she stopped whis- 
 pering, as she did now and again, that I ceased to hear 
 her. Jess evidently put a question at times, but so 
 politely (for she had on her best wrapper) that I did 
 not catch a word. 
 
 " Though I should be struck deid this nicht," Tibbie 
 whispered, and the sibilants hissed between her few 
 remaining teeth, " I wasna sae muckle as speired to 
 the layin' oot. There was Mysy Cruikshanks there, 
 an' Kitty Wobster 'at was nae friends to the corpse 
 to speak o', but Marget passed by me, me 'at is her 
 ain flesh an' blood, though it mayna be for the like o' 
 me to say it. It's gospel truth, Jess, I tell ye, when 
 I say 'at, for all I ken officially, as ye micht say, Pete 
 Lownie may be weel and hearty this day. If I was 
 to meet Marget in the face I couldna say he was deid, 
 though I ken 'at the wricht coffined him; na, an' 
 whaf s mair, I wouldna gie Marget the satisfaction 
 o' hearin' me say it. No, Jess, I tell ye, I dinna pre- 
 tend to be on an equalty wi' Marget, but equalty or 
 no equalty, a body has her feelings, an' lat on 'at 
 I ken Pete's gone I will not. Eh ? Ou, weel. . . . 
 
 " Na faags a ; na, na. I ken my place better than 
 
68 JE88. 
 
 to gang near Marget. I dinna deny 'at she's grand 
 by me, and her keeps a bakehoose o' her ain, an' glad 
 am I to see her doin' sae weel, but let me tell ye 
 this, Jess, ' Pride goeth before a fall.' Yes, it does, 
 ifs Scripture; ay, it's nae mak-up o' mine, it's 
 Scripture. And this I will say, though kennin' my 
 place, 'at Davit Lunan is as dainty a man as is in 
 Thrums, an' there's no one 'at's better behaved at 
 a bural, being particularly wise-like (presentable) 
 in's blacks, an' them spleet new. Na, na, Jess, Davit 
 may hae his faults an' tak a dram at times like an- 
 ither, but he would shame naebody at a bural, an' 
 Marget deleeberately insulted him, no speirin' him 
 to Pete's. What's mair, when the minister cried in 
 to see me yesterday, an' me on the floor washin', says 
 he, ' So Marget's lost her man,' an' I said, ' Say ye so, 
 na ? ' for let on 'at I kent, and neither me at the lay- 
 ing oot nor Davit Lunan at the funeral, I would not. 
 
 " ' David should hae gone to the funeral,' says the 
 minister, ' for I doubt not he was only omitted in the 
 invitations by a mistake.' 
 
 " Ay, it was weel meant, but says I, Jess, says I, 
 'As lang as am livin' to tak chairge o' 'im, Davit 
 Lunan gangs to nae burals 'at he's no bidden to. 
 An' I tell ye,' I says to the minister, 'if there was 
 one body 'at had a richt to be at the bural o' Pete 
 Lownie, it was Davit Lunan, him bein' my man, an' 
 Marget my ain sister. Yes,' says I, though am no 
 o' the boastin' kind, ' Davit had maist richt to be 
 there next to Pete 'imself.' Ou, Jess. . . . 
 
THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIBSE. 69 
 
 " This is no a maiter I like to speak aboot ; na, I 
 dinna care to mention it, but the neighbours is nat'- 
 rally taen up aboot it, and Chirsty Tosh was sayin' 
 what I would wager 'at Marget hadna sent the min- 
 ister to hint 'at Davit's bein' over-lookit in the invita- 
 tions was juist an accident ? Losh, losh, Jess, to think 
 'at a woman could hae the michty assurance to mak 
 a tool o' the very minister ! But, sal, as far as that 
 gangs, Marget would do it, an' gae twice to the kirk 
 next Sabbath, too ; but if she thinks she's to get ower 
 me like that, she taks me for a bigger fule than I 
 tak her for. Na, na, Marget, ye dinna draw my leg 
 (deceive me). Ou, no. . . . 
 
 " Mind ye, Jess, I hae no desire to be friends wi' 
 Marget. Naething could be farrer frae my wish than 
 to hae helpit in the layin' oot o' Pete Lownie, an'^ 
 I assure ye, Davit wasna keen to gang to the bural. 
 ' If they dinna want me to their burals,' Davit says, 
 ' they hae nae mair to do than to say sae. But I 
 warn ye, Tibbie,' he says, ' if there's a bural frae this 
 hoose, be it your bural, or be it my bural, not one o' 
 the family o' Lownies casts their shadows upon the 
 Corp.' Thae was the very words Davit said to me as 
 we watched the hearse frae the skylicht. Ay, he 
 bore up wonderfu', but he felt it, Jess, — he felt it, as 
 I could tell by his takkin' to drink again thae very 
 nicht. Jess, Jess. . . . 
 
 " Marget's getting waur an' waur ? Ay, ye may 
 say so, though I'll say naething agin her mysel'. Of 
 coorse am no on equalty wi' her, especially since she 
 
60 JE83. 
 
 had the hell put up in her hoose. Ou, I hinna seen it 
 mysel', na, I never gang near the hoose, an', as mony 
 a body can tell ye, when I do hae to gang that wy I 
 mak my feet my friend. Ay, but as I was sayin', 
 Marget's sae grand noo 'at she has a bell in the 
 hoose. As I understan', there's a rope in the wast 
 room, and when ye pu' it a bell rings in the east 
 room. Weel, when Marget has company at their tea 
 in the wast room, an' they need mair water or scones 
 or onything, she rises an' rings the bell. Syne Jean, 
 the auldest lassie, gets up frae the table an' lifts the 
 jug or the plates an' gaes awa ben to the east room 
 for what's wanted. Ay, it's a wy o' doin' 'at's juist 
 like the gentry, but I'll tell ye, Jess, Pete juist fair 
 hated the soond o' that bell, an' there's them 'at says 
 it was the death o' 'im. To think o' Marget ha'en sic 
 an establishment ! . . . 
 
 "Na, I hinna seen the mournin', I've heard o't. 
 Na, if Marget doesna tell me naething, am no the 
 kind to speir naething, an' though I'll be at the kirk 
 the morn, I winna turn my held to look at the 
 mournin'. But it's fac as death I ken frae Janet 
 McQuhatty 'at the bonnef s a' crape, an' three yairds 
 o' crape on the dress, the which Marget calls a cos- 
 tume. . . . Ay, I wouldna wonder but what it was 
 hale watter the mom, for it looks michty like rain, 
 an' if it is if 11 serve Marget richt, an' mebbe bring 
 doon her pride a wee. No 'at I want to see her hum- 
 bled, for, in coorse, she's grand by the like o' me. 
 Ou, but . . ." 
 
CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 A CLOAK WITH BEADS. 
 
 ON week-days the women who passed the window 
 were meagrely dressed; mothers in draggled 
 winsey gowns, carrying infants that were armfuls of 
 grandeur. The Sabbath clothed erery one in her 
 best, and then the women went by with their hands 
 spread out. When I was with Hendry cloaks with 
 beads were the fashion, and Jess sighed as she looked 
 at them. They were known in Thrums as the Eleven 
 and a Bits (threepenny bits), that being their price at 
 Kyowowy's in the square. Kyowowy means finicky, 
 and applied to the draper by general consent. No 
 doubt it was very characteristic to call the cloaks by 
 their market value. In the glen my scholars still 
 talk of their school-books as the tupenny, the fower- 
 penny, the saxpenny. They finish their education 
 with the tenpenny. 
 
 Jess's opportunity for handling the garments that 
 others of her sex could finger in shops was when she 
 had guests to tea. Persons who merely dropped in 
 and remained to tea got their meal, as a rule, in the 
 kitchen. They had nothing on that Jess could not 
 
62 JESS. 
 
 easily take in as she talked to them. But when they 
 came by special invitation, the meal was served in the 
 room, the guests' things being left on the kitchen bed. 
 Jess, not being able to go ben the house, had to be left 
 with the things. When the time to go arrived, these 
 were found on the bed, just as they had been placed 
 there, but Jess could now tell Leeby whether they were 
 imitation, why Bell Elshioner's feather went far around 
 the bonnet, and Chirsty Lownie's reason for always 
 holding her left arm fast against her side when she 
 went abroad in the black jacket. Ever since My 
 Hobart's eleven and a bit was left on the kitchen bed 
 Jess had hungered for a cloak with beads. My's was 
 the very marrows of the one T'nowhead's wife got in 
 Dundee for ten and sixpence ; indeed, we would have 
 thought that 'Lisbeth's also came from Kyowowy's 
 had not Sanders Elshioner's sister seen her go into the 
 Dundee shop with T'nowhead (who was loath), and 
 hung about to discover what she was after. 
 
 Hendry was not quick at reading faces like Tammas 
 Haggart, but the wistful look on Jess's face when 
 there was talk of eleven and a bits had its meaning 
 for him. 
 
 " They're grand to look at, no doubt," I have heard 
 him say to Jess, "but they're richt annoyin'. That 
 new wife o' Peter Dickie's had ane on in the kirk last 
 Sabbath, an' wi' her sittin' juist afore us I couldna 
 listen to the sermon for tryin' to count the beads." 
 
 Hendry made his way into these gossips uninvited, 
 for his opinions on dress were considered contempti- 
 
A CLOAK WITH BEADS. 63 
 
 ble, though he was worth consulting on material. 
 Jess and Leeby discussed many things in his presence, 
 confident that his ears were not doing their work ; 
 but every now and then it was discovered that he had 
 been hearkening greedily. If the subject was dress, 
 he might then become a little irritating. 
 
 " Oh, they're grand," Jess admitted ; " they set a 
 body aff oncommon." 
 
 " They would be no use to you," said Hendry, " for 
 ye canna wear them except ootside." 
 
 " A body doesna buy cloaks to be wearin' at them 
 steady," retorted Jess. 
 
 " No, no, but you could never wear yours though 
 ye had ane." 
 
 " I dinna want ane. They're far ower grand for 
 the like o' me." 
 
 " They're no nae sic thing. Am thinkin' ye're 
 juist as fit to wear an eleven and a bit as My 
 Hobart." 
 
 " Weel, mebbe I am, but if s oot o' the queistion 
 gettin' ane, they're sic a price." 
 
 " Ay, an' though we had the siller, it would surely 
 be an awfu' like thing to buy a cloak 'at ye could 
 never wear ? " 
 
 « Ou, but I dinna want ane." 
 
 Jess spoke so mournfully that Hendry became 
 enraged. 
 
 « It's most michty," he said, " 'at ye would gang 
 an' set yer heart on sic a completely useless thing." 
 
 « I hinna set my heart on't." 
 
64 JESS. 
 
 " Dinna blether. Ye've been speakin' aboot thae 
 eleven and a bits to Leeby, aff an' on, for twa month." 
 
 Then Hendry hobbled off to his loom, and Jess 
 gave me a look which meant that men are trying at 
 the best, once you are tied to them. 
 
 The cloaks continued to turn up in conversation, 
 and Hendry poured scorn upon Jess's weakness, 
 telling her she would be better employed mending 
 his trousers than brooding over an eleven and a bit 
 that would have to spend its life in a drawer. An 
 outsider would have thought that Hendry was posi- 
 tively cruel to Jess. He seemed to take a delight in 
 finding that she had neglected to sew a button on his 
 waistcoat. His real joy, however, was the knowledge 
 that she sewed as no other woman in Thrums could 
 sew. Jess had a genius for making new garments 
 out of old ones, and Hendry never tired of gloating 
 over her cleverness so long as she was not present. 
 He was always athirst for fresh proof of it, and these 
 were forthcoming every day. Sparing were his words 
 of praise to herself, but in the evening he generally 
 had a smoke with me in the attic, and then the 
 thought of Jess made him chuckle till his pipe went 
 out. When he smoked he grunted as if in pain, 
 though this really added to the enjoyment. 
 
 " It doesna matter," he would say to me, " what 
 Jess turns her hand to, she can mak ony mortal 
 thing. She doesna need nae teachin' ; na, juist gie her 
 a guid look at onything, be it clothes, or furniture, 
 or in the bakin' line, it's all the same to her. She'll 
 
A CLOAK WITH BEADS. 65 
 
 mak another exactly like it. Ye canna beat her. 
 Her bannocks is so superior 'at a Tilliedrum woman 
 took to her bed after tastin' them, an' when the 
 lawyer has company his wife gets Jess to mak some 
 bannocks for her an' syne pretends they're her ain 
 bakin'. Ay, there's a story aboot that. One day 
 the auld doctor, him 'at's deid, was at his tea at the 
 lawyer's, an' says the guidwife, ' Try the cakes, Mr. 
 Riach; they're my own bakin'.' Weel, he was a 
 fearsomely outspoken man, the doctor, an' nae suner 
 had he the bannock atween his teeth, for he didna 
 stop to swallow't, than he says, ' Mistress Geddie,' 
 says he, ' I wasna born on a Sabbath. Na, na, you're 
 no the first grand leddy 'at has gien me bannocks 
 as their ain bakin' 'at was baked and fired by Jess 
 Logan, her 'at's Hendry McQumpha's wife.' Ay, 
 they say the lawyer's wife didna ken which wy to 
 look, she was that mortified. It's juist the same wi' 
 sewin'. There's wys o' ornamentin' christenin' robes 
 an' the like 'at's kent to naebody but hersel' ; an' as 
 for stockin's, weel, though I've seen her mak sae 
 mony, she amazes me yet. I mind o' a furry waist- 
 coat I aince had. Weel, when it was fell dune, do 
 you think she gae it awa to some gaen aboot body 
 (vagrant) ? Na, she made it into a richt neat coat 
 to Jamie, wha was a bit laddie at the time. When 
 he grew out o' it, she made a slipbody o't for hersel. 
 Ay, I dinna ken a' the different things it became, but 
 the last time I saw it was ben in the room, whaur 
 ahe'd covered a footstool wi' 't. Yes, Jess is the 
 
66 JE88. 
 
 cleverest crittur I ever saw. Leeby's handy, but 
 she's no a patch on her mother." 
 
 I sometimes repeated these panegyrics to Jess. 
 She merely smiled, and said that men haver most 
 terrible when they are not at their work. 
 
 Hendry tried Jess sorely over the cloaks, and a 
 time came when, only by exasperating her, could he 
 get her to reply to his sallies. 
 
 "Wha wants an eleven an' a bit?" she retorted 
 now and again. 
 
 " It's you 'at wants it," said Hendry, promptly. 
 
 " Did I ever say I wanted ane ? What use could I 
 hae for't ? " 
 
 " That's the queistion," said Hendry. " Ye canna 
 gang the length o' the door, so ye would never be 
 able to wear't." 
 
 "Ay, weel," repUed Jess, "I'll never hae the 
 chance o' no bein' able to wear't, for, hooever 
 muckle I wanted it, I couldna get it." 
 
 Jess's infatuation had in time the effect of mak- 
 ing Hendry uncomfortable. In the attic he delivered 
 himself of such sentiments as these: 
 
 " There's nae understandin' a woman. There's 
 Jess 'at hasna her equal for cleverness in Thrums, 
 man or woman, an' yet she's fair skeered about thae 
 cloaks. Aince a woman sets her mind on something 
 to wear, she's mair onreasonable than the stupidest 
 man. Ay, it micht mak them humble to see hoo 
 foolish they are syne. No, but it doesna do't." 
 
 " If it was a thing to be useful, noo, I wouldna 
 
A CLOAK WITH BEADS. 67 
 
 think the same o't, but she could never wear't. She 
 kens she could never wear't, an' yet she's juist as 
 keen to hae't. 
 
 " I dinna like to see her so wantin' a thing, an' no 
 able to get it. But it's an awfu' sum, eleven an' a bit." 
 
 He tried to argue with her further. 
 
 " If ye had eleven an' a bit to fling awa," he said, 
 " ye dinna mean to tell me 'at ye would buy a cloak 
 Instead o' cloth for a gown, or flannel for petticoats, 
 or some useful thing ? " 
 
 "As sure as death," said Jess, with unwonted 
 vehemence, " if a cloak I could get, a cloak I would 
 buy." 
 
 Hendry came up to tell me what Jess had said. 
 
 " It's a michty infatooation," he said, " but it shows 
 hoo her heart's set on thae cloaks." 
 
 " Aince ye had it," he argued with her, " ye would 
 juist hae to lock it awa in the drawers. Ye would 
 never even be seein't." 
 
 " Ay, would I," said Jess. " I would often tak it 
 oot an' look at it. Ay, an' I would aye ken it was 
 there." 
 
 " But naebody would ken ye had it but yersel'," said 
 Hendry, who had a vague notion that this was a 
 telling objection. 
 
 " Would they no ? " answered Jess. " It would be 
 a' through the toon afore nicht." 
 
 " Weal, aU I can say," said Hendry, " is 'at ye're 
 terrible foolish to tak the want o' sic a useless thing 
 to heart." 
 
68 JE8S. 
 
 "Am no takkin' 't to heart," retorted Jess, as 
 usual. 
 
 Jess needed many things in her days that poverty 
 kept from her to the end, and the cloak was merely a 
 luxury. She would soon have let it slip by as some- 
 thing unattainable had not Hendry encouraged it to 
 rankle in her mind. I cannot say when he first 
 determined that Jess should have a cloak, come the 
 money as it liked, for he was too ashamed of his 
 weakness to admit his project to me. I remember, 
 however, his saying to Jess one day : 
 
 " I'll warrant ye could mak a cloak yersel' the 
 marrows o' thae eleven and a bits, at half the 
 price ? " 
 
 " It would cost," said Jess, " sax an' saxpence, 
 exactly. The cloth would be five shillin's, an' the 
 beads a shillin'. I have some braid 'at would do fine 
 for the front, but the buttons would be saxpence." 
 
 «Ye're sure o' that?" 
 
 " I ken fine, for I got Leeby to price the things in 
 the shop." 
 
 " Ay, but it maun be ill to shape the cloaks richt. 
 There was a queer cut aboot that ane Peter Dickie's 
 new wife had on." 
 
 " Queer cut or no queer cut," said Jess, " I took 
 the shape o' My Hobart's ane the day she was here at 
 her tea, an' I could mak the identical o't for sax and 
 sax." 
 
 " I dinna believe't," said Hendry, but when he 
 and I were alone he told me, " There's no a doubt 
 
A CLOAK WITH BEADS. by 
 
 she could mak it. Ye heard her say she had ta'en 
 the shape ? Ay, that shows she's rale set on a 
 cloak." 
 
 Had Jess known that Hendry had been saving up 
 for months to buy her material for a cloak, she would 
 not have let him do it. She could not know, how- 
 ever, for all the time he was scraping together his 
 pence, he kept up a ring-ding-dang about her folly. 
 Hendry gave Jess all the wages he weaved, except 
 threepence weekly, most of which went in tobacco and 
 snuff. The dulseman had perhaps a halfpenny from 
 him in the fortnight. I noticed that for a long time 
 Hendry neither smoked nor snuffed, and I knew that 
 for years he had carried a shilling in his snuff-mull. 
 The remainder of the money he must have made by 
 extra work at his loom, by working harder, for he 
 could scarcely have worked longer. 
 
 It was one day shortly before Jamie's return to 
 Thrums that Jess saw Hendry pass the house and go 
 down the brae when he ought to have come in to his 
 brose. She sat at the window watching for him, and 
 by and by he reappeared, carrying a parcel. 
 
 " Whaur on earth hae ye been ? " she asked, " an' 
 what's that you're carryin' ? " 
 
 " Did ye think it was an eleven an' a bit ? " said 
 Hendry. 
 
 " No, I didna," answered Jess, indignantly. 
 
 Then Hendry slowly undid the knots of tiie string 
 with which the parcel was tied. He took off the 
 brown paper. 
 
70 JE88. 
 
 " There's yer cloth," he said, " an' here's one and 
 saxpence for the beads an' the buttons." 
 
 While Jess stared he followed me ben the house. 
 
 "It's a terrible haver," he said, apologetically, 
 " but she had set her heart on't." 
 
CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 MAKING THE BEST OF IT. 
 
 HENDRY had a way of resuming a conversation 
 where he had left off the night before. He 
 would revolve a topic in his mind, too, and then begin 
 aloud, " He's a queer ane," or, " Say ye so ? " which 
 was at times perplexing. With the whole day 
 before them, none of the family was inclined to 
 waste strength in talk; but one morning, when he 
 was blowing the steam off his porridge, Hendry said, 
 suddenly : 
 
 " He's hame again." 
 
 The women-folk gave him time to say to whom he 
 was referring, which he occasionally did as an after- 
 thought. But he began to sup his porridge, making 
 eyes as it went steaming down his throat. 
 
 "I dinna ken wha ye mean," Jess said; while 
 Leeby, who was on her knees rubbing the hearth- 
 stone a bright blue, paused to catch her father's 
 answer. 
 
 " Jeames Geogehan," replied Hendry, with the horn 
 
 spoon in his mouth. 
 
 Leeby turned to Jess for enlightenment 
 n 
 
72 JESS. 
 
 " Geogehan," repeated Jess ; " what, no little 
 Jeames 'at ran awa?" 
 
 "Ay, ay, but he's a muckle stoot man, noo, an' 
 gey gray." 
 
 " On, I dinna wonder at that. It's a guid forty 
 year since he ran off." 
 
 " I waurant ye couldna say exact hoo lang syne it 
 is?" 
 
 Hendry asked this question because Jess was noto- 
 rious for her memory, and he gloried in putting it to 
 the test. 
 
 " Let's see," she said. 
 
 " But wha is he ? " asked Leeby. " I never kent 
 nae Geogehans in Thrimis." 
 
 "Weel, it's forty-one years syne come Michael- 
 mas," said Jess. 
 
 « Hoo do ye ken?" 
 
 " I ken fine. Ye mind his father had been lickin' 
 'im, an' he ran awa in a passion, cryin' oot 'at he 
 would never come back ? Ay, then, he had a pair o' 
 boots on at the time, an' his father ran after 'im an' 
 took them aff 'im. The boots was the last 'at Davie 
 Mearns made, an' it's fully ane an' forty years since 
 Davie fell ower the quarry on the day o' the hill- 
 market. That settles't. Ay, an' Jeames'll be turned 
 fifty noo, for he was comin' on for ten year auld at 
 that time. Ay, ay, an' he's come back. What a 
 state Bppie'U be in ! " 
 
 " Tell's wha he is, mother." 
 
 "Od, he's Bppie Guthrie's son. Her man was 
 
MAKING THE BEBT OF IT. 73 
 
 William Geogehan, but he died afore you was born, 
 an' as Jeames was their only bairn, the name o' 
 Geogehan's been a kind o' lost sicht o'. Hae ye seen 
 him, Hendry? Is't true 'at he made a fortune in 
 thae far-awa countries? Eppie'U be blawin' aboot 
 him richt ? " 
 
 « There's nae doubt aboot the siller," said Hendry, 
 " for he drove in a carriage frae Tilliedrum, an' they 
 say he needs a closet to hing his claes in, there's sic a 
 heap o' them. Ay, but that's no a' he's brocht, na, 
 far frae a'." 
 
 "Dinna gang away till ye've telfs a' aboot 'im. 
 What mair has he brocht ? " 
 
 "He's brocht a wife," said Hendry, twisting his 
 face curiously. 
 
 " There's naething surprisin' in that." 
 
 " Ay, but there is, though. Ye see, Bppie had a 
 letter frae 'im no mony weeks syne, sayin' 'at he 
 wasna deid, an' he was comin' hame wi' a fortune. 
 He said, too, 'at he was a single man, an' she's been 
 boastin' aboot that, so ye may think 'at she got a 
 surprise when he hands a wuman oot o' the carriage." 
 
 "An' no a pleasant ane," said Jess. "Hed he 
 been leein'?" 
 
 " Na, he was single when he wrote, an' single when 
 he got the length o' Tilliedrum. Ye see, he fell in 
 wi' the lassie there, an' juist gaed clean aft his heid 
 aboot her. After managin' to withstand the women 
 o' foreign lands for a' thae years, he gaed fair skeer 
 aboot this stocky at Tilliedrum. She's juist seventeen 
 
74 JE88. 
 
 year auld, an' the auld fule sits wi' his airm around 
 her in Bppie's hoose, though they've been mairit this 
 fortnicht." 
 
 " The doited fule," said Jess. 
 
 Jeames Geogehan and his bride became the talk 
 of Thrums, and Jess saw them from her window 
 several times. The first time she had only eyes for 
 the jacket with fur around it worn by Mrs. Geogehan, 
 but subsequently she took in Jeames. 
 
 " He's tryin' to carry't a£E wi' his heid in the air," 
 she said, " but I can see he's fell shamefaced, an' nae 
 wonder. Ay, I sepad he's mair ashamed o't in his 
 heart than she is. It's an awful like thing o' a lassie 
 to marry an auld man. She had dune't for the siller. 
 Ay, there's pounds' worth o' fur aboot that jacket." 
 
 "They say she had siller hersel'," said Tibbie 
 Birse, 
 
 " Dinna tell me," said Jess. " I ken by her wy o' 
 carryin' hersel' 'at she never had a jacket like that 
 afore." 
 
 Eppie was not the only person in Thrums whom 
 this marriage enraged. Stories had long been alive 
 of Jeames's fortune, which his cousins' children were 
 some day to divide among themselves, and, as a 
 consequence, these young men and women looked on 
 Mrs. Geogehan as a thief. 
 
 " Dinna bring the wife to our hoose, Jeames," one 
 of them told him, " for we would be fair ashamed to 
 hae her. We used to hae a respect for yer name, so 
 we couldua look her i' the face." 
 
MAKING THE BEST OF IT. 75 
 
 " She's mair like yer dochter than yer wife," said 
 another. 
 
 " Na," said a third, " naebody could mistak her for 
 yer dochter. She's over young like for that." 
 
 " Wi' the siller you'U leave her, Jeames," Tammas 
 Haggart told him, " she'll get a younger man for her 
 second venture." 
 
 All this was very trying to the newly married man, 
 who was thirsting for sympathy. Hendry was the 
 person whom he took into his confidence. 
 
 " It may hae been foolish at my time o' life," 
 Hendry reported him to have said, "but I couldna 
 help it. If they juist kent her better they couldna 
 but see 'at she's a terrible takkin' crittur." 
 
 Jeames was generous; indeed he had come home 
 with the intention of scattering largess. A beggar 
 met him one day on the brae, and got a shilling from 
 him. She was waving her arms triumphantly as she 
 passed Hendry's house, and Leeby got the story from 
 her. 
 
 " Eh, he's a fine man that, an' a saft ane," the 
 woman said. "I juist speired at 'im hoo his bonny 
 wife was, an' he oot wi' a shillin'." 
 
 Leeby did not keep this news to herself, and soon 
 it was through the town. Jeames's face began to 
 brighten. 
 
 "They're comin' round to a mair sensible wy o' 
 lookin' at things," he told Hendry. " I was walkin' 
 wi' the wife i' the buryin'-ground yesterday, an' we 
 met Kitty McQueen. She was ane o' the warst agin 
 
76 JESS. 
 
 me at first, but she telt me i' the buryin' -ground 'at 
 when a man mairit he should please 'imsel'. Oh, 
 they're comin' round." 
 
 What Kitty told Jess was : 
 
 " I minded o' the tinkler wuman 'at he gae a shillin' 
 to, so I thocht I would butter up at the auld fule too. 
 Weel, I assure ye, I had nae suner said 'at he was rale 
 wise to marry wha he likit than he slips a pound note 
 into my hand. Ou, Jess, we've ta'en the wrang wy 
 wi' Jeames. I've telt a' my bairns 'at if they meet 
 him they're to praise the wife terrible, an' I'm far 
 mista'en if that doesna mean five shillin's to ilka ane 
 o' them." 
 
 Jean Whamond got a poimd note for saying that 
 Jeames's wife had an uncommon pretty voice, and 
 Davit Lunan had ten shillings for a judicious word 
 about her attractive manners. Tibbie Birse invited 
 the newly married couple to tea (one pound). 
 
 "They're takkin' to her, they're takkin' to her," 
 Jeames said, gleefully. "I kent they would come 
 round in time. Ay, even my mother, 'at was sae 
 mad at first, sits for hours noo aside her, haudin' her 
 hand. They're juist inseparable." 
 
 The time came when we had Mr. and Mrs. Geogehan 
 and Bppie to tea. 
 
 " It's true enough," Leeby ran ben to teU Jess, " 'at 
 Bppie an' the wife's fond o' ane another. I wouldna 
 hae believed it o' Eppie if I hadna seen it, but I assure 
 ye they sat even at the tea-table haudin' ane another's 
 hands. I waurant they're doin't this meenute." 
 
^"\ 
 
 i$r\' 
 
 'M%4^. 
 
 S^' 
 
 ^^ 't\rK 
 
 '»ii(iWP».:, 
 
 « ' She telt me — 'at when a man mairit he should 
 please 'imsbi,.' " 
 
MAKING THE BUST OF IT. 79 
 
 " I wasna bom on a Sabbath," retorted Jess. " Na, 
 na, dinna tell me Bppie's fond o' her. Tell Eppie to 
 come but to the kitchen when the tea's ower." 
 
 Jess and Eppie had half an hour's conversation 
 alone, and then our guests left. 
 
 " It's a richt guid thing," said Hendry, " 'at Eppie 
 has ta'en sic a notion o' the wife." 
 
 " Ou, ay," said Jess. 
 
 Then Hendry hobbled out of the house. 
 
 " What said Eppie to ye ? " Leeby asked her 
 mother. 
 
 " Juist what I expeckit," Jess answered. " Ye see 
 she's dependent on Jeames, so she has to butter up 
 at 'im." 
 
 "Did she say onything aboot haudin' the wife's 
 hand sae fond like ? " 
 
 " Ay, she said it was an awfu' trial to her, 'an 'at 
 it sickened her to see Jeames an' the wife baith 
 believin' 'at she likit to do't." 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 VISITOES AT THE MANSE. 
 
 ON bringing home his bride, the minister showed 
 her to us, and we thought she would do when 
 she realised that she was not the minister. She was 
 a grand lady from Edinburgh, though very frank, and 
 we simple folk amused her a good deal, especially 
 when we were sitting cowed in the manse parlour 
 drinking a dish of tea with her, as happened to Leeby, 
 her father, and me, three days before Jamie came 
 home. 
 
 Leeby had refused to be drawn into conversation, 
 like one who knew her place, yet all her actions were 
 genteel and her monosyllabic replies in the Englishy 
 tongue, as of one who was, after all, a little above the 
 common. When the minister's wife asked her whether 
 she took sugar and cream, she said, politely, " If you 
 please " (though she did not take sugar), a reply that 
 contrasted with Hendry's equally well-intended answer 
 to the same question. " I'm no partikler," was what 
 Hendry said. 
 
 Hendry had left home glumly declaring that the 
 white collar Jess had put on him would throttle him ; 
 but her feikieness ended in his surrender, and he was 
 
 80 
 
VISITORS AT TBE MANSE. 81 
 
 looking unusually perjink. Had not his daughter 
 been present he would have been the most at ease 
 of the company, but her manners were too fine not 
 to make an impression upon one who knew her on her 
 every-day behaviour, and she had also ways of bringing 
 Hendry to himself by a touch beneath the table. It 
 was in church that Leeby brought to perfection her 
 manner of looking after her father. When he had 
 confidence in the preacher's soundness, he would 
 sometimes have slept in his pew if Leeby had not 
 had a watchful foot. She wakened him in an instant, 
 while still looking modestly at the pulpit; however 
 reverently he might try to fall over, Leeb/s foot went 
 out. She was such an artist that I never caught her 
 in the act. All I knew for certain was that, now and 
 then, Hendry suddenly sat up. 
 
 The ordeal was over when Leeby went up-stairs to 
 put on her things. After tea Hendry had become 
 bolder in talk, his subject being ministerial. He had 
 an extraordinary knowledge, got no one knew where, 
 of the matrimonial affairs of all the ministers in these 
 parts, and his stories about them ended frequently 
 with a chuckle. He always took it for granted that 
 a minister's marriage was womanhood's great tri- 
 umph, and that the particular woman who got him 
 must be very clever. Some of his tales were even 
 more curious than he thought them, such as the one 
 Leeby tried to interrupt by saying we must be going. 
 
 " There's Mr. Pennycuick, noo," said Hendry, shak- 
 ing his head in wonder at what he had to tell ; " Ijiim 
 
82 JE8S. 
 
 'af 8 minister at TUliedrum. Weel, when he was a 
 probationer he was michty poor, an' one day he was 
 walkin' into Thrums frae Glen Quharity, an' he tak's 
 a rest at a little housey on the road. The fowk didna 
 ken him ava, but they saw he was a minister, an' the 
 lassie was sorry to see him wi' sic an auld hat. What 
 think ye she did ? " 
 
 " Come away, father," said Leeby, reentering the 
 parlour ; but Hendry was now in full pursuit of his 
 story. 
 
 " I'll tell ye what she did," he continued. " She juist 
 took his hat awa, an' put her father's new ane in its 
 place, an' Mr. Pennycuick never kent the differ till he 
 landed in Thrums. It was terrible kind o' her. Ay, 
 but the auld man would be in a michty rage when he 
 found she had swappit the hats." 
 
 " Come away," said Leeby, still politely, though she 
 was burning to tell her mother how Hendry had dis- 
 graced them. 
 
 " The minister," said Hendry, turning his back on 
 Leeby, " didna forget the lassie. Na ; as sune as he 
 got a kirk, he married her. Ay, she got her reward. 
 He married her. It was rale noble of 'im." 
 
 I do not know what Leeby said to Hendry when 
 she got him beyond the manse gate, for I stayed 
 behind to talk to the minister. As it turned out, 
 the minister's wife did most of the talking, smiling 
 good-humouredly at country gawkiness the while. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I am sure I shall like Thrums, 
 though those teas to the congregation are a little try- 
 
VISITOBS AT THE MANSE. 83 
 
 ing. Do you know, Thrums is the only place I was 
 ever in where it struck me that the men are cleverer 
 than the women." 
 
 She told us why. 
 
 " Well, to-night affords a case in point. Mr. Mc- 
 Qumpha was quite brilliant, was he not, in comparison 
 with his daughter ? Really, she seemed so put out at 
 being at the manse that she could not raise her eyes. 
 I question if she would know me again, and I am sure 
 she sat in the room as one blindfolded. I left her in 
 the bedroom a minute, and I assure you, when I re- 
 turned she was still standing on the same spot in the 
 centre of the floor." 
 
 I pointed out that Leeby had been awestruck. 
 
 " I suppose so," she said, " but it is a pity she can- 
 not make use of her eyes, if not of her tongue. Ah, 
 the Thrums women are good, I believe, but their wits 
 are sadly in need of sharpening. I daresay it comes 
 of living in so small a place." 
 
 I overtook Leeby on the brae, aware, as I saw her 
 alone, that it had been her father whom I passed talk- 
 ing to Tammas Haggart in the Square. Hendry 
 stopped to have what he called a tove with any likely 
 person he encountered, and, indeed, though he and I 
 often took a walk on Saturdays, I generally lost him 
 before we were clear of the town. 
 
 In a few moments Leeby and I were at home to 
 give Jess the news. 
 
 " Whaur's yer father ? " asked Jess, as if Hendry's 
 way of dropping behind was still unknown to her. 
 
84 JE88. 
 
 "Ou, I left him speakin' to Gavin Birse," said 
 Leeby. " I daursay he's awa to some hoose." 
 
 " It's no very silvendy (safe) his comin' ower the 
 brae by himsel'," said Jess, adding, in a bitter tone of 
 conviction, " but he'll gang into no hoose as lang as 
 he's weel dressed. Na, he would think it boastfu'." 
 
 I sat down to a book by the kitchen fire ; but, as 
 Leeby became communicative, I read less and less. 
 While she spoke she was baking bannocks with all 
 the might of her, and Jess, leaning forward in her 
 chair, was arranging them in a semicircle around the 
 fire. 
 
 "Na," was the first remark of Leeby's that came 
 between me and my book, " it is no new furniture." 
 
 " But there was three cart-loads o't, Leeby, sent on 
 frae Bdinbory. Tibbie Birse helpit to lift it in, and 
 she said the parlour furniture beat a'." 
 
 " Ou, it's substantial, but it is no new. I sepad it 
 had been bocht cheap second-hand, for the chair I had 
 was terrible scratched like, an', what's mair, the airm- 
 chair was a heap shinier than the rest." 
 
 " Ay, ay, I wager it had been new stuffed. Tibbie 
 said the carpet cowed for grandeur." 
 
 " Oh, I didna deny it's a guid carpet, but if it's been 
 turned once it's been turned half a dozen times, so it's 
 far frae new. Ay, an' forby, it was rale threadbare 
 aneath the table, so ye may be sure they've been 
 cuttin't an' puttin' the worn pairt whaur it would be 
 least seen." 
 
 "They say 'at there's twa grand gas-brackets i' 
 
VI8IT0BS AT THE MANSE. 85 
 
 the parlour, an' a wonderfu' gasoliery i' the dinin'- 
 room." 
 
 "We vasna i' the dinin'-room, so I ken naething 
 aboot the gasoliery ; but I'll tell ye what the gas- 
 brackets is. I recognised them immeditly. Ye 
 mind the auld gasoliery i' the dinin'-room had twa 
 lichts ? Ay, then, the parlour brackets is made oot 
 o' the auld gasoliery." 
 
 " Weel, Leeby, as sure as ye're standin' there, that 
 passed through my head as sune as Tibbie mentioned 
 them." 
 
 " There's nae doot about it. Ay, I was in ane o' 
 the bedrooms, too." 
 
 " It would be grand ? " 
 
 " I wouldna say 'at it was partikler grand, but there 
 was a great mask (quantity) o' things in't, an' near 
 everything was covered wi' cretonne. But the chairs 
 dinna match. There was a very bonny painted cloth 
 alang the chimley, — what they call a mantelpiece 
 border, I warrant." 
 
 " Sal, I've often wondered what they was." 
 
 " Weel, I assure ye, they winna be ill to mak, for 
 the border was juist nailed upon a board laid on the 
 chimley. There's naething to bender's makin' ane 
 for the room." 
 
 " Ay, we could sew something on the border instead 
 o' paintin't. The room lookit weel, ye say ? " 
 
 "Yes, but it was economically furnished. There 
 was nae carpet below the wax cloth; na, there was 
 nane below the bed, either." 
 
86 JE88. 
 
 « Was't a grand bed ? " 
 
 " It had a fell lot o' brass aboot it, but there was 
 juist one pair o' blankets. I thocht it was gey shabby, 
 hae'n the ewer a different pattern frae the basin ; ay, 
 an' there was juist a poker in the fireplace, there was 
 nae tangs." 
 
 " Yea, yea ; they'll hae but one set o' bedroom fire- 
 irons. The tangs'll be in anither room. Tod, that's 
 no sae michty grand for Edinbory. What like was 
 she hersel' ? " 
 
 " Ou, very ladylike and saft spoken. She's a canty 
 body an' frank. She wears her hair low on the left 
 side to hod (hide) a scar, an' there's twa warts on 
 her richt hand." 
 
 " There hadna been a fire i' the parlour ? " 
 
 " No, but it was ready to liche. There was sticks 
 and paper in't. The paper was oot o' a dressmaker's 
 journal." 
 
 " Ye say so ? She'U mak her ain frocks, I sepad." 
 
 When Hendry entered to take off his collar and 
 coat before sitting down to his evening meal of hot 
 water, porter, and bread mixed in a bowl, Jess sent 
 me off to the attic. As I climbed the stairs I re- 
 membered that the minister's wife thought Leeby in 
 need of sharpening. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 HOW GAVIN BIRSE PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIB. 
 
 IN a wet day the rain gathered in blobs on the road 
 that passed our garden. Then it crawled into the 
 cart-tracks until the road was streaked with water. 
 Lastly, the water gathered in heavy yellow pools. If 
 the on-ding still continued, clods of earth toppled 
 from the garden dyke into the ditch. 
 
 On such a day, when even the dulseman had gone 
 into shelter, and the women scudded by with their 
 wrappers over their heads, came Gavin Birse to our 
 door. Gavin, who was the Glen Quharity post, was 
 still young, but had never been quite the same man 
 since some amateurs in the glen ironed his back for 
 rheumatism. I thought he had called to have a crack 
 with me. He sent his compliments up to the attic, 
 however, by Leeby, and would I come and be a 
 witness ? 
 
 Gavin came up and explained. He had taken off 
 his scarf and thrust it into his pocket, lest the rain 
 should take the colour out of it. His boots cheeped, 
 and his shoulders had risen to his ears. He stood 
 steaming before my fire- 
 
88 JH88. 
 
 "If it's no' ower muckle to ask ye," he said, "I 
 would like ye for a witness." 
 
 " A witness ! But for what do you need a witness, 
 Gavin?" 
 
 " I want ye," he said, " to come wi' me to Mag's, 
 and be a witness." 
 
 Gavin Birse and Mag had been engaged for a year 
 or more. Mag was the daughter of Janet Ogilvy, who 
 was best remembered as the body that took the hill 
 (that is, wandered about it) for twelve hours on the 
 day Mr. Dishart, the Auld Licht minister, accepted a 
 call to another church. 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me, Gavin," I asked, 
 " that your marriage is to take place to-day ? " 
 
 By the twist of his mouth I saw that he was only 
 deferring a smile. 
 
 " Par frae that," he said. 
 
 " Ah, then, you have quarrelled, and I am to speak 
 up for you ? " 
 
 " Na, na," he said, " I dinna want ye to do that 
 above aU things. It would be a favour if ye could gie 
 me a bad character." 
 
 This beat me, and, I daresay, my face showed it. 
 
 " I'm no juist what ye would call anxious to marry 
 Mag noo," said Gavin, without a tremor. 
 
 I told him to go on. 
 
 " There's a lassie oot at Craigiebuckle," he ex- 
 plained, " workin' on the farm, — Jeanie Luke by 
 name. Ye may hae seen her ? " 
 
 « What of her ? " I asked, severely. 
 
HOW GAVIN BinSB PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIK 8& 
 
 " Weel," said Gavin, still unabashed, " I'm thinkin' 
 noo 'at I would rather hae her." 
 
 Then he stated his case more fully. 
 
 "Ay, I thocht I liked Mag oncommon till I saw 
 Jeanie, an' I like her fine yet, but I prefer the other 
 ane. That state o' matters canna gang on for ever, so 
 I came into Thrums the day to settle't one wy or 
 another." 
 
 " And how," I asked, " do you propose going about 
 it ? It is a somewhat delicate business." 
 
 " Ou, I see nae great difficulty in't. I'll speir at 
 Mag, blunt oot, if she'll let me aff. Yes, I'll put it to 
 her plain." 
 
 " You're sure Jeanie would take you ? " 
 
 " Ay ; oh, there's nae fear o' that." 
 
 " But if Mag keeps you to your bargain ? " 
 
 " Weel, in that case there's nae harm done." 
 
 " You are in a great hurry, Gavin ? " 
 
 " Ye may say that ; but I want to be married. 
 The wifie I lodge wi' canna last lang, an' I would like 
 to settle doon in some place." 
 
 " So you are on your way to Mag's now ? " 
 
 " Ay, we'll get her in atween twal' and ane." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; but why do you want me to go with 
 you?" 
 
 " I want ye for a witness. If she winna let me 
 aff, weel and guid; and if she will, it's better to 
 hae a witness in case she should go back on her 
 word." 
 
 Gavin gave his proposal briskly, and as coolly as if 
 
90 JESS. 
 
 he were only asking me to go fishing ; but I did not 
 accompany him to Mag's. He left the house to look 
 for another witness, and about an hour afterwards 
 Jess saw him pass with Tammas Haggart. Tammas 
 cried in during the evening to tell us how the mission 
 prospered. 
 
 " Mind ye," said Tammas, a drop of water hanging 
 to the poiut of his nose, " I disclaim all responsibility 
 in the business. I ken Mag weel for a thrifty, respect- 
 able woman, as her mither was afore her, and so I 
 said to Gavin when he came to speir me." 
 
 " Ah, mony a pirn has 'Lisbeth filled to me," said 
 Hendry, settling down to a reminiscence. 
 
 " No to be ower hard on Gavin," continued Tam- 
 mas, f orstalling Hendry, " he took what I said in guid 
 part ; but aye when I stopped speakin' to draw breath, 
 he says, ' The queistion is, will ye come wi' me ? ' 
 He was michty made up in's mind." 
 
 "Weel, ye went wi' him," suggested Jess, who 
 wanted to bring Tammas to the point. 
 
 " Ay," said the stone-breaker, " but no in sic a 
 hurry as that." 
 
 He worked his mouth round and round, to clear 
 the course, as it were, for a sarcasm. 
 
 " Fowk often say," he continued, " 'at am quick 
 beyond the ordinar' in seein' the humorous side o' 
 things." 
 
 Here Tammas paused, and looked at us. 
 
 " So ye are, Tammas," said Hendry. " Losh, ye 
 mind hoo ye saw the humorous side o' me wearin' a 
 
HOW GAVIN BIBSE PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIE. 91 
 
 pair o' boots 'at wisna marrows ! No, the ane had a 
 toe-piece, an' the other hadna." 
 
 " Ye juist wore them sometimes when ye was 
 delvin'," broke in Jess, " ye have as guid a pair o' 
 boots as ony in Thrums." 
 
 " Ay, but I had worn them," said Hendry, " at odd 
 times for mair than a year, an' I had never seen the 
 humorous side o' them. Weel, as fac as death (here 
 he addressed me), Tammas had juist seen them twa 
 or three times when he saw the humorous side o' 
 them. Syne I saw their humorous side, too, but no 
 till Tammas pointed it oot." 
 
 " That was naething," said Tammas, " naething ava 
 to some things I've done." 
 
 " But what aboot Mag ? " said Leeby. 
 
 " We wasna that length, was we ? " said Tammas. 
 " Na, we was speakin' aboot the humorous side. Ay, 
 wait a wee, I didna mention the humorous side for 
 naething." 
 
 He paused to reflect. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he said at last, brightening up, " I was 
 sayin' to ye hoo quick I was to see the humorous side 
 o' onything. Ay, then, what made me say that was 
 'at in a clink (flash) I saw the humorous side o' 
 Gavin's position." 
 
 " Man, man," said Hendry, admiringly, " and what 
 is't?" 
 
 "Oh, it's this, there's something humorous in 
 speirin' a woman to let ye aff so ye can be married 
 to another woman." 
 
92 JM8S. 
 
 " I daursay there is," said Hendry, doubtfully. 
 
 " Did she let him aff ? " asked Jess, taking the 
 words out of Leeby's mouth. 
 
 "I'm comin' to that," said Tammaa. "Gavin 
 proposes to me after I had haen my laugh — " 
 
 " Yes," cried Hendry, banging the table with his 
 fist, "it has a humorous side. Ye're richt again, 
 Tammas." 
 
 " I wish ye wadna blatter (beat) the table," said 
 Jess, and then Tammas proceeded. 
 
 " Gavin wanted me to tak' paper an' ink an' a pen 
 wi' me, to write the proceedin's doon, but I said, - Na, 
 na, I'll tak' paper, but no nae ink nor nae pen, for 
 there'll be ink an' a pen there.' That was what I 
 said." 
 
 " An' did she let him aff ? " asked Leeby. 
 
 " Weel," said Tammas, " aff we goes to Mag's 
 boose, an' sure enough Mag was in. She was 
 alane, too ; so Gavin, no to waste time, just sat 
 doon for politeness's sake, an' syne rises up again ; 
 an' says he, ' Marget Lownie, I ha'e a solemn ques- 
 tion to speir at ye, namely this. Will you, Marget 
 Lownie, let me, Gavin Birse, aff ? ' " 
 
 " Mag would start at that ?" 
 
 " Sal, she was braw an' cool. I tbocht she maun 
 ha'e got wind o' his intentions aforehand, for she juist 
 replies, quiet like, ' Hoo do ye want aff, Gavin ? ' 
 
 " ' Because,' says he, like a book, ' my affections 
 has undergone a change.' 
 
 " ' Ye mean Jean Luke,' says Mag. 
 
sow GAVIN BIBSE PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIE. 93 
 
 "'That is wha I mean,' says Gavin, very strait- 
 forrard." 
 
 " But she didna let him aff, did she ?" 
 
 " Na, she wasna the kind. Says she, ' I wonder to 
 hear ye, Gavin, but am no goin' to agree to naething 
 o' that sort.' 
 
 " ' Think it ower,' says Gavin. 
 
 " ' Na, my mind's made up,' said she. 
 
 " ' Ye would soon get anither man,' he says, earnestly. 
 
 " ' Hoo do I ken that ? ' she speirs rale sensibly, I 
 thocht, for men's no sae easy to get. 
 
 "'Am sure o' 't,' Gavin says, wi' michty convic- 
 tion in his voice, 'for ye're bonny to look at, an' 
 weel-kent for bein' a guid body.' 
 
 " ' Ay,' says Mag, ' I'm glad ye like me, Gavin, for 
 ye have to tak me.' " 
 
 " That put a clincher on him," interrupted Hendry. 
 
 " He was loth to gie in," replied Tammas, " so he 
 says, ' Ye think am a fine character, Marget Lownie, 
 but ye're very far mista'en. I wouldna wonder but 
 what I was lossin' my place some o' thae days, an' 
 syne whaur would ye be ? Marget Lownie,' he goes 
 on, ' am nat'rally lazy an' fond o' the drink. As sure 
 as ye stand there, am a regular deevil ! '" . 
 
 "That was strong language," said Hendry, "but 
 he would be wantin' to fleg (frighten) her ? " 
 
 "Juist so, but he dinna manage't, for Mag says, 
 ' "We a' ha'e oor faults, Gavin, an' deevil or no deevil, 
 ye're the man for me ! ' 
 
 "Gavin thocht a bit," continued Tammas, "an' 
 
94 jEsa. 
 
 syne he tries her on a new tack. ' Marget Lownie,' 
 he says, ' ye're father's an auld man noo, an' he has 
 naebody but yersel to look after him. I'm thinkin' 
 it would be kind o' cruel o' me to tak ye awa frae 
 him?'" 
 
 "Mag wouldna be ta'en in wi' that; she wasna 
 born on a Sawbath," said Jess, using one of her 
 favourite sayings. 
 
 " She wasna," answered Tammas. " Says she, 
 'Hae nae fear on that score, Gavin; my father's 
 fine willin' to spare me ! ' " 
 
 «An' that ended it?" 
 
 " Ay, that ended it." 
 
 " Did ye tak it doon in writin' ? " asked Hendry. 
 
 "There was nae need," said Tammas, handing 
 round his snuff-mull. " No, I never touched paper. 
 When I saw the thing was settled, I left them to 
 their coortin'. They're to tak a look at Snecky 
 Hobart's auld hoose the nicht. It's to let." 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE SON PBOM LONDON. 
 
 IN the spring of the year there used to come to 
 Thrums a painter from nature whom Hendry 
 spoke of as the drawer. He lodged with Jess in 
 my attic, and when the weavers met him they said, 
 " Weel, drawer," and then passed on, grinning. 
 Tammas Haggart was the first to say this. 
 
 The drawer was held a poor man because he 
 straggled about the country looking for subjects for 
 his draws, and Jess, as was her way, gave him many 
 comforts for which she would not charge. That, I 
 daresay, was why he painted for her a little portrait 
 of Jamie. When the drawer came back to Thrums 
 he always found the painting in a frame in her room. 
 Here I must make a confession about Jess. She did 
 not in her secret mind think the portrait quite the 
 thing, and as soon as the drawer departed it was 
 removed from the frame to make way for a calendar. 
 The deception was very innocent, Jess being anxious 
 not to hurt the donor's feelings. 
 
 To those who have the artist's eye, the picture, 
 which hangs in my schoolhouse now, does not show 
 a handsome lad, Jamie being short and dapper, with 
 straw-coloured hair, and a chin that ran away into 
 
 96 
 
yb JX!88. 
 
 his necko That is how I once regarded him, but I 
 have little heart for criticism of those I like, and, 
 despite his madness for a season, of which, alas, I 
 shall have to tell, I am always Jamie's friend. Even 
 to hear any one disparaging the appearance of Jess's 
 son is to me a pain. 
 
 AU Jess's acquaintances knew that in the begin- 
 ning of every month a registered letter reached her 
 from London. To her it was not a matter to keep 
 secret. She was proud that tiie help she and Hendry 
 needed in the gloaming of their lives should come 
 from her beloved son, and the neighbours esteemed 
 Jamie because he was good to his mother. Jess had 
 more humour than any other woman I have known, 
 while Leeby was but sparingly endowed; yet, as the 
 month neared its close, it was the daughter who put 
 on the humorist, Jess thinking money too serious a 
 thing to jest about. Then if Leeby had a moment 
 for gossip, as when ironing a dickey for Hendry, 
 and the iron was a trifle too hot, she would look 
 archly at me before addressing her mother in these 
 words : 
 
 "Will he send, think ye ? " 
 
 Jess, who had a conviction that he would send, 
 affected surprise at the question. 
 
 " Will Jamie send this month, do ye mean ? Na, 
 oh, losh no ! it's no to be expeckit. Na, he couldna 
 do't this time." 
 
 " That's what ye aye say, but he aye sends. Yes, 
 an' vara weel ye ken 'at he wiU send." 
 
THE SON FROM LONDON. 9T 
 
 " Na, na, Leeby ; dinna let me ever think o' sic a 
 thing this month." 
 
 " As if ye wasna thinkin' o't day an' nicht ! " 
 
 " He's terrible mindfu', Leeby, but he doesna hae't. 
 No, no this month ; mebbe next month." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me, mother, 'at ye'll no be 
 up cot o' yer bed on Monunday an hour afore yer usual 
 time, lookin' for the post?" 
 
 " Na, no this time. I may be up, an' tak a look 
 for 'im, but no expeckin' a registerdy; na, na, that 
 wouldna be reasonable." 
 
 "Reasonable here, reasonable there, up you'll be, 
 keekin' (peering) through the blind to see if the 
 post's comin', ay, an' what's mair, the post will come, 
 and a registerdy in his hand wi' fifteen shillings in't 
 at the least." 
 
 " Dinna say fifteen, Leeby ; I would never think o' 
 sic a sum. Mebbe five — " 
 
 " Five ! I wonder to hear ye. Vera weel you ken 
 'at since he had twenty-twa shillings in the week he's 
 never sent less than half a sovereign." 
 
 " No, but we canna expeck — " 
 
 " Expeck ! No, but it's no expeck, it's get." 
 
 On the Monday morning when I came down-stairs, 
 Jess was in her chair by the window, beaming, a 
 piece of paper in her ha^jd. I did not require to be 
 told about it, but I was told. Jess had been up 
 before Leeby could get the fire lit, with great diffi- 
 culty reaching the window in her bare feet, and many 
 a time had she said that the post must be by. 
 
98 JESS. 
 
 " Havers," said Leeby, " he winna be for an hour 
 yet. Come awa' back to your bed." 
 
 " Na, he maun be by," Jess would say in a few 
 minutes ; " ou, we couldna expeck this month." 
 
 So it went on until Jess's hand shook the blind. 
 
 "He's comin', Leeby, he's comin'. He'll no hae 
 naething, na, I couldna expeck — He's by ! " 
 
 " I dinna believe it," cried Leeby, running to the 
 window, " he's juist at his tricks again." 
 
 This was in reference to a way our saturnine 
 post had of pretending that he brought no letters 
 and passing the door. Then he turned back. 
 " Mistress McQumpha," he cried, and whistled. 
 
 " Run, Leeby, run ! " said Jess, excitedly. 
 
 Leeby hastened to the door, and came back with a 
 registered letter. 
 
 " Registerdy," she cried in triumph, and Jess, with 
 fond hands, opened the letter. By the time I came 
 down the money was hid away in a box beneath the 
 bed, where not even Leeby could find it, and Jess was 
 on her chair hugging the letter. She preserved all 
 her registered envelopes. 
 
 This was the first time I had been in Thrums 
 when Jamie was expected for his ten days' holiday, 
 and for a week we discussed little else. Though he 
 had written saying when he would sail for Dundee, 
 there was quite a possibility of his appearing on the 
 brae at any moment, for he liked to take Jess and 
 Leeby by surprise. Hendry there was no surprising, 
 unless he was in the mood for it, and the coolness of 
 
THE SON FROM LONDON. 99 
 
 him was one of Jess's grievances. Just two years 
 earlier Jamie came north a week before his time, and 
 his father saw him from the window. Instead of 
 crying out in amazement or hacking his face, for he 
 was shaving at the time, Hendry calmly wiped his 
 razor on the window-sill, and said : 
 
 " Ay, there's Jamie." 
 
 Jamie was a little disappointed at being seen in 
 this way, for he had been looking forward for four 
 and forty hours to repeating the sensation of the year 
 before. On that occasion he had got to the door 
 unnoticed, where he stopped to listen. I daresay he 
 checked his breath, the better to catch his mother's 
 voice, for Jess being an invalid, Jamie thought of her 
 first. He had Leeby sworn to write the truth about 
 her, but many an anxious hour he had on hearing 
 that she was " complaining fell (considerably) about 
 her back the day," Leeby, as he knew, being fright- 
 ened to alarm him. Jamie, too, had given his promise 
 to tell exactly how he was keeping, but often he wrote 
 that he was " fine " when Jess had her doubts. When 
 Hendry wrote he spread himself over the table, and 
 said that Jess was " juist about it," or " aff and on," 
 which does not tell much. So Jamie hearkened pain- 
 fully at the door, and by and by heard his mother say 
 to Leeby that she was sure the teapot was running 
 out. Perhaps that voice was as sweet to him as the 
 music of a maiden to her lover, but Jamie did not 
 rush into his mother's arms. Jess has told me with 
 a beaming face how craftily he behaved. The old 
 
100 JESS. 
 
 man, of lungs that shook Thrums by night, who went 
 from door to door selling firewood, had a waj of 
 shoving doors rudely open, and crying : 
 
 " Ony rozetty roots ? " and him Jamie imitated. 
 
 " Juist think," Jess said, as she recalled the inci- 
 dent, " what a startle we got. As we think, Fete kicks 
 open the door and cries out, ' Ony rozetty roots ? ' and 
 Leeby says ' No,' and gangs to shut the door. Next 
 minute she screeches, 'What, what, what!' and in 
 walks Jamie ! " 
 
 Jess was never able to decide whether it was more 
 delightful to be taken aback in this way or to pre- 
 pare for Jamie. Sudden excitement was bad for her 
 according to Hendry, who got his medical knowledge 
 second-hand from persons under treatment, but with 
 Jamie's appearance on the threshold Jess's health 
 began to improve. This time he kept to the 
 appointed day, and the house was turned upside 
 down in his honour. Such a polish did Leeby put 
 on the flagons which hung on the kitchen wall, that, 
 passing between them and the window, I thought once 
 I had been struck by lightning. On the morning of 
 the day that was to bring him, Leeby was up at two 
 o'clock, and eight hours before he could possibly 
 arrive Jess had a night-shirt warming for him at the 
 fire. I was no longer anybody, except as a person 
 who could give Jamie advice. Jess told me what I was 
 to say. The only thing he and his mother quarrelled 
 about was the underclothing she would swaddle him in, 
 and Jess asked me to back her up in her entreaties. 
 
THE SON FROM LONDON. 101 
 
 « There's no a doubt " she said, " but what it's a 
 hantle caulder here than in London, an' it would be 
 a terrible business if he was to tak the cauld." 
 
 Jamie was to sail from London to Dundee, and 
 come on to Thrums from Tilliedrum in the post-cart. 
 The road at that time, however, avoided the brae, 
 and at a certain point Jamie's custom was to alight, 
 and take the short cut home, along a farm road and 
 up the commonty. Here, too. Hookey Crewe, the 
 post, deposited his passenger's box, which Hendry 
 wheeled home in a barrow. Long before the cart 
 had lost sight of Tilliedrum, Jess was at her 
 window. 
 
 " Tell her Hookey's often late on Monundays," 
 Leeby whispered to me, " for she'll gang oot o' her 
 mind if she thinks there's onything wrang." 
 
 Soon Jess was painfully excited, though she sat as 
 still as salt. 
 
 " It maun be yer time," she said, looking at both 
 Leeby and me, for in Thrums we went out and met 
 our friends. 
 
 "Hoots," retorted Leeby, trying to be hardy, 
 " Hookey canna be oot o' Tilliedrum yet." 
 
 " He maun hae startit lang syne." 
 
 " I wonder at ye, mother, puttin' yersel' in sic a 
 state. Ye'll be ill when he comes." 
 
 " Na, am no in nae state, Leeby, but there'll no be 
 nae accident, will there ? " 
 
 " It's most provokin' 'at ye will think 'at every time 
 Jamie steps into a machine there'll be an accident. 
 
102 JESS. 
 
 Am sure if ye would tak mair after my father, it 
 would be a blessin'. Look hoo cool he is." 
 
 " Whaur is he, Leeby ? " 
 
 " Oh, I dinna keu. The henmost time I saw him 
 he was lyin' doon the law aboot something to 
 T'nowhead." 
 
 " It's an awf u' wy that he has o' ga'en oot withoot 
 a word. I wouldna wonder 'at he's no bein' in time 
 to meet Jamie, an' that would be a pretty business." 
 
 " Od, ye're sure he'll be in braw time." 
 
 " But he hasna ta'en the barrow wi' him, an' hoo is 
 Jamie's luggage to be brocht up withoot a barrow ? " 
 
 " Barrow ! He took the barrow to the sawmill an 
 hour syne to pick it up at Rob Angus's on the wy." 
 
 Several times Jess was sure she saw the cart in the 
 distance, and implored us to be off. 
 
 " I'll tak no settle till ye're awa," she said, her face 
 now flushed and her hands working nervously. 
 
 " We've time to gang and come twa or three times 
 yet," remonstrated Leeby ; but Jess gave me so be- 
 seeching a look that I put on my hat. Then Hendry 
 dandered in to change his coat deliberately, and when 
 the three of us set off, we left Jess with her eye on 
 the door by which Jamie must enter. He was her 
 only son now, and she had not seen him for a year. 
 
 On the way down the commonty, Leeby had the 
 honour of being twice addressed as Miss McQumpha, 
 but her father was Hendry to all, which shows that 
 we make our social position for ourselves. Hendry 
 looked forward to Jamie's annual appearance only a 
 
THE SON FROM LONDON. 103 
 
 little less hungrily than Jess, but his pulse still beat 
 regularly. Leeby would have considered it almost 
 wicked to talk of anything except Jamie now, but 
 Hendry cried out comments on the tatties, yesterday's 
 roup, the fall in jute, to everybody he encountered. 
 When he and a crony had their say and parted, it was 
 their custom to continue the conversation in shouts 
 until they were out of hearing. 
 
 Only to Jess at her window was the cart late that 
 afternoon. Jamie jumped from it in the long great- 
 coat that had been new to Thrums the year before, 
 and Hendry said, calmly : 
 
 " Ay, Jamie." 
 
 Leeby and Jamie made signs that they recognised 
 each other as brother and sister, but I was the only 
 one with whom he shook hands. He was smart in 
 his movements and quite the gentleman, but the 
 Thrums ways took hold of him once again. He 
 even inquired for his mother in a tone that was meant 
 to deceive me into thinking he did not care how she 
 was. 
 
 Hendry would have had a talk out of him on the 
 spot, but was reminded of the luggage. We took 
 the heavy farm road, and soon we were at the saw- 
 mill. I am naturally leisurely, but we climbed the 
 commonty at a stride. Jamie pretended to be calm, 
 but in a dark place I saw him take Leeby's hand, and 
 after that he said not a word. His eyes were fixed 
 on the elbow of the brae, where he would come into 
 sight of his mother's window. Many, many a time, I 
 
104 JESS. 
 
 know, the lad had prayed to God for still another sight 
 of the window with his mother at it. So we came to 
 the corner where the stile is that Sam'l Dickie jumped 
 in the race for T'nowhead's Bell, and before Jamie 
 was ^e house of his childhood and his mother's 
 window, and the fond, anxious face of his mother 
 herself. My eyes are dull, and I did not see her, 
 hut suddenly Jamie cried out, " My mother ! " and 
 Leeby and I were left behind. When I reached the 
 kitchen Jess was crying, and her son's arms were 
 around her neck. I went away to my attic. 
 
 There was only one other memorable event of that 
 day. Jamie had finished his tea, and we all sat around 
 him, listening to his adventures and opinions. He told 
 us how the country should be governed, too, and per- 
 haps put on airs a little. Hendry asked the questions, 
 and Jamie answered them as pat as if he and his father 
 were going through the Shorter Catechism. When 
 Jamie told anything marvellous, as how many towels 
 were used at the shop in a day, or that twopence was 
 the charge for a single shave, his father screwed his 
 mouth together as if preparing to whistle, and then 
 instead made a curious clucking noise with his tongue, 
 which was reserved for the expression of absolute 
 amazement. As for Jess, who was given to making 
 much of me, she ignored my remarks and laughed 
 hilariously at jokes of Jamie's which had been re- 
 ceived in silence from me a few minutes before. 
 
 Slowly it came to me that Leeby had something on 
 her mind, and that Jamie was talking to her with his 
 
THE SON FROM LONDON. 105 
 
 eyes. I learned afterwards that they were plotting 
 how to get me out of the kitchen, but were too impa- 
 tient to wait. Thus it was that the great eyent hap- 
 pened in my presence. Jamie rose and stood near 
 Jess, — I daresay he had planned the scene fre- 
 quently. Then he produced from his pocket a purse, 
 and coolly opened it. Silence fell upon us as we saw 
 that purse. Prom it he took a neatly folded piece of 
 paper, crumpled it into a ball, and flung it into Jess's 
 lap. 
 
 I cannot say whether Jess knew what it was. Her 
 hand shook, and for a moment she let the baU of paper 
 lie there. 
 
 "Open't up," cried Leeby, who was in the 
 secret. 
 
 " What is't ? " asked Hendry, drawing nearer. 
 
 "It's juist a bit paper Jamie flung at me," said 
 Jess, and then she unfolded it. 
 
 " It's a five-pound note ! " cried Hendry. 
 
 " Na, na ; oh, keep us, no," said Jess ; but she knew 
 it was. 
 
 For a time she could not speak. 
 
 " I canna tak it, Jamie," she faltered at last. 
 
 But Jamie waved his hand, meaning that it was 
 nothing, and then, lest he should burst, hurried out 
 into the garden, where 'he walked up and down whis- 
 tling. May God bless the lad, thought I. I do not 
 know the history of that five-pound note, but well 
 aware I am that it grew slowly out of pence and 
 silver, and that Jamie denied his passions many 
 
106 JESS. 
 
 things for this great hour. His sacrifices watered 
 his young heart and kept it fresh and tender. Let 
 us no longer cheat our consciences by talking of filthy 
 lucre. Money may always be a beautiful thing. It 
 is we who make it grimy. 
 
CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 LEEBT AND JAMIE. 
 
 BY the bank of the Quharity on a summer day I 
 have seen a barefooted girl gaze at the running 
 water until tears filled her eyes. That was the birth of 
 romance. Whether this love be but a beautiful dream 
 I cannot say, but this we see, that it comes to all, and 
 colours the whole future life with gold. Leeby must 
 have dreamt it, but I did not know her then. I have 
 heard of a man who would have taken her far away 
 into a county where the com is yellow when it is 
 still green with us, but she would not leave her mother, 
 nor was it him she saw in her dream. Prom her ear- 
 liest days, when she was still a child staggering around 
 the garden with Jamie in her arms, her duty lay be- 
 fore her, straight as the burying-ground road. Jess 
 had need of her in the little home at the top of the 
 brae, where God, looking down upon her as she 
 scrubbed and gossipped and sat up all night with 
 her ailing mother, and never missed the prayer-meet- 
 ing, and adored the minister, did not, perhaps, think 
 her the least of his handmaids. Her years were less 
 than thirty when he took her away, but she had few 
 days that were altogether dark. Those who bring 
 
108 JE88. 
 
 sunshine to the lives of others cannot keep it from 
 themselves. 
 
 The love Leeby bore for Jamie was such that in 
 their younger days it shamed him. Other laddies 
 knew of it, and flung it at him until he dared Leeby 
 to let on in public that he and she were related. 
 
 " Hoo is your lass ? " they used to cry to him, 
 inventing a new game. 
 
 " I saw Leeby lookin' for ye," they would say ; 
 " she's wearyin' for ye to gang an' play wi' her." 
 
 Then if they were not much bigger boys than him- 
 self, Jamie got them against the dyke and hit them 
 hard until they publicly owned to knowing that she 
 was his sister, and that he was not fond of her. 
 
 "It distressed him mair than ye could believe, 
 though," Jess has told me ; " an' when he came hame 
 he would greet an' say 'at Leeby disgraced him." 
 
 Leeby, of course, suffered for her too obvious 
 affection. 
 
 " I wonder't ye dinna try to control yersel'," Jamie 
 would say to her, as he grew bigger. 
 
 « Am sure," said Leeby, " I never gie ye a look if 
 there's onybody there." 
 
 " A look ! You're aye lookin' at me sae fond like 
 'at I dinna ken what wy to turn." 
 
 "Weel, I canna help it," said Leeby, probably 
 beginning to whimper. 
 
 If Jamie was in a very bad temper he left her, after 
 this, to her own reflections; but he was naturally 
 soft-hearted. 
 
LEEBT AND JAMIE. 109 
 
 " Am no tellin' ye no to care for me," he told her, 
 " but juist to keep it mair to yersel'. Naebody would 
 ken frae me 'at am fond o' ye." 
 
 " Mebbe yer no ? " said Leeby. 
 
 " Ay, am I, but I can keep it secret. When we're 
 in the hoose am juist richt fond o' ye." 
 
 " Do ye love me, Jamie ? " 
 
 Jamie waggled his head in irritation. 
 
 " Love," he said, " is an awful like word to use 
 when fowk's weel. Ye shouldna speir sic annoyin' 
 queistions." 
 
 " But if ye juist say ye love me I'll never let on 
 again afore fowk 'at yer onything to me ava." 
 
 " Ay, ye often say that." 
 
 " Do ye no believe my word ? " 
 
 " I believe fine ye mean what ye say, but ye forget 
 yersel' when the time comes." 
 
 " Juist try me this time." 
 
 « Weel, then, I do." 
 
 " Do what ? " asked the greedy Leeby. 
 
 « What ye said." 
 
 « I said love." 
 
 " Weel," said Jamie, « I do't." 
 
 " What do ye do ? Say the word." 
 
 " Na," said Jamie, " I winna say the word. It's no 
 a word to say, but I do't." 
 
 That was all she could get out of him, unless he 
 was stricken with remorse, when he even went the 
 length of saying the word. 
 
 " Leeby kent perfectly weel," Jess has said, " 'at it 
 
110 JESS. 
 
 was a trial to Jamie to tak her ony gait, an' I often 
 used to say to her 'at I wondered at her want o' pride 
 in priggia' wi' him. Ay, but if she could juist get a 
 promise wrung oot o' him, she didna care hoo muckle 
 she had to prig. Syne they quarrelled, an' ane or 
 baith o' them grat (cried) afore they made it up. I 
 mind when Jamie went to the fishin' Leeby was aye 
 terrible keen to get wi' him, but ye see he wouldna be 
 seen gaen through the toon wi' her. <If ye let me 
 gang,' she said to him, ' I'll no seek to go through the 
 toon wi' ye. Na, I'll gang roond by the Roods an' 
 you can tak the buryin'-ground road, so as we can 
 meet on the hill.' Yes, Leeby was willin' to agree 
 wi' a' that, juist to get gaen wi' him. I've seen 
 lassies makkin' themsel's sma' for lads often enough, 
 but I never saw ane 'at prigged so muckle wi' her ain 
 brother. Na, it's other lassies' brothers they like as 
 a rule." 
 
 " But though Jamie was terrible reserved aboot it," 
 said Leeby, " he was as fond o' me as ever I was o' 
 him. Ye mind the time I had the measles, mother ? " 
 
 " Am no likely to forget it, Leeby," said Jess, " an' 
 you blind wi' them for three days. Ay, ay, Jamie 
 was richt ta'en up aboot ye. I mind he broke open 
 his pirly (money-box), an' bocht a ha'penny worth o' 
 something to ye every day." 
 
 " An' ye hinna forgotten the stick ? " 
 
 "'Deed no, I hinna. Ye see," Jess explained to 
 me, " Leeby was lyin' ben the hoose, an' Jamie wasna 
 allowed to gang near her for fear o' infection. Weel, 
 
LEEBY AND JAMIE. HI 
 
 he got a lang stick — it was a pea-stick — an' put it 
 'aneath the door an' waggled it. Ay, he did that a 
 curran times every day, juist to let her see he was 
 thinkin' o' her." 
 
 " Mair than that," said Leeby, " he cried cot 'at he 
 loved me." 
 
 " Ay, but juist aince," Jess said ; " I dinna mind o't 
 but aince. It was the time the doctor came late, an' 
 Jamie, being waukened by him, thocht ye was deein'. 
 I mind as if it was yesterday hoo he cam runnin' to 
 the door an' cried oot, ' I do love ye, Leeby ; I love ye 
 richt.' The doctor got a start when he heard the 
 voice, but he laughed loud when he unerstood." 
 
 " He had nae business, though," said Leeby, " to 
 tell onybody." 
 
 " He was a rale clever man, the doctor," Jess 
 explained to me ; " ay, he kent me as weel as though 
 he'd gaen through me wi' a lichted candle. It got 
 oot through him, an' the young billies took to sayin' 
 to Jamie, ' Ye do love her, Jamie ; ay, ye love her 
 richt.' The only reglar fecht I ever kent Jamie hae 
 was wi' a lad 'at cried that to him. It was Bowlegs 
 Christy's laddie. Ay, but when she got better Jamie 
 blamed Leeby." 
 
 " He no only blamed me," said Leeby, " but he 
 wanted me to pay him back a' the bawbees he had 
 spent on me." 
 
 " Ay, an' I sepad he got them, too," said Jess. 
 
 In time Jamie became a barber in Tilliedrum, trudg- 
 ing many heavy miles there and back twice a day 
 
112 JE88. 
 
 that he might sleep at home ; trudging bravely, I was 
 to say, but it was what he was bom to, and there 
 was hardly an alternatiye. This was the time I saw 
 most of him, and he and Leeby were often in my 
 thoughts. There is as terrible a bubble in the little 
 kettle as on the cauldron of the world, and some of 
 the scenes between Jamie and Leeby were great trag- 
 edies, comedies, what you will, until the kettle was 
 taken off the fire. Hers was the more placid temper ; 
 indeed, only in one way could Jamie suddenly rouse 
 her to fury. That was when he hinted that she had 
 a large number of frocks. Leeby knew that there 
 could never be more than a Sabbath frock and an 
 every-day gown for her, both of her mother's making, 
 but Jamie's insinuations were more than she could 
 bear. Then I have seen her seize and shake him. I 
 know from Jess that Leeby cried herself hoarse the 
 day Joey was buried, because her little black frock 
 was not ready for wear. 
 
 Until he went to TUliedrum Jamie had been more 
 a stay-at-home boy than most. The warmth of Jess's 
 love had something to do with keeping his heart aglow, 
 but more, I think, he owed to Leeby. Tilliedrum was 
 his introduction to the world, and for a little it took 
 his head. I was in the house the Sabbath day that he 
 refused to go to church. 
 
 He went out in the forenoon to meet the Tilliedrum 
 lads, who were to take him off for a holiday in a cart. 
 Hendry was more wrathful than I remember ever to 
 have seen him, though 1 have heard how he did with 
 
LEEBT AND JAMIE. 113 
 
 the lodger who broke the Lord's Day. This lodger 
 was a tourist who thought, in folly surely rather than 
 in hardness of heart, to test the religious convictions 
 of an Auld Licht by insisting on paying his bill on a 
 Sabbath morning. He offered the money to Jess, 
 with the warning that if she did not take it now she 
 might never see it. Jess was so kind and good to her 
 lodgers that he could not have known her long who 
 troubled her with this poor trick. She was sorely in 
 need at the time, and entreated the thoughtless man 
 to have some pity on her. 
 
 " Now or never," he said, holding out the money. 
 
 " Put it on the dresser," said Jess at last, " an' I'll 
 get it the morn." 
 
 The few shillings were laid on the dresser, where 
 they remained unfingered until Hendry, with Leeby 
 and Jamie, came in from church. 
 
 "What siller's that?" asked Hendry, and then 
 Jess confessed what she had done. 
 
 " I wonder at ye, woman," said Hendry, sternly ; 
 and lifting the money he climbed up to the attic with 
 it. 
 
 He pushed open the door, and confronted the 
 lodger. 
 
 " Take back yer siller," he said, laying it on the 
 table, " an' leave my hoose. Man, you're a pitiable 
 crittur to tak the chance, when I was oot, o' playin' 
 upon the poverty o' an onweel woman." 
 
 It was with such unwonted severity as this that 
 Hendry called upon Jamie to follow him to church ; 
 
114 JE88. 
 
 but the boy went off, and did not return till dusk, 
 defiant and miserable. Jess had been so terrified that 
 she forgaye him everything for sight of his face, and 
 Hendry prayed for him at family worship with too 
 much unction. But Leeby cried as if her tender 
 heart would break. For a long time Jamie refused 
 to look at her, but at last he broke down. 
 
 " If ye go on like that," he said, " I'll gang awa oot 
 an' droon mysel, or be a sojer." 
 
 This was no uncommon threat of his, and some- 
 times, when he went off, banging the door violently, 
 she ran after him and brought him back. This time 
 she only wept the more, and so- both went to bed in 
 misery. It was after midnight that Jamie rose and 
 crept to Leeby's bedside. Leeby was shaking the bed 
 in her agony. Jess heard what they said. 
 
 " Leeby," said Jamie, " dinna greet, an' I'll never 
 do't again." 
 
 He put his arms around her and she kissed him 
 passionately. 
 
 " Oh, Jamie," she said, " hae ye prayed to God to 
 forgie ye ? " 
 
 Jamie did not speak. 
 
 " If ye was to die this nicht," cried Leeby, " an' you 
 no made it up wi' God, ye wouldna gang to heaven. 
 Jamie, I canna sleep till ye've made it up wi' God." 
 
 But Jamie still hung back. Leeby slipped from 
 her bed, and went down on her knees. 
 
 " God, dear God," she cried, " mak Jamie to 
 pray to you ! " 
 
LEEBT AND JAMIE. 115 
 
 Then Jamie went down on his knees, too, and they 
 made it up with God together. 
 
 This is a little thing for me to remember all these 
 years, and yet how fresh and sweet it keeps Leeby in 
 my memory. 
 
 Away up in the glen, my lonely schoolhouse lying 
 deep, as one might say, in a sea of snow, I had many 
 hours in the years long by for thinking of my friends 
 in Thrums and mapping out the future of Leeby and 
 Jamie. I saw Hendry and Jess taken to the church- 
 yard, and Leeby left alone in the house. I saw Jamie 
 fulfil his promise to his mother, and take Leeby, that 
 stainless young woman, far away to London, where 
 they had a home together. Ah, but these were only 
 the idle dreams of a dominie. The Lord willed it 
 otherwise. 
 
CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 A TALE OF A GLOVE. 
 
 SO long as Jamie was not the lad, Jess twinkled 
 gleefully over tales of sweethearting. There was 
 little Kitty Lamby who used to skip in of an evening, 
 and, squatting on a stool near the window, unwind the 
 roll of her enormities. A wheedling thing she was, 
 with an ambition to drive men crazy, but my presence 
 killed the gossip on her tongue, though I liked to look 
 at her. When I entered, the wag at the wa' clock 
 had again possession of the kitchen. I never heard 
 more than the end of a sentence : 
 
 " An' did he really say he would fling himsel' into 
 the dam, Kitty?" 
 
 Or, " True as death, Jess, he kissed me." 
 
 Then I wandered away from the kitchen, where I 
 was not wanted, and marvelled to know that Jess of 
 the tender heart laughed most merrily when he really 
 did say that he was going straight to the dam. As 
 nobody was found in the dam in those days, whoever 
 he was he must have thought better of it. 
 
 But let Kitty, or any other maid, cast a glinting 
 
 eye on Jamie, then Jess no longer smiled. If he 
 
 returned the glance she sat silent in her chair till 
 
 Leeby laughed away her fears. 
 
 us 
 
A TALE OF A GLOVE. 117 
 
 "Jamie's no the kind, mother," Leeby would say. 
 "Na, he's quiet, but he sees through them. They 
 dinna draw his leg (get over him)." 
 
 « Ye never can tell, Leeby. The laddies 'at's maist 
 ill to get sometimes gangs up in a flame a' at aince, 
 like a bit o' paper." 
 
 " Ay, weel, at ony rate Jamie's no on fire yet." 
 
 Though clever beyond her neighbours, Jess lost all 
 her sharpness if they spoke of a lassie for Jamie. 
 
 " I warrant," Tibbie Birse said one day in my hear- 
 ing, " 'at there's some leddy in London he's thinkin' 
 o'. Ay, he's been a guid laddie to ye, but i' the 
 coorse o' nature he'll be settlin' dune soon." 
 
 Jess did not answer, but she was a picture of woe. 
 
 "Yer lettin' what Tibbie Birse said lie on yer 
 mind," Leeby remarked, when Tibbie was gone. 
 " What can it maiter what she thinks ? " 
 
 "I canna help it, Leeby," said Jess. "Na, an' I 
 canna bear to think o' Jamie bein' mairit. It would 
 lay me low to loss my laddie. No yet, no yet." 
 
 " But, mother," said Leeby, quoting from the min- 
 ister at weddings, " ye wouldna be lossin' a son, but 
 juist gainin' a dochter." 
 
 " Dinna haver, Leeby," answered Jess, " I want 
 nane o' thae dochters ; na, na." 
 
 This talk took place while we were still awaiting 
 Jamie's coming. He had only been with us one day 
 when Jess made a terrible discovery. She was look- 
 ing so mournful when I saw her, that I asked Leeby 
 what was wrong. 
 
118 JE88. 
 
 " She's brocht it on hersel," said Leeby. " Ye see 
 she was up sune i' the mornin' to begin to the darnin' 
 o' Jamie's stockin's an' to warm his sark at the fire 
 afore he put it on. He woke up, an' cried to her 'at 
 he wasna accustomed to hae'n his things warmed for 
 him. Ay, he cried it oot fell thrawn, so she took it 
 into her head 'at there was something in his pouch he 
 didna want her to see. She was even onaisy last 
 nicht." 
 
 I asked what had aroused Jess's suspicions last 
 night. 
 
 " Ou, ye would notice 'at she sat devourin' him wi' 
 her een, she was so lifted up at hae'n 'im again. 
 Weel, she says noo 'at she saw 'im twa or three times 
 put his hand in his pouch as if he was findin' to mak 
 sure 'at something was safe. So when he fell asleep 
 again this mornin' she got haud o' his jacket to see if 
 there was onything in't. I advised her no to do't, 
 but she couldna help hersel'. She put in her hand, an' 
 pu'd it oot. That's what's makkin' her look sae ill." 
 
 " But what was it she found ? " 
 
 " Did I no tell ye ? I'm gaen dottle, I think. It 
 was a glove, a woman's glove in a bit paper. Ay, 
 though she's sittin' still she's near frantic." 
 
 I said I supposed Jess had put the glove back in 
 Jamie's pocket. 
 
 " Na," said Leeby, " 'deed no. She wanted to fling 
 it on the back o' the fire, but I wouldna let her." 
 
 Later in the day I remarked to Leeby that Jamie 
 was very dull. 
 
A TALK OF A QLOVE. 119 
 
 « He's missed it," she explained. 
 
 " Has any one mentioned it to him," I asked, " or 
 has he inquired about it ? " 
 
 " Na," said Leeby, " there hasna been a syllup 
 (syllable) aboot it. My mother's fleid to mention't, 
 an' he doesna like to speak aboot it, either." 
 
 " Perhaps he thinks he has lost it ? " 
 
 « Nae fear o' him," Leeby said. " Na, he kens fine 
 Wha has't. " 
 
 I never knew how Jamie came by the glove, nor 
 whether it had originally belonged to her who made 
 him forget the window at the top of the brae. At 
 the time I looked on as at play-acting, rejoicing in 
 the happy ending. Alas ! in the real life how are we 
 to know when we have reached an end ? 
 
 But this glove, I say, may not have been that 
 woman's, and if it was, she had not then bedevilled 
 him. He was too sheepish to demand it back from 
 his mother, and already he cared for it too much to 
 laugh at Jess's theft with Leeby. So it was that a 
 curious game at chess was played with the glove, the 
 players a silent pair. 
 
 Jamie cared little to read books, but on the day 
 following Jess's discovery, I found him on his knees 
 in the attic, looking through mine. A little box, 
 without a lid, held them all, but they seemed a great 
 library to him. 
 
 " There's readin' for a lifetime in them," he said. 
 *' I was juist takkin' a look through them." 
 
 His face was guilty, however, as if his hand had 
 
120 JM8S. 
 
 been caught in a money-bag, and I wondered what 
 had enticed the lad to my books. I was still standing 
 pondering when Leeby ran up the stair ; she was so 
 active that she generally ran, and she grudged the 
 time lost in recovering her breath. 
 
 "I'll put yer books richt," she said, making her 
 word good as she spoke. "I kent Jamie had been 
 ransackin' up here, though he came up rale canny. 
 Ay, ye would notice he was in his stockin' soles." 
 
 I had not noticed this, but I remembered now his 
 slipping from the room very softly. If he wanted a 
 book, I told Leeby, he could hate got it without any 
 display of cunning. 
 
 " It's no a book he's lookin' for," she said ; " na, it's 
 his glove." 
 
 The time of day was early for Leeby to gossip, but 
 I detained her for a moment. 
 
 " My mother's hodded (hid) it," she explained, " an' 
 he winna speir nae queistions. But he's looking for't. 
 He was ben in the room searchin' the drawers when I 
 was up i' the toon in the forenoon. Ye see he pre- 
 tends no to be carin' afore me, an' though my mother's 
 sittin' sae quiet like at the window she's hearkenin' 
 a' the time. Ay, an' he thocht I had hod it up 
 here." 
 
 But where, I asked, was the glove hid. 
 
 " I ken nae mair than yersel'," said Leeby. " My 
 mother's gien to hoddin' things. She has a place 
 aneath the bed whaur she keeps the siller, an' she's 
 no speakin' aboot the glove to me noo, because she 
 
A TALE OF A GLOVE. 121 
 
 thinks Jamie an' me's in comp (company). I speired 
 at her whaur she had hod it, but she Juist said, 'What 
 would I be doin' hoddin't?' She'll never admit to 
 me 'at she hods the siller, either." 
 
 Next day Leeby came to me with the latest 
 news. 
 
 " He's found it," she said, " ay, he's got the glove 
 again. Ye see what put him on the wrang scent was 
 a notion 'at I had put it some gait. He kent 'at if 
 she'd hod it, the kitchen maun be the place, but he 
 thocht she'd gi'en it to me to hod. He came upon't 
 by accident. It was aneath the paddin' o' her chair." 
 
 Here, I thought, was the end of the glove inci- 
 dent, but I was mistaken. There were no presses or 
 drawers with locks in the house, and Jess got hold of 
 the glove again. I suppose she had reasoned out no 
 line of action. She merely hated the thought that 
 Jamie should have a woman's glove in his possession. 
 
 " She beats a' wi' 'cuteness," Leeby said to me. 
 " Jamie didna put the glove back in his pouch. Na, 
 he kens her ower weel by this time. She was up, 
 though, lang afore he was wauken, an' she gaed 
 almost strecht to the place whaur he had hod it. I 
 believe she lay waukin a' nicht thinkin' oot whaur it 
 would be. Ay, it was aneath the mattress. I saw 
 her hodden't i' the back o' the drawer, but I didna 
 let on." 
 
 I quite believed Leeby when she told me afterwards 
 that she had watched Jamie feeling beneath the 
 mattress. 
 
122 JM8B. 
 
 " He had a face," she said, " I assure ye, he had a 
 face, when he discovered the glove was gone again." 
 
 " He maun be terrible ta'en up aboot it," Jess said 
 to Leeby, "or he wouldna keep it aneath the mat- 
 tress." 
 
 " Od," said Leeby, " it was yersel' 'at drove him 
 to't." 
 
 Again Jamie recovered his property, and again 
 Jess got hold of it. This time he looked in vain. I 
 learned the fate of the glove from Leeby. 
 
 «Ye mind 'at she keepit him at home frae the 
 kirk on Sabbath, because he had a cauld?" Leeby 
 said. "Ay, me or my father would hae a gay ill 
 cauld afore she would let's bide at home frae the 
 kirk ; but Jamie's different. Weel, mair than aince 
 she's been near speakin' to 'im aboot the glove, but 
 she grew fleid, aye. She was sae terrified there was 
 something in't. 
 
 " On Sabbath, though, she had him to hersel', an' 
 he wasna so bright as usual. She sat wi' the Bible 
 on her lap, pretendin' to read, but a' the time she was 
 takkin' keeks (glances) at him. I dinna ken 'at he 
 was broodin' ower the glove, but she thocht he was, 
 an' juist afore the kirk came oot she cauldna stand 
 it nae langer. She put her hand in her pouch, an' 
 pu'd oot the glove, wi' the paper round it, juist as it 
 had been when she came upon't. 
 
 " ' That's yours, Jamie,' she said ; ' it was ill-dune 
 o' me to tak it, but I couldna help it.' 
 
 " Jamie put oot his hand, an' syne he drew't back. 
 
A TALE OF A OLOVM. 123 
 
 ' If s no a thing o' nae consequence, mother,' he 
 said. 
 
 " ' Wha is she, Jamie ? ' my mother said. 
 
 " He turned awa his heid, — so she telt me. ' If s a 
 lassie in London,' he said, ' I dinna ken her muckle.' 
 
 "'Ye maun ken her weel,' my mother persisted, 
 ' to be carryin' aboot her glore ; I'm dootin' yer gey 
 fond o' her, Jamie.' 
 
 " ' Na,' said Jamie, ' am no. There's no naebody I 
 care for like yersel', mother.' 
 
 " ' Ye wouldna carry aboot onything o' mine, 
 Jamie,' my mother said ; but he says, ' Oh, mother, 
 I carry aboot yer face wi' me aye ; an' sometimes at 
 nicht I kind o' greet to think o' ye.' 
 
 " Ay, after that I've nae doot he was sittin' wi' his 
 airms aboot her. She didna tell me that, but weel 
 he kens it's what she likes, an' she maks nae pre- 
 tence o' it's no bein'. But for a' he said an did, she 
 noticed him put the glove back in his inside pouch. 
 
 " ' If s wrang o' me, Jamie,' she said, but I canna 
 bear to think o' ye carryin' that aboot sae carefu'. 
 No, I canna help it.' 
 
 " Weel, Jamie, the critter, took it oot o' his pouch, 
 an' kind o' hesitated. Syne he layst on the back o' 
 the fire, an' they sat thegither glowerin' at it. 
 
 " ' Noo, mother,' he says, ' you're satisfied, are ye 
 no?' 
 
 "Ay," Leeby ended her story, "she said she was 
 satisfied. But she saw 'at he laid it on the fire fell 
 fondlike." 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE LAST NIGHT. 
 
 " TTJIST another sax nichts, Jamie," Jess would 
 
 I say, sadly. " Juist fower nichts noo, an' you'll 
 be away." Even as she spoke seemed to come the 
 last night. 
 
 The last night ! Reserve slipped imheeded to the 
 floor. Hendry wandered ben and but the house, and 
 Jamie sat at the window holding his mother's hand. 
 You must walk softly now if you would cross that 
 humble threshold. I stop at the door. Then, as 
 now, I was a lonely man, and when the last night 
 came the attic was the place for me. 
 
 This family afEection, how good and beautiful it is. 
 Men and maids love, and after many years they may 
 rise to this. It is the grand proof of the goodness 
 in human nature, for it means that the more we see 
 of each other the more we find that is lovable. If 
 you wisuld cease to dislike a man, try to get nearer 
 his heart. 
 
 Leeby had no longer any excuse for bustling about. 
 Everything was ready, — too soon. Hendry had 
 been to the fish-cadger in the square to get a bervie 
 for Jamie's supper, and Jamie had eaten it, trying 
 
 121 
 
THE LAST NIGHT. 125 
 
 to look as if it made him happier. His little box 
 was packed and strapped, and stood terribly conspic- 
 uous against the dresser. Jess had packed it 
 herself. 
 
 "Ye mauna trachle (trouble) yersel', mother," 
 Jamie said, when she had the empty box pulled 
 towards her. 
 
 Leeby was wiser. 
 
 " Let her do't," she whispered, " it'll keep her frae 
 broodin'." 
 
 Jess tied ends of yarn around the stockings to keep 
 them in a little bundle by themselves. So she did 
 with all the other articles. 
 
 " No 'at it's ony great affair," she said, for on the 
 last night they were all thirsting to do something for 
 Jamie that would be a great affair to him. 
 
 " Ah, ye would wonder, mother," Jamie said, " when 
 I open my box an' find a'thing tied up wi' strings sae 
 careful, it a' comes back to me wi' a rush wha did it, 
 an' am as fond o' thae strings as though they were 
 a grand present. There's the pocky (bag) ye gae 
 me to keep sewin' things in. I get the wifie I lodge 
 wi' to sew to me, but often when I come upon the 
 pocky I sit an' look at it." 
 
 Two chairs were backed to the fire, with under- 
 clothing hanging upside down on them. From the 
 string over the fireplace dangled two pairs of 
 much-darned stockings. 
 
 " Ye'U put on baith thae pair o' stockin's, Jamie," 
 said Jess, " juist to please me ? " 
 
126 JEB8. 
 
 When he arrived he had rebelled against the extra 
 clothing. 
 
 " Ay, will I, mother ? " he said now. 
 
 Jess put her hand fondly through his ugly hair. 
 How handsome she thought him. 
 
 " Ye have a fine brow, Jamie," she said. " I mind the 
 day ye was born sayin' to mysel' 'at ye had a fine brow." 
 
 " But ye thocht he was to be a lassie, mother," said 
 Leeby. 
 
 " Na, Leeby, I didna. I kept sayin' I thocht he 
 would be a lassie because I was fleid he would be; 
 but a' the time I had a presentiment he would be a 
 laddie. It was wi' Joey deein' sae sudden, an' I took 
 on sae terrible aboot 'im 'at I thocht aU alang the 
 Lord would gie me another laddie." 
 
 "Ay, I wanted 'im to be a laddie mysel'," said 
 Hendry, " so as he could tak Joey's place." 
 
 Jess's head jerked back involuntarily, and Jamie 
 may have felt her hand shake, for he said in a voice 
 out of Hendry's hearing : 
 
 " I never took Joey's place wi' ye, mother." 
 
 Jess pressed his hand lightly in her two worn 
 palms, but she did not speak. 
 
 " Jamie was richt like Joey when he was a bairn," 
 Hendry said. 
 
 Again Jess's head moved, but still she was silent. 
 
 " They were sae like," continued Hendry, " 'at often 
 I called Jamie by Joey's name." 
 
 Jess looked at her husband, and her mouth opened 
 and shut. 
 
THE LAST NIGBT. 127 
 
 "I canna mind 'at you ever did that?" Hendry 
 said. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Na," said Hendry, "you never mixed them up. 
 I dinna think ye ever missed Joey sae sair as I did." 
 
 Leeby went ben, and stood in the room in the dark ; 
 Jamie knew why. 
 
 "I'll just gang ben an' speak to Leeby for a 
 meenute," he said to his mother ; " I'll no be lang." 
 
 " Ay, do that, Jamie," said Jess. " What Leeby's 
 been to me nae tongue can tell. Ye canna bear to 
 hear me speak, I ken, o' the time when Hendry an' 
 me'U be awa, but, Jamie, when that time comes ye'U 
 no forget Leeby ? " 
 
 " I winna, mother, I winna," said Jamie. " There'll 
 never be a roof ower me *at's no hers, too." 
 
 He went ben and shut the door. I do not know 
 what he and Leeby said. Many a time since their 
 earliest youth had these two been closeted together, 
 often to make up their little quarrels in each other's 
 arms. They remained a long time in the room, the 
 shabby room of which Jess and Leeby were so proud, 
 and whatever might be their fears about their mother 
 they were not anxious for themselves. Leeby was 
 feeling lusty and well, and she could not know that 
 Jamie required to be reminded of his duty to the folk 
 at home. Jamie would have laughed at the notion. 
 Yet that woman in London must have been waiting 
 for him even then. Leeby, who was about to die, and 
 Jamie, who was to forget his mother, came back to 
 
128 JE88. 
 
 the kitchen with a happy light on their faces. I have 
 with me still the look of love they gave each other 
 before Jamie crossed over to Jess. 
 
 "Ye'U gang anower, noo, mother," Leeby said, 
 meaning that it was Jess's bedtime. 
 
 " No yet, Leeby," Jess answered, " I'll sit up till 
 the readin's ower." 
 
 " I think ye should gang, mother," Jamie said, " an' 
 I'll come an' sit aside ye after ye're i' yer bed." 
 
 "Ay, Jamie, I'll no hae ye to sit aside me the 
 morn's nicht, an' hap (cover) me wi' the claes." 
 
 " But ye'll gang suner to yer bed, mother." 
 
 "I may gang, but I winna sleep. I'll aye be 
 thinkin' o' ye tossin' on the sea. I pray for ye a 
 lang time ilka nicht, Jamie." 
 
 « Ay, I ken." 
 
 « An' I pictur ye ilka horn- o' the day. Te never 
 gang hame through the terrible streets at nicht but 
 I'm thinkin' o' ye." 
 
 " I would try no to be sae sad, mother," said Leeby. 
 " We've ha'en a richt fine time, have we no ? " 
 
 "It's been an awfu' happy time," said Jess. 
 " We've ha'en a pleasantness in oor lives 'at comes 
 to few. I ken naebody 'afs ha'en sae muckle 
 happiness one wy or another." 
 
 " It's because ye're sae guid, mother," said Jamie. 
 
 " Na, Jamie, am no guid ava. It's because my 
 fowk's been sae guid, you an' Hendry an' Leeby an' 
 Joey when he was livin'. I've got a lot mair than 
 my deserts." 
 
THM LAST NIGBT. 129 
 
 "We'll juist look to meetin' next year again, 
 mother. To think o' that keeps me up a' the 
 winter." 
 
 "Ay, if it's the Lord's will, Jamie, but am gey 
 dune noo, an' Hendry's fell worn, too." 
 
 Jamie, the boy that he was, said, "Dinna speak 
 like that, mother,* and Jess again put her hand on 
 his head. 
 
 " Fine I ken, Jamie," she said, " 'at all my days 
 on this earth, be they short or long, I've you for a 
 staff to lean on." 
 
 Ah, many years have gone since then, but if Jamie 
 be living now he has still those words to swallow. 
 
 By and by Leeby went ben for the Bible, and put 
 it into Hendry's hands. He slowly turned over the 
 leaves to his favourite chapter, the fourteenth of 
 John's Gospel. Always, on eventful occasions, did 
 Hendry turn to the fourteenth of John. 
 
 " ' Let not your heart be troubled ; ye believe in 
 God, believe also in me. 
 
 " ' In my Father's house are many mansions ; if it 
 were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare 
 a place for you.' " 
 
 As Hendry raised his voice to read there was a 
 great stillness in the kitchen. I do not know that 
 I have been able to show in the most imperfect way 
 what kind of man Hendry was. He was dense in 
 many things, and the cleverness that was Jess's had 
 been denied to him. He had less book-learning than 
 most of those with whom he passed his days, and he 
 
130 JESS. 
 
 had little skill in talk. I have not known a man 
 more easily taken in by persons whose speech had 
 two faces. But a more simple, modest, upright man, 
 there never was in Thrums, and I shall always revere 
 his memory. 
 
 " ' And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will 
 come again, and receive you unto myself ; that where 
 I am, there ye may be also.' " 
 
 The voice may have been monotonous. I have 
 always thought that Hendry's reading of the Bible 
 was the most solemn and impressive I have ever 
 heard. He exulted in the fourteenth of John, pour- 
 ing it forth like one whom it intoxicated while he 
 read. He emphasised every other word; it was so 
 real and grand to him. 
 
 "We went upon our knees while Hendry prayed, all 
 but Jess, who could not. Jamie buried his face in 
 her lap. The words Hendry said were those he used 
 every night. Some, perhaps, would have smiled at 
 his prayer to God that we be not puffed up with 
 riches nor with the things of this world. His head 
 shook with emotion while he prayed, and he brought 
 us very near to the throne of grace. "Do thou, 
 our God," he said, in conclusion, "spread thy guid- 
 ing hand over him in thy great mercy thou hast 
 brought to us again, and do thou guard him through 
 the perils which come unto those that go down to the 
 sea in ships. Let not our hearts be troubled, neither 
 let them be afraid, for this is not our abiding home, 
 and may we all meet in thy house, where there are 
 
THM LAST NIGHT. 131 
 
 many mansions, and where there will be no last night. 
 Amen." 
 
 It was a silent kitchen after that, though the lamp 
 burned long in Jess's window. By its meagre light 
 you may take a final glance at the little family ; you 
 will never see them together again. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 JESS LEFT ALONE. 
 
 THERE may be a few who care to know how the 
 lives of Jess and Hendry ended. Leeby died in 
 the back-end of the year I have been speaking of, and 
 as I was snowed up in the schoolhouse at the time, 
 I heard the news from Gavin Birse too late to attend 
 her funeral. She got her death on the commonty 
 one day of sudden rain, when she had run out to 
 bring in her washing, for the terrible cold she woke 
 with next morning carried her ,off very quickly. 
 Leeby did not blame Jamie for not coming to her, 
 nor did I, for I knew that even in the presence of 
 death the poor must drag their chains. He never 
 got Hendry's letter with the news, and we know now 
 that he was already in the hands of her who played 
 the devil vdth his life. Before the spring came he 
 had been lost to Jess. 
 
 "Them 'at has got sae mony blessin's mair than 
 the generality," Hendry said to me one day, when 
 Craigiebuckle had given me a lift into Thrums, " has 
 nae shame if they would pray aye for mair. The 
 Lord has gi'en this hoose sae muckle, 'at to pray for 
 mair looks like no bein' thankful for what we've 
 
 132 
 
JSSS LEFT ALONE. 133 
 
 got. Ay, but I canna help prayin' to him 'at in 
 his great mercy he'll tak Jess afore me. Noo 'at 
 Leeby's gone, an' Jamie never lets us hear frae him, 
 I canna gulp down the thocht o' Jess bein' left alane." 
 
 This was a prayer that Hendry may be pardoned 
 for having so often in his heart, though God did not 
 think fit to grant it. In Thrums, when a weaver 
 died, his women folk had to take his seat at the loom, 
 and those who, by reason of infirmities, could not do 
 so, went to a place, the name of which, I thank God, 
 I am not compelled to write in this chapter. I could 
 not, even at this day, have told any episodes in the 
 life of Jess had it ended in the poorhouse. 
 
 Hendry would probably have recovered from the 
 fever had not this terrible dread darkened his intel- 
 lect when he was still prostrate. He was lying in 
 the kitchen when I saw him last in life, and his part- 
 ing words must be sadder to the reader than they 
 were to me. 
 
 " Ay, richt ye are," he said, in a voice that had 
 become a child's ; " I hae muckle, muckle, to be 
 thankfu' for, an' no the least is 'at baith me an' Jess 
 has aye belonged to a bural society. We hae nae 
 cause to be anxious aboot a' thing bein' dune respect- 
 able aince we're gone. It was Jess 'at insisted on oor 
 joinin' ; a' the wisest things I ever did I was put up 
 to by her." 
 
 I parted from Hendry, cheered by the doctor's 
 report, but the old weaver died a few days afterwards. 
 His end was mournful, yet I can recall it now as the 
 
134 JB88. 
 
 not unworthy close of a good man's life. One night 
 poor worn Jess had been helped ben into the room, 
 Tibbie Birse having undertaken to sit up with Hendry. 
 Jess slept for the first time for many days, and as 
 the night was dying Tibbie fell asleep, too. Hendry 
 had been better than usual, lying quietly, Tibbie said, 
 and the fever was gone. About three o'clock Tibbie 
 woke and rose to mend the fire. Then she saw that 
 Hendry was not in his bed. 
 
 Tibbie went ben the house in her stocking-soles, but 
 Jess heard her. 
 
 " What is't, Tibbie ? " she asked, anxiously. 
 
 " On, it's no naething," Tibbie said, " he's lyin' rale 
 quiet." 
 
 Then she went up to the attic. Hendry was not in 
 the house. 
 
 She opened the door gently and stole out. It was 
 not snowing, but there had been a heavy fall two days 
 before, and the night was windy. A tearing gale had 
 blown the upper part of the brae clear, and from 
 T'nowhead's fields the snow was rising like smoke. 
 Tibbie ran to the farm and woke up T'nowhead. 
 
 For an hour they looked in vain for Hendry. At 
 last some one asked who was working in Elshioner's 
 shop all night. This was the long earthen-floored 
 room in which Hendry's loom stood with three 
 others. 
 
 "It'll be Sanders Whamond, likely," T'nowhead 
 said, and the other men nodded. 
 
 But it happened that T'nowhead's Bell, who had 
 
JESS LEFT ALONE. 135 
 
 flung on a wrapper, and hastened across to sit with 
 Jess, heard of the light in Elshioner's shop. 
 
 " It's Hendry," she cried, and then every one moved 
 towards the workshop. 
 
 The light at the diminutive, yarn-covered window 
 was pale and dim, but Bell, who was at the house 
 first, could make the most of a cruizey's glimmer. 
 
 " It's him," she said, and then, with swelling throat, 
 she ran back to Jess. 
 
 The door of the workshop was wide open, held 
 against the wall by the wind. T'nowhead and the 
 others went in. The cruizey stood on the little win- 
 dow. Hendry's back was to the door, and he was 
 leaning forward on the silent loom. He had been 
 dead for some time, but his fellow workers saw that 
 he must have weaved for nearly an hour. 
 
 So it came about that for the last few months of 
 her pilgrimage Jess was left alone. Yet I may not 
 say that she was alone. Jamie, who should have been 
 with her, was undergoing his own ordeal far away ; 
 where, we did not now even know. But though the 
 poorhouse stands in Thrums, where all may see it, the 
 neighbours did not think only of themselves. 
 
 Than Tammas Haggart there can scarcely have 
 been a poorer man, but Tammas was the first to 
 come forward with offer of help. To the day of 
 Jess's death he did not once fail to carry her water 
 to her in the morning, and the luxuriously living men 
 of Thrums, in these present days of pumps at every 
 corner, can hardly realise what that meant. Often 
 
136 JESS. 
 
 there were lines of people at the well by three o'clock 
 in the morning, and each had to wait his turn. Tam- 
 mas filled his own pitcher and pan, and then had to 
 take his place at the end of the line with Jess's pitcher 
 and pan, to wait his turn again. His own house was 
 in the Tenements, far from the brae in winter-time, 
 but he always said to Jess it was " naething ava." 
 
 Every Saturday old Robbie Angus sent a bag of 
 sticks and shavings from the sawmill by his little 
 son Rob, who was afterwards to become a man for 
 speaking about at nights. Of all the friends that Jess 
 and Hendry had, T'nowhead was the ablest to help, 
 and the sweetest memory I have of the farmer and 
 his wife is the delicate way they offered it. You who 
 read will see Jess wince at the offer of charity. But 
 the poor have fine feelings beneath the grime, as you 
 will discover if you care to look for them, and when 
 Jess said she would bake if any one would buy, you 
 would wonder to hear how many kindly folk came to 
 her door for scones. 
 
 She had the house to herself at nights, but Tibbie 
 Birse was with her early in the morning, and other 
 neighbours dropped in. Not for loag did she have to 
 wait the summons to the better home. 
 
 " Na," she said to the minister, who has told me that 
 he was a better man from knowing her, " my thochts 
 is no nane set on the vanities o' the world noo. I 
 kenna hoo I could ever hae haen sic an ambeetion to 
 hae thae stuff-bottomed chairs." 
 
 I have tried to keep away from Jamie, whom the 
 
JESS LEFT ALONE. 137 
 
 neighbours sometimes upbraided in her presence. It 
 is of him you who read would like to hear, and I can- 
 not pretend that Jess did not sit at her window looking 
 for him. 
 
 " Even when she was bakin'," Tibbie told me, " she 
 aye had an eye on the brae. If Jamie had come at 
 ony time when it was licht she would hae seen 'im as 
 sune as he turned the corner." 
 
 "If he ever comes back, the sacket (rascal)," 
 T'nowhead said to Jess, "we'll show 'im the door 
 gey quick." 
 
 Jess just looked, and all the women knew how she 
 would take Jamie to her arms. 
 
 We did not know of the London woman then, and 
 Jess never knew of her. Jamie's mother never for an 
 hour allowed that he had become anything but the 
 loving laddie of his youth. 
 
 " I ken 'im ower weel," she always said, " my ain 
 Jamie." 
 
 Towards the end she was sure he was dead. I do 
 not know when she first made up her mind to this, 
 nor whether it was not merely a phrase for those who 
 wanted to discuss him vrith her. I know that she 
 still sat at the window looking at the elbow of the 
 brae. 
 
 The minister was with her when she died. She 
 was in her chair, and he asked her, as was his custom, 
 if there was any particular chapter which she would 
 like him to read. Since her husband's death she had 
 always asked for the fourteenth of John, " Hendry's 
 
138 JESS. 
 
 chapter," as it is still called among a very few old 
 people in Thrums. This time she asked him to read 
 the sixteenth chapter of Genesis. 
 
 " "When I came to the thirteenth verse," the min- 
 ister told me, " ' And she called the name of the Lord 
 that spake unto her, Thou God seest me,' she covered 
 her face with her two hands, and said, ' Joey's text, 
 Joey's text. Oh, but I grudged ye sair, Joey.' " 
 
 " I shut the book," the minister said, " when I came 
 to the end of the chapter, and then I saw that she was 
 dead. It is my belief that her heart broke one and 
 twenty years ago." 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Jamie's home-coming. 
 
 ON a summer day, when the sun was in the 
 weavers' workshops, and bairns hopped sol- 
 emnly at the game of palaulays, or gaily shook 
 their bottles of sugarelly water into a froth, Jamie 
 came back. The first man to see him was Hookey 
 Crewe, the post. 
 
 « When he came frae London," Hookey said after- 
 wards at T'nowhead's pigsty, "Jamie used to wait 
 for me at Zoar, i' the north end o' Tilliedrum. He 
 carried his box ower the market muir, an' sat on't at 
 Zoar, waitin' for me to catch 'im up. Ay, the day 
 afore yesterday me an' the powny was clatterin' by 
 Zoar, when there was Jamie standin' in his identical 
 place. He hadna nae box to sit upon, an' he was far 
 frae bein' weel in order, but I kent 'im at aince, an' I 
 saw 'at he was waitin' for me. So I drew up, an' 
 waved my hand to 'im." 
 
 " I would hae drove straucht by 'im," said T'now- 
 head ; " them 'at leaves their auld mother to want 
 doesna deserve a lift." 
 
 " Ay, ye say that sittin' there," Hookey said ; " but, 
 lads, I saw his face, an' as sure as death it was sic an' 
 
140 JESS. 
 
 awfu' meeserable face 'at I couldna but pu' the powny 
 up. Weel, he stood for the space o' a meenute lookin' 
 straucht at me, as if he would like to come forrit but 
 dauredna, an' syne he turned an' strided awa ower the 
 muir like a huntit thing. I sat still i' the cart, an' 
 ■when he was far awa he stoppit an' lookit again, but 
 a' my cryin' wouldna bring him a step back, an' i' the 
 end I drove on. I've thocht since syne 'at he didna 
 ken whether his fowk was livin' or deid, an' was fleid 
 to speir." 
 
 " He didna ken," said T'nowhead, " but the faut was 
 his ain. It's ower late to be ta'en up aboot Jess noo," 
 
 " Ay, ay, T'nowhead," said Hookey, " it's aisy to 
 you to speak like that. Ye didna see his face." 
 
 It is believed that Jamie walked from Tilliedrum, 
 though no one is known to have met him on the road. 
 Some two hours after the post left him he was seen 
 by old Rob Angus at the sawmill. 
 
 "I was sawin' awa wi' a' my micht," Rob said, 
 " an' little Rob was haudin' the booards, for they 
 were silly but things, when something made me look 
 at the window. It couldna hae been a tap on't, for 
 the birds has used me to that, an' it would hardly be 
 a shadow, for little Rob didna look up. Whatever it 
 was I stoppit i' the middle o' a booard, an' lookit up, 
 an' there I saw Jamie McQumpha. He joukit back 
 when our een met, but I saw him weel ; ay, if s a 
 queer thing to say, but he had the face o' a man 'at 
 had come straucht frae heU. 
 
 " I stood starin' at the window," Angus continued, 
 
JAMIE'S HOME-COMING. 141 
 
 "after he'd gone, an' Eobbie cried oot to ken what 
 was the maiter wi' me. Ay, that brocht me back to 
 mysel', an' I hurried oot to look for Jamie, but he 
 wasna to be seen. That face gae me a turn." 
 
 Prom the sawmill to the house at the top of the 
 brae, some may remember, the road is up the com- 
 monty. I do not think any one saw Jamie on the 
 commonty, though there were those to say they met 
 him. 
 
 " He gae me sic a look," a woman said, " 'at I was 
 fleid an' ran hame," but she did not tell the story until 
 Jamie's home-coming had become a legend. 
 
 There were many women hanging out their washing 
 on the commonty that day, and none of them saw him. 
 I think Jamie must have approached the old home by 
 the fields, and probably he held back until gloaming. 
 
 The young woman who was now mistress of the 
 house at the top of the brae both saw and spoke with 
 Jamie. 
 
 " Twa or three times," she said, " I had seen a man 
 walk quick up the brae an' by the door. It was gettin' 
 dark, but t noticed 'at he was short an' thin, an' I 
 would hae said he wasna nane weel if it hadna been 
 'at he gaed by at sic a steek. He didna look our wy, 
 — at least no when he was close up, an' I set 'im 
 doon for some ga'en aboot body. Na, I saw naething 
 aboot 'im to be fleid at. 
 
 " The aucht o'clock bell was ringin' when I saw 'im 
 to speak to. My twa-year-auld bairn was standin' 
 aboot the door, an' I was makkin' some porridge for 
 
142 JE88. 
 
 my man's supper when I heard the bairny skirlin'. 
 She came runnin' into the hoose an' hung i' my 
 wrapper, an' she was hingin' there, when I gaed to 
 the door to see what was wrang. 
 
 "It was the man I'd seen passin' the hoose. He 
 was standin' at the gate, which, as a'body kens, is but 
 sax steps frae the hoose, an' I wondered at 'im neither 
 runnin' awa nor comin' forrit. I speired at 'im what 
 he meant by terrifyin' a bairn, but he didna say 
 naething. He juist stood. It was ower dark to see 
 his face richt, an' I wasna nane ta'en aback yet, no 
 till he spoke. Oh, but he had a fearsome word when 
 he did speak. It was a kind o' like a man hoarse wi' 
 a cauld, an' yet no that, either. 
 
 " ' Wha bides i' this hoose ? ' he said, aye standin' 
 there. 
 
 " ' If s Davit PatuUo's hoose,' I said, ' an' am the 
 wife.' 
 
 " ' Whaur's Hendry McQumpha ? ' he speired. 
 
 « ' He's deid,' I said. 
 
 " He stood still for a fell while. 
 
 " ' An' his wife, Jess ?' he said. 
 
 "' She's deid, too,' I said. 
 
 " I thocht he gae a groan, but it may hae been the 
 gate. 
 
 "' There was a dochter, Leeby?' he said. 
 
 " ' Ay,' I said, ' she was ta'en first.' 
 
 "I saw 'im put up his hands to his face, an' he 
 cried oot, ' Leeby, too ! ' an' syne he kind o' fell agin 
 the dyke. I never kent 'im nor nane o' his fowk, but 
 
' IT WAS OWEK DARK TO SEE HIS FACE RICHT.' 
 
JAMIE'S BOME- COMING. 145 
 
 I had heard aboot them, an' I saw 'at it would be the 
 son frae London. It wasna for me to judge 'im, an' 
 I said to 'im would he no come in by an' tak a rest. 
 I was nearer 'im by that time, an' it's an awfu' haver 
 to say 'at he had a face to frichten fowk. It was a 
 rale guid face, but no ava what a body would like to 
 see on a young man. I felt mair like greetin' mysel' 
 when I saw his face than drawin' awa frae 'im. 
 
 " But he wouldna come in. ' Rest,' he said, like 
 ane speakin' to 'imsel', ' na, there's nae mair rest for 
 me.' I didna weel ken what mair to say to 'im, for 
 he aye stood on, an' I wasna even sure 'at he saw me. 
 He raised his held when he heard me tellin' the bairn 
 no to tear my wrapper. 
 
 " ' Dinna set yer heart ower muckle on that bairn,' 
 he cried oot, sharp-like. ' I was aince like her, an' I 
 used to hing aboot my mother, too, in that very 
 roady. Ay, I thocht I was fond o' her, an' she thocht 
 it, too. Tak' a care, wuman, 'at that bairn doesna 
 grow up to murder ye.' 
 
 " He gae a lauch when he saw me tak hand o' the 
 bairn, an' syne a' at aince he gaed awa quick. But he 
 wasna far doon the brae when he turned an' came 
 back. 
 
 " ' Ye'U, mebbe, teU me,' he said, richt low, ' if ye 
 hae the furniture 'at used to be my mother's ? ' 
 
 " ' Na,' I said, ' it was roupit, an' I kenna whaur 
 the things gaed, for me an' my man comes frae 
 Tilliedrum.' 
 
 " ' Ye wouldna hae heard,' he said, ' wha got the 
 
146 JE88. 
 
 muckle ainnchair 'at used to sit i' the kitchen i' the 
 window 'at looks ower the brae ? ' 
 
 " ' I couldna be sure,' I said, ' but there was an 
 airmchair at gaed to Tibbie Birse. If it was the ane 
 ye mean, it a' gaed to bits, an' I think they burned it. 
 It was gey dune.' 
 
 " ' Ay,' he said, ' it was gey dune.' 
 
 " ' There was the chairs ben i' the room,' he said, 
 after awhile. 
 
 " I said I thocht Sanders Elshioner had got them at 
 a bargain because twa o' them was mended wi' glue, 
 an' gey silly. 
 
 " ' Ay, that's them,' he said, ' they were richt neat 
 mended. It was my mother 'at glued them. I mind 
 o' her makkin' the glue, an' warnin' me an' my 
 father no to sit on them. There was the clock, too, 
 an' the stool 'at my mother got cot an' into her bed 
 wi', an' the basket 'at Leeby carried when she gaed 
 the errands. The straw was aff the handle, an' my 
 father mended it wi' strings.' 
 
 " ' I dinna ken,' I said, ' whaur nane o' thae gaed ; 
 but did yer mother hae a staff ? ' 
 
 " ' A little staff,' he said ; ' it was near black wi' 
 age. She couldna gang frae the bed to her chair 
 withoot it. It was broadened oot at the foot wi' her 
 leanin' on't sae muckle.' 
 
 " ' I've heard tell,' I said, ' 'at the dominie up i' 
 Glen Quharity took awa the staff.' 
 
 "He didna speir for nae other thing. He had 
 the gate in his hand, but I dinna think he kent 
 
JAMIE'S SOME-COMING. 147 
 
 'at he was swingin't back an' forrit. At last he let 
 it go. 
 
 « ' That's a',' he said, ' I maim awa. Good nicht, 
 an' thank ye kindly.' 
 
 " I watched 'im till he gaed oot o' sicht. He gaed 
 doon the brae." 
 
 We learnt afterwards from the grave-digger that 
 some one spent great part of that night in the grave- 
 yard, and we believe it to have been Jamie. He 
 walked up the glen to the schoolhouse next fore- 
 noon, and I went out to meet him when I saw him 
 coming down the path. 
 
 " Ay," he said, " it's me come back." 
 
 I wanted to take him into the house and speak 
 with him of his mother, but he would not cross 
 the threshold. 
 
 " I came oot," he said, " to see if ye would gie me 
 her staff — no 'at I deserve 't." 
 
 I brought out the staff and handed it to him, 
 thinking that he and I would soon meet again. As 
 he took it I saw that his eyes were sunk back into 
 his head. Two great tears hung on his eyeUds, and 
 his mouth closed in agony. He stared at me till 
 the tears fell upon his cheeks, and then he went 
 away. 
 
 That evening he was seen by many persons cross- 
 ing the square. He went up the brae to his old 
 home, and asked leave to go through the house for 
 the last time. First he climbed up into the attic, and 
 stood looking in, his feet still on the stair. Then he 
 
148 
 
 JB8S. 
 
 came down and stood at the door of the room, but 
 he went into the kitchen. 
 
 "I'll ask one last favour o' ye," he said to the 
 woman ; " I would like ye to leave me here alane for 
 juist a little while." 
 
 " I gaed oot," the woman said, " meanin' to leave 
 'im to 'imsel', but my bairn wouldna come, an' he 
 said, ' Never mind her,' so I left her wi' 'im, an' 
 closed the door. He was in a lang time, but I never 
 kent what he did, for the bairn juist aye greets when 
 I speir at her. 
 
 " I watched 'im frae the corner window gang doon 
 the brae till he came to the corner. I thocht he 
 turned round there an' stood lookin' at the hoose. 
 He would see me better than I saw him, for my lamp 
 was i' the window, whaur I've heard tell his mother 
 keepit her cruizey. When my man came in I speired 
 at 'im if he'd seen onybody standin' at the corner o' 
 the brae, an' he said he thocht he'd seen somebody wi' 
 a little staff in his hand. Davit gaed doon to see if 
 he was aye there after supper-time, but he was gone." 
 
 Jamie was never again seen in Thrums. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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