bm/Pbu 
 
 4 
 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 4793.H72S7 
 
 Spindles and oars. 
 
 3 1924 013 483 387 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013483387 
 
SPINDLES AND OARS 
 

 ^RD-Loc^xc-coripAriy • united 
 
 LOf«[DOriHE^7Ol\K:2(nELBO0RrlE 
 
 1396 
 
PRINTED IN' GREAT BRITAIN 
 
To my Brother's Memory 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. The Minister I 
 
 II. Jean's Lad 15 
 
 III. When Andrew won back to Lizbeth . . 25 
 
 IV. The Gates of Death ...... 43 
 
 V. A Child of the Sea 53 
 
 VI. May-Day 72 
 
 VII. Her Heart's Desire 90 
 
 VIII. The Battle of the Bannocks .... 103 
 
 IX. How Robbie became a Poet .118 
 
 X. Crossing the Bar 135 
 
 XI. Kirsty M'Naughten's Bairn .... 154 
 
 XII. At the End of the Days 174 
 
 XIII. Oor Doctor 192 
 
 XIV. Nannie 207 
 
 XV. The Minister's Leddy 220 
 
 XVI. First-Footing 229 
 
 XVII. Widdy Rafe 238 
 
SPINDLES AND OARS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 The Minister 
 
 A handful of fishermen's cottages, and a cluster 
 of mills on the brae above them were, maybe, 
 all that a stranger would see in Skyrle. And 
 seeing these, I doubt he would get never a hint 
 of its life, tossing like a shuttle from factory 
 to shore, from green wave to dusty loom. It 
 is not everywhere that you find the noise of 
 the mills drowned by the roll of the sea ; or the 
 simple ways of the fisher-folk mixing with the 
 wheels and whirl of the factory ; but in Skyrle 
 you can't get them parted. Sea and land, 
 change and rest, birth and death, tears and 
 laughing, spindles and oars make up the lives 
 of the folk that live there. 
 
 But when our minister, Mr Grahame, came 
 to the north it was terribly flattering to see 
 how well the town pleased him. He had been 
 
2 Spindles and Oars 
 
 expecting only a fishing-village; and when he 
 saw all the houses and all the kirks— Skyrle 
 being one of those places that keep their re- 
 ligion in brick— and the harbour, and the com- 
 mon, he was very well pleased to find himself 
 in Scotland. And a fine sight it was to see his 
 happy face when he knew he had no appoint- 
 ments to make, and no week-night sermon to 
 preach, and but one class to meet through the 
 week. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said he to his lassie, Miss Isobel, ' had 
 I but known this, I would have asked for a 
 Scotch Circuit when I was a young man. In 
 you go to the manse, child. It will be three 
 good years before we say farewell to it, please 
 God!' 
 
 So they stepped through the gate close by 
 the kirk ; and though it was the gloaming, the 
 lassie called out at the bonnie garden, with its 
 bit of lawn, and old apple trees ; and the elms 
 beyond, where the crows built in the spring. 
 But when she saw the house, she roared and 
 laughed ; though it was truly a fine manse, 
 only low in the roof, and maybe not over bright 
 for a young lassie. She danced into the room 
 where Kirsty, the maid, had spread the supper, 
 and looked into the chamber opening from it, 
 
Spindles and Oars 3 
 
 calling out to her father to come in and see 
 the bed in the wall. But the minister did not 
 heed her. He had not thought to stoop coming 
 into the room, and so had knocked his head on 
 the door beam. He sat down rubbing his brow; 
 and when Kirsty would have clapped some 
 sweet butter to it, he stopped her ; saying, dry- 
 like, it was a clever man that made an impres- 
 sion so soon as he entered on a new charge. 
 
 In the meantime Miss Isobel was running 
 over the rooms crying out at all she saw, and 
 laughing at Scotch ways. Kirsty did not like 
 to hear the manse made a laughing-stock, but 
 all at once the lassie burst into the room, and 
 gave her a kiss in the English fashion. 
 
 The tea-pot had been sitting on the hob, 
 and when the lassie spoke, Kirsty put it on 
 the table and the two began their tea. But it 
 was easy to be seen that they were English 
 by the way they acted with the bannocks, eat- 
 ing them without butter and never a thought 
 to the syrup, though Kirsty coughed and 
 pushed it beside the minister's plate more than 
 once. But I'm thinking English folk are surely 
 not all right in their taste, for although the 
 tea had been infused the best part of the hour, 
 they took ill with it and called for fresh. This 
 
4 Spindles and Oars 
 
 was like to upset Kirsty again, but just then 
 the minister asked what they called cookies in 
 Scotland, and she was so flattered at knowing 
 more about it than the minister, that she in- 
 fused fresh tea and never a word at doing it. 
 But from that day she held her head above 
 most of the kirk members ; and none ever forgot 
 that it was Kirsty that told the minister what 
 way they called cookies in Scotland. It was 
 maybe this that made her so free afterwards 
 in criticising the sermons ; she felt that she had 
 a right after she had given him the informa- 
 tion about the cookies. 
 
 Well, this was on the night of the Friday, 
 and by Sabbath forenoon there was not a kirk 
 member but knew how the new minister was 
 a widow man with the one lassie, and a wee 
 terrier that they named Skye. And this being 
 so,' it was natural that Mr Grahame should be 
 well liked in the town — Skyrle having a great 
 name for the old maids in it. And there was 
 not a member but knew too how the minister 
 had gone into the kirk on the Saturday, and 
 kneeling down in the aisle, had put up a 
 prayer for a blessing on his work among the 
 people he had not seen. But if you had not 
 felt by his face that the minister was a man 
 
Spindles and Oars 5 
 
 of prayer, you would have told by his breeks 
 that were shiny and worn at the knees, and 
 good in all other places. And many a time 
 Kirsty— she and David M'Naughten, the church 
 officer, were courting — has seen the key in the 
 vestry door, and seeking in for David, has been 
 put about to find the minister at his prayers. 
 
 He was the sort of man that clapped at 
 more than one sense from the pulpit; for, shut 
 your eyes as you might, his tongue kept you 
 from sleep through the sermon. 
 
 Man ! what a voice the minister had ! There 
 was no sleep in the kirk that Sabbath ; and even 
 the rooks that gathered on the trees outside 
 stopped their chatter to listen to the sermon. 
 
 The church was one of the oldest in Skyrle, 
 and had been built by John Wesley himself. It 
 was a quaint-like place with eight sides, by 
 reason of which it got the name of ' the Totum 
 Kirkie.'* But for all its age, it was bonnie with 
 trees and its diamond-paned windows. And 
 when you got inside you had a sight of the 
 stained-glass window above the pulpit, through 
 which the sun glinted on Sabbath mornings. 
 
 To be sure there was not much of John 
 Wesley remaining in the kirk. But in the 
 * Teetotum Church. 
 
6 Spindles and Oars 
 
 vestry there was the old pulpit he had used; 
 and an old-fashioned clock that had ticked to 
 his preaching. And there was a musty smell 
 about the place that Geordie Mackay praised, 
 calling it the odour of antiquity, though it was 
 just the damp. 
 
 It was Geordie that first found out the human 
 nature in Mr Grahame. And I won't say I 
 didn't catch a sort of twinkle in the minister's 
 eye, when, seeing that William Rafe— the lad 
 that played the harmonium— was like to drop off 
 to sleep, he gave the Book a thump that made 
 more than one swallow their peppermint drop in 
 a hurry, and sit up very stiff, blinking to show 
 they were awake. 
 
 There's no doubt the minister enjoyed his 
 joke, for I remember him telling David not to 
 put away his little doggie from the vestry at the 
 class. ' No, no, David,' said he ; ' Skye is a 
 good Methodist though he is Scotch ; and I am 
 glad to have one regular attendant at the class.' 
 So the doggie came every Wednesday; and 
 afterwards would give his paw to any body at 
 the door, for all the world like the minister 
 shaking hands with the members. 
 
 Mr Grahame was a great man for dumb 
 things, and had a canary that sat on his 
 
Spindles and Oars 7 
 
 shoulder, or ran after his pen as he wrote. And 
 he had a parrot, too, that was a scandal to 
 Kirsty; for though it sang psalms during the 
 week, it used awful language on Sabbath when 
 the kirk came out. 
 
 'A grand sermon and a grand man, yon,' 
 said Geordie at the gate that first Sabbath 
 after the sermon. 'A grand man, is he no', 
 David ? ' 
 
 ' I wouldna say he is no',' said David, with his 
 eye on his boots, watching for Kirsty to win 
 into the manse. 
 
 'I'm thinking it's a guid change we have 
 made fra the last man. He has a gift, the 
 minister,' said Geordie. 
 
 ' He was powerfu' hard on the cushions,' 
 said Elspeth. 'We'll be needin' ithers gin he 
 chastens them sae sair.' 
 
 'Ay, he has a gift, has he no', David?' 
 Geordie went on. 
 
 'Mebbe so, mebbe no,' said David, wiping 
 his mouth with the back of his hand; Kirsty 
 having passed him with her head high, on 
 account of Elspeth Mackay standing beside 
 him. Elspeth was no kin to Geordie, though 
 she bore the same name. 
 'I took vera weel wi' his gien' oot o' the 
 
8 Spindles and Oars 
 
 hymns,' said Elspeth. 'I can aye tell by that 
 what spirit a man is of.' 
 
 •I ken better by his shirt-front,' said Widdy 
 Rafe. ' Cleanliness is neist to Godliness, if no' 
 before it.' 
 
 And indeed to see the widow you would 
 have thought it was before it. And many 
 a time William Rafe has wished that text 
 out of print, his life being a burden to him 
 with clean collars and the starch in his 
 Sabbath shirt. But it was the town's talk 
 that his mother said there was aye hope of 
 a man's soul so long as his body was kept 
 fair. 
 
 'He pit a saxpence i' the plate,' said David. 
 ' I'm no* sure but I was expectin' a shilling fra 
 the new minister.' 
 
 'Ay, he's mair Scotch nor English,' said 
 Elspeth. 'Were you noticing the sprinkle o' 
 snuff on his weskit, mem ? ' 
 
 Widdy Rafe didn't answer, not liking Els- 
 peth to know her sight was not so good as 
 it might be. 
 
 'Could you tell me wha wrote that fine 
 rhyme fra Cowper that he quoted at the 
 end?' she asked, to take Elspeth down, and 
 being awful proud of her book learning. 
 
Spindles and Oars 9 
 
 ' Na, mem,' said Elspeth, poor body ; ' I dinna 
 mind o't just the noo.' 
 
 'Weel, weel,' said Geordie; 'he's got awful 
 big feet.' 
 
 'Eh, deary, deary! Do your hear him, 
 David? the minister's gotten big feet,' Els- 
 peth called. 
 
 'And why for no'?' said Widdy Rafe very 
 short. 'A man wi' small feet never has muckle 
 at ether end o' him.' 
 
 •And what aboot a woman?' said Geordie, 
 very bold; for he knew well that Widdy Rafe 
 had the biggest foot in Skyrle. But, however, 
 she took no notice of the laddie's mischief. 
 
 'Weel, Elspeth, Til haud hame wi' you,' she 
 said; 'for my Wullie is to tak his diet at the 
 manse the day.' 
 
 'At the manse? wi' the minister?' said Els- 
 peth very slow; as was natural, thinking of 
 William Rafe getting his dinner with the 
 minister. 
 
 'Ay,' said the widdy, as if she was not car- 
 ing to be proud about it. 'He was bidden 
 yestreen after helping Kirsty unpack the kists. 
 The manse will be a sicht the day wi' all the 
 braw things intil it. I doot he'll no' get his 
 meat for looking at them.' 
 
io Spindles and Oars 
 
 'There's naething i' the manse bonnier than 
 the minister's lassie,' said Geordie. 
 
 But he got fine and red when Widdy Rafe 
 turned on him. 
 
 ' Ca canny, laddie, and tak tent o' your steps, 
 for be a man's feet great or sma' they're swift 
 to follow where a lassie leads.' 
 
 Surely that was a hard thing to say to a 
 young lad that was happy, not knowing the 
 ways of womenfolk. 
 
 Just then the manse gate opened, and out 
 came the little doggie shaking his hair, and 
 delighted to be going out; and Miss Isobel 
 after him, a slip of a lassie with big shining 
 eyes, and yellow hair tumbled about her like 
 the doggie's. They had surely forgotten it 
 was the Sabbath; or, maybe, being English, 
 they didn't rightly know to keep the day ; but, 
 I can tell you, the sight of the young things 
 as bright and gladsome as though it was a 
 Monday gave Widdy Rafe such a shock that 
 she never forgot it. To think of the mini- 
 ster's daughter setting an example to the 
 town, with her eyes and hair and feet danc- 
 ing on the Sa>bath, and the doggie's with 
 her! 
 
 The lassie flashed past us and through the 
 
Spindles and Oars " 
 
 gate before a word could be said ; and then out 
 came the minister. How noble he was, with 
 his white hair and grand head, his kindly eyes, 
 and his smile that was like a bow from royalty ! 
 And how proud Elspeth was when he took 
 a kiss from her wee Eppie and bade her be a 
 good girl, the while he sought in his pocket 
 for a sweetie for her. Elspeth was just de- 
 lighted, and ceased envying William Rafe, who 
 stood by wearing gloves and feeling as if he 
 was all hands. 
 
 He was a nice lad, William, not over bold ; 
 and it seemed a great thing for him to be walk- 
 ing out with Mr Grahame, explaining church 
 matters to him. And, indeed, he knew more 
 about the little church John Wesley had built 
 than any other body in Skyrle. He led the 
 minister out by the Abbey burying-ground to 
 show him where the table monument was on 
 which John Wesley had stood to preach his 
 first sermon in the town. And delighted was 
 Mr Grahame to hear how Wesley had stopped 
 the mouth of the parish mi .ister who was for 
 holding him from preaching in his parish. 
 
 'No, no,' said Wesley; 'cfes parish is that 
 of my Master, and is anywhere under the 
 blue skies where there is a hungry soul de- 
 
i2 Spindles and Oars 
 
 siring the bread of life. Go you back to your 
 manse and take another sleep in your arm- 
 chair by the fire.' At which the folk were 
 very well pleased ; it being known that the 
 parish minister thought more of keeping him- 
 self warm in this life than of keeping his 
 flock from being too warm in the next. 
 
 He could make no answer, the people being 
 all for hearing the strange English preacher; 
 and he had to leave him to his sermon, after 
 John Wesley had challenged him to a debate 
 in John Gouck's barn the morrow's morn. The 
 which they had; but the parish minister lost 
 his hold on doctrine, and couldn't argue with 
 Wesley, the wee man being as nimble with his 
 tongue as with his legs. 
 
 They didn't stop long in the Abbey, Miss 
 Isobel being fain to have a sight of the sea; 
 so William led them across the green and along 
 Ponderlaw till they got out by the brae-heads. 
 And there was the sea before them as blue as 
 ever 'tis seen, and they standing by the yellow 
 field where the corn was waiting for the sickle. 
 The minister lifted his hat, and his lips moved ; 
 but Miss Isobel just looked at William with the 
 tears standing in her eyes, as you have seen the 
 dew spread on the blue corncockles in harvest. 
 
Spindles and Oars 13 
 
 'Do you not take well with it, Miss Grahame?' 
 said William, speaking English very grand. 
 
 'It is not that,' said Miss Isobel, her voice 
 like the wind sighing through the corn ; ' but 
 it is so beautiful. I never thought there was 
 anything so lovely.' 
 
 'Ay, ay, it's well enough,' said William. 
 
 And indeed it might have been worse. Out 
 of the blue waves rose up the white pillar of 
 the Bell Lighthouse like an angel guarding 
 the coast ; and the sunshine on it gave it wings 
 shining like the lids of Kirsty's saucepans. 
 South of the harbour you could see a flash of 
 gold from the Eyelot sands, and the bonnie 
 purple hills at the river mouth beyond. The 
 grey stones of the harbour wall I liked for the 
 colour that led the eye to the dark rocks on 
 the shore and the red cliffs rising above them. 
 It was no wonder that the red and the blue, 
 the silver and the gold, and the white clouds 
 like 'a lifted veil above it all, should have made 
 the lassie greet. But the minister finished his 
 prayer, and William looked round at her as if 
 he thought little of the landscape beside Miss 
 Isobel. 
 
 If Geordie Mackay, who is a bit of a poet, 
 had been there, he'd have said the slim girlie 
 
i4 Spindles and Oars 
 
 standing on the edge of the brae was like the 
 spirit of the place ; for her gold hair and red 
 cheeks, blue eyes and white skin, had all the 
 colours that were in the picture before them. 
 
 But though William felt the resemblance he 
 couldn't have put it into words ; but his breast 
 thumped like John Gouck's drum at the volun- 
 teers' drill, and for the first time in his life he 
 saw a lassie with the eyes of his heart. And 
 this made him stand very foolish-like, wishing 
 sore he hadn't put on the gloves that took the 
 manhood out of him. And Kirsty told me after- 
 wards how Miss Isobel won home and laughed 
 with the doggie Skye about the Scotchman 
 that hadn't any eye for beauty. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 Jean's Lad 
 
 Kirsty at the manse, always said that Jean had 
 no right to burden herself with Nancy Mull- 
 holland's bairn. A young thing like her, she 
 was fifteen just, wasn't the right sort of mother 
 for a week-old baby. But eh, you never can 
 tell when the mother grows in a lassie. I have 
 seen the girlies with their dolls, nursing them 
 and holding the wooden heads close to their 
 innocent little bosoms, till I have been like to 
 greet. And Jean was that sort of lassie always. 
 Before she was ten there wasn't a woman in 
 Skyrle but was glad to have her mind the 
 bairns; all, I should say, but Kirsty, who did 
 not think a woman could be motherly till she 
 was a mother; and who was for having nature 
 go in harness, and would fain have had the 
 reins in her own hands. 
 But I never took well with such like notions. 
 
16 Spindles and Oars 
 
 Marriages may or may not be made in heaven ; 
 but I am right sure mothers are made there 
 whenever a woman child is born. And so I 
 told Kirsty; for though a woman has her hands 
 full of bairns she's no more a mother than many 
 a childless creature whose heart is ready to 
 take in every little helpless bairn that comes 
 into the world. And Jean Wishart was one 
 of that sort. You could tell it by the way she 
 took Nancy Mullholland's babe from its mother 
 and held it with her cheek bent down against 
 the little red face. 
 
 'The wee thingie!' she said, crying and 
 laughing at once. 'She's no' to go to the 
 poor's house. Rest your mind, Nancy; she 
 shall be my own bairn; and I'll be a mither 
 to her sae long as God spares me.' 
 
 Jean was tall and womanly, though she 
 was a young thing; and she had lived so 
 long by herself that she was douce like and 
 sensible beyond her years ; and none grumbled 
 at her taking the bairn home to do for it but 
 Kirsty ; and I know what made Kirsty talk that 
 way. If a woman is ever angered at another, 
 it's when she sees that other doing the duty 
 that she ought to do herself. And Kirsty 
 was like to be sharp on Jean ; for she was 
 
Spindles and Oars *7 
 
 own aunt to Nancy, and should have taken 
 the bairn home herself. 
 
 She saw her duty clear, and it made her 
 grudging-like to Jean when she met the lassie, 
 with her face all red and proud, in Anderson's 
 buying a long gown to the bairn instead of a 
 new hat to herself. And it did more, for it 
 kept her from the kirk the Sabbath the babe 
 was baptised ; though she put it down spasms 
 from eating fine bread at Elspeth Mackay's 
 the night before. And sorry I was for Kirsty 
 to have missed seeing the baptism, for I'm sure 
 a prettier sight hadn't been in the kirk since 
 it was built a hundred years ago. 
 
 Mr Grahame gave out the hymn, and the 
 church officer, Kirsty's David, rose and opened 
 the vestry door. Miss Isobel, the minister's 
 little daughter, who thought a sight of Jean, 
 had slipped out of the manse pew and gone 
 round to the vestry before that; and when 
 David opened the door, out she came with her 
 eyes all shining and excited, walking beside 
 Jean, who carried Nancy Mullholland's bairn. 
 When Mr Grahame walked down the pulpit 
 steps and stood with his white hair before the 
 two young things — for Miss Isobel was younger 
 than Jean— many a one sobbed aloud, it was 
 
18 Spindles and Oars 
 
 so pitiful to see the two lassies and the little 
 motherless bairn waiting for the old man's 
 blessing. 
 
 William Rafe was new to the organ then; 
 and being always tender, his eyes got so dim 
 he lost his place, and would have broken down, 
 only Geordie Mackay took up the hymn and 
 carried it on to the end. Miss Isobel stood 
 with her cheeks very red looking up at the 
 minister. But Jean had a kind of hush on 
 her face and while she held the baby her eyes 
 stared straight up over the pulpit at the window 
 with the stained glass. It was Miss Isobel 
 who gave the name ' Nannie ' very loud, so that 
 all could hear ; and the minister lifted the little 
 thing in his arms in the English fashion, and 
 put his hand on her. Then he gave her back 
 to Jean; and as she took her the sun struck 
 through the window and laid a slant of gold 
 across the baby's forehead. It was Geordie 
 Mackay who noticed this, and he told Kirsty 
 afterwards it was a token for good. But, eh 
 deary me ! who could believe that when the 
 baby got up and was just the naughtiest slip 
 of a lassie that ever wore a woman out?— but 
 I'm not to tell of that yet. 
 
 Kirsty always held to it that what followed 
 
Spindles and Oars 19 
 
 was a judgment on Jean for rushing into the 
 duties of a mother before she was called ; and, 
 indeed, it seemed a strange providence that it 
 was that very Sabbath Willie Murgatroyd came 
 walking into Skyrle bent on offering her mar- 
 riage. But I often think the ways of Provi- 
 dence are like a rainbow, for we cannot see 
 them unless the sun is shining ; and many a 
 time they are only half-drawn on the clouds, 
 with the end too far off for our sight to 
 follow it. 
 
 Willie and Jean had courted since the time 
 they were at school together ; but he had been 
 staying in the south seeking work, and so he 
 had never heard a word of Nancy Mullhol- 
 land's death, and the way Jean had taken in the 
 bairn. He went along the High Street, nod- 
 ding bashful-like to one and another as he 
 passed, and he turned down Seagate to the 
 house by the shore where she stayed. He was 
 so full of what he had to say to her that it gave 
 him a turn when, near by the railings, Kirsty 
 plucked at his coat-tail. 
 
 She was not very well pleased at having 
 missed the baptism that made the talk of the 
 town, and she had led David out by the shore 
 to hear what she could from Jean herself. 
 
20 Spindles and Oars 
 
 When she set eyes on Willie she had as much 
 as she could do to keep her tongue from the 
 subject ; but she knew he was Jean's lad, and 
 she was not minded to let him see that David 
 knew more of the matter than herself. 
 
 ' Aweel, Wullie, and are you to call for Jean 
 the day ? ' she asked him. 
 
 ' Ou ay,' said Willie sheepish-like, turning his 
 face away, for he felt as if everybody in Skyrle 
 could read his errand on it. 
 
 'Weel, Wullie, I'm doubting you'll no tak 
 weel wi' what Jean has to tell you,' Kirsty said, 
 edging along the subject as you'll see a crab 
 edge along the waves when the tide's com- 
 ing in. 
 
 'And why for no ? ' said Willie very quick. 
 ' Is she to say me nay ? ' Then he got awful 
 red, for he had told Kirsty all. 
 
 ' I doubt she'll no be saying you nay, nor ony 
 ither man,' Kirsty said. 'She'll be unco fain 
 of a lad, I'm thinking.' 
 
 ' Hoots, wumman ! ' David took her up short, 
 like the minister stamping his foot at the not- 
 able parts of his discourse. ' Gae you ben the 
 hoose, Wullie, and Jean will tell you the haill 
 maitter better than Kirsty wha kens naught 
 aboot it.' 
 
Spindles and Oars 21 
 
 David's Sabbath dinner had surely made a 
 man of him ; but, however, Kirsty feeling the 
 edge of truth in what he said, turned on him 
 with her tongue, and Willie left them to it and 
 went into the house to Jean. The sight of the 
 baby on her knee made him forget his errand ; 
 but Jean called him in, and soon he knew how 
 she had promised to rear Nancy's bairn. 
 
 There's nothing can put a man second in a 
 woman's heart so easy as a baby can. The 
 tender wee thing pulls at her love stronger 
 than a man has power for ; and it angered 
 Willie to see that Jean, who before this had 
 never had an eye for aught but himself, couldn't 
 listen to him for noticing the bairn. 
 
 'What was't you were saying, Willie?' she 
 would ask absent-like, and not minding the 
 answer, go on nodding and smiling down at 
 the child on her knee. And when he was fain 
 to tell her of his plans: 'See how the wee 
 handie failds ower my finger,' said she, caring 
 nothing at all about his arrangings. 
 
 He couldn't get her to listen to him for the 
 child, and his heart got hotter and hotter 
 against it. But he kept his rage in, and went 
 on with his story, how he would soon be away 
 to Australia, and would she wed at once and 
 
22 Spindles and Oars 
 
 go over the sea with him. And then she did 
 look up, with a great light shining on her face 
 that it made him bashful to see. 'Surely, 
 Willie,' she said earnestlike, as though she 
 would never have thought of doing aught 
 else. 
 
 He would have taken her hand then, but 
 the baby had fallen asleep holding her finger, 
 and she would not let him disturb it. 
 
 ' Jean, put that bairn down,' he cried. ' I 
 need you, not the bairn, and I canna have even 
 a kiss for you holding it. I doubt I'm jealous, 
 lassie, for I canna bear to see you giving mair 
 thought to the child than to me.' 
 
 ' No, no, you mustna talk that gait, Willie,' 
 she said, smiling. 'I think you should love 
 wee Nannie too, for by-and-by she will belong 
 to us baith.' 
 
 Jean never told what he said to her after 
 that, but [they must have been hard words, for 
 he was angered. And when Kirsty came into 
 the room an hour later, he had gone, and 
 Jean was standing with a white, white face, 
 and her arms locked about the bairn. 
 
 She had seemed but a lassie before, but 
 Kirsty sat down suddenly in a tremble when 
 she saw the change in her. She was a woman 
 
Spindles and Oars 23 
 
 all at once, and her face was still and cold, 
 like the face of the sea before the storm breaks 
 through it. At first Kirsty dared not ask her 
 how she had settled with her lad, but she was 
 bent on knowing. So she moved forward and 
 felt the stuff of the bairn's gown — it was fine 
 muslins and fit for a child of the manse- 
 saying: 'Ay, lassie, you'll no be carin' to 
 spend sae muckle on Nancy's bairn when 
 you hae your ain to deed. Wullie is a close 
 lad. He'll maybe grudge his siller efter the 
 merriage.' 
 
 Then Jean turned to her with her mouth 
 all quivering, and said she, 'You mustna call 
 Willie's name to me again, Kirsty. We are 
 no' to be merried, and, if you please, I'd like 
 very well to be my lane just now.' 
 
 Kirsty is not one that you can quiet with a 
 word, her tongue being like a bunch of nettles, 
 but it made her dumb to see the lassie stand- 
 ing there so white and awful. She had her 
 arms round the child as though she would 
 never let her go, and Kirsty saw as clear as 
 Lunan water what had happened. She held 
 her tongue till she got to the bench where 
 David sat smoking his Sabbath pipe, although 
 she was like to burst with pride at being the 
 
24 Spindles and Oars 
 
 first to know Jean had quarrelled with her 
 lad. But as soon as she came up to David 
 she began. And for many days after there 
 was never a body in Skyrle could get a word 
 out of David M'Naughten. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 When Andrew Won Back To Lizbeth 
 
 'Andra Cargill is awa' wi' Bella Forsyth,' David 
 remarked to Kirsty. 
 
 Kirsty was in the manse kitchen baking 
 scones, and she threw her hands above her 
 head till the flour came down on her like to 
 snow in the fall. 
 
 'Awa' wi' Bella Forsyth!' she cried. 
 
 ' Ou ay,' said David very douce. 
 
 ' Andra Cargill ? ' she asked him. 
 
 'Ou ay,' said David again. 
 
 'Man, are you for sayin' Andra's left his 
 lawful wife, Lizbeth, for a bold hizzy like 
 Bella?' 
 
 She looked at him with razors in her eye, 
 but David studied his own comfort and kept 
 his glance on the floor while he answered her. 
 
 'I didna' juist say sae,' he said, 'but, how- 
 ever, he's awa' wi' her.' 
 
26 Spindles and Oars 
 
 Kirsty sat herself very sudden on a creepie 
 stool, and flung her apron over her head, rock- 
 ing and calling : — 'An' him a kirk member, eh, 
 dearie, dearie! Likely Lizbeth winna pay for 
 mair than ane sitting i' the kirk the noo! 
 'Twill be an awfu' blow tae the meenister, eh, 
 dearie, dearie ! ' 
 
 She wasn't greeting, but she was maybe 
 wishing that David might think it ; and indeed 
 there is nothing so like to make a man play 
 the fool as the sight of a woman in tears — 
 that is to say if she isn't married to him. 
 
 But David had not been married ten years 
 to his wife (poor decent body, she was scarce 
 cold in the Abbey yard before he went court- 
 ing to Kirsty!) without getting a knowledge 
 of woman's ways to help him through life. 
 He sat very still with his eyes on the floor the 
 while Kirsty sobbed, swaying herself, and 
 thinking that the news would make an awful 
 amazement in the kirk on Sabbath first. 
 
 David broke the silence at last. 
 
 'I wadna be sayin' thae scones are no' 
 burnin'.' 
 
 Before the words were from his lips the 
 apron was from Kirsty's head, and she was 
 on her knees before the stove with a scone 
 
Spindles and Oars 27 
 
 in each hand beating the burn from the edges. 
 'Theer's naething like to a man for makkin' 
 wark;' she said, when she had gained her 
 breath. ' Gin you canna say mair aboot the 
 maitter you'll maybe no' sit like a gowk 
 burnin' Miss Isobel's scones.' 
 
 David was a wiser man than to make answer 
 to a scolding woman. 
 
 'The meenister wull maybe be breakin' the 
 tidin's tae Lizbeth;' he remarked. 
 
 'Man! dae you tell me Lizbeth disna ken 
 the haill circumstances?' Kirsty cried. 
 
 'I wadna say that she does, and I wadna 
 say that she doesna,' David replied to her. 
 
 In less than an hour Kirsty's scones were 
 all fired; the manse kitchen was fair for the 
 day ; and Kirsty, dressed in her Sabbath gown, 
 and carrying her Sabbath kerchief, (for well 
 she knew she would have a need of it ! ) was 
 stepping out to Easthaven where Lizbeth 
 Cargill stayed among the other fisher-folk. 
 Kirsty's face was set in importance the while 
 she travelled the road between Skyrle and 
 Easthaven. And indeed if she had not had 
 the scandal to make her of consequence, her 
 Sabbath clothes on the week-day would have 
 given dignity to her appearance. And the 
 
28 Spindles and Oars 
 
 kerchief she bore set her mouth as for a 
 funeral. 
 
 It was an easy thing to see that more than 
 ordinary was causing tongues to wag in the 
 haven that morning. Down the long street 
 that makes the village, the fishwives at their 
 tubs were calling one to another, tossing 
 Andra's name and Bella's across the reek of 
 the haddies. The fishers stood in knots here 
 and there with their hands in their pockets 
 saying little, though to Kirsty it seemed that 
 even the smoke from their pipes smirched the 
 names of Lizbeth, and Andra' and Bella. 
 
 She kept her ears open but she passed 
 between the two lines of houses with her 
 eyes set straight as though she saw nothing. 
 She had a duty before her, and she could not 
 wait to gossip with the neighbours lest the 
 news should get to Lizbeth's house ere she 
 carried it. And as she went her way, she 
 took note that the nigher she drew to Lizbeth 
 the more quiet were the tongues, until she 
 couldn't have said that anything extraordinary 
 had occurred in the haven. But when she 
 had a sight of Andrew Cargill's house — it 
 stood the last on the brae— she was like to 
 let her kerchief drop with her delight at 
 
Spindles and Oars 20 
 
 seeing Lizbeth sitting beside her door bait- 
 ing Andrew's lines, for this told Kirsty that 
 Lizbeth was ignorant that Andrew had proved 
 himself unfaithful to her, and a scandal to 
 all in the haven. 
 
 'Lizbeth, Lizbeth, ma puir dearie, I bring 
 you sair tidin's,' said she, holding her kerchief 
 to the one eye while she looked at her with 
 the other. 
 
 Lizbeth lifted her head, and Kirsty saw that 
 on her face which told her the woman knew 
 her ill news. It was truly disappointing to 
 her that Lizbeth was not to have the shock 
 from her lips, but she scarce had the time 
 to think of that. She dropped the kerchief, 
 and her blood took a chill when she saw the 
 terrible aspect of Lizbeth. 
 
 'Lizbeth, Lizbeth!' said she trembling, and 
 with true pity in her heart. 
 
 'Guid day tae ye, Kirsty,' said Lizbeth in 
 a civil voice. 
 
 'I wis thinkin' I'd win oot tae inquire hoo 
 you're keepin,' said Kirsty. 
 
 'I'm obleeged tae ye, I'm keepin' fine,' Liz- 
 beth answered in a voice like a barred gate. 
 
 'It's pooerfu' warm the day,' said Kirsty, 
 feeling the drops on her brow. 
 
30 Spindles and Oars 
 
 'Ay, it is that,' said Lizbeth, 'but season- 
 able.' 
 
 Kirsty's temper rose. It wasn't the treat- 
 ment she would have expected from one kirk 
 member to another, but she wouldn't be 
 beaten by the unnatural body. 
 
 'An' hoo's Andra' keepin'? He wasna at 
 the kirk Sabbath past ; ' said she. . 
 
 'Andra's fine, I thank ye, Kirsty. An' hoo's 
 a' wi' ye at the Manse? Miss Isobel, an' the 
 meenister, an' the wee doggie?' 
 
 And now there were spikes on the gate that 
 warned Kirsty it would be ill venturing farther. 
 She lifted her kerchief from the road, saying 
 she was to call for a friend at the Mains and 
 might not put off the time talking ; and then 
 she took the road back to Skyrle, promising 
 David something for the fool's errand he had 
 given her that day. 
 
 And it was noticeable afterwards that Kirsty 
 had a deal to say of the on-Christian spirit 
 Lizbeth Cargill showed in bearing the burden 
 a just Providence had laid upon her. 
 
 But when Lizbeth had ended the baiting of 
 the lines, she bore them down the brae and 
 laid them in Andrew's boat, as she had been 
 used to do these ten years. 
 
Spindles and Oars 3* 
 
 Pete Cargill, Andrew's brother, was in the 
 boat emptying the water from her. He watched 
 Lizbeth a while ; then said he — for he had more 
 than a man's foolishness, the creature!— 'Dae 
 ye no ten, Lizbeth?' 
 
 'Ay,' said she, very short, 'ill tidin's is weel 
 shod—' 
 
 'I'm dootin' he's been led awa, Andra— * 
 
 ' Theer's sma' doot o' that. But maybe you'll 
 tak his lines while he wins back.' 
 
 ' Ou, ay, I'll dae that. But he'll no win back.' 
 
 ' He'll win back,' said Lizbeth. 
 
 She turned herself and climbed the brae ; her 
 feet steady as when she had climbed it on her 
 wedding-morn, ten years agone. Her limbs 
 didn't tremble, even although she felt that the 
 laddies on the shore were gazing after her and 
 talking of Andrew; even although she could 
 tell that the other fisher-wives on the brae 
 were gazing at her and talking of Bella For- 
 syth's bonnie face. 
 
 Her own face was white as could be, but she 
 held her head high, and stepped past them all, 
 going to her house. When she opened the 
 door the sight of Andrew's gear made her 
 catch her breath, and her lips were the colour 
 of the peat-ash on the hearth. But she 
 
32 Spindles and Oars 
 
 straightened herself and sought dry clothes 
 for Andrew, his hose and his shoon ; and set 
 his pipe beside his chair in the ingle. 
 
 And when all was ended she sat her down 
 and gazed at his empty chair. She didn't 
 moan, neither weep, nor did she other than 
 just gaze at the ingle where Andrew was not. 
 But the look on her face was the look of the 
 dead. 
 
 # * * # * 
 
 For more than a twelvemonth there was no 
 word of Andrew and Bella, and the want of 
 news wrought a terrible change on Lizbeth. 
 She was a proud woman, and a silent, and none 
 of the fishers dared approach her to call Andrew 
 Cargil's name in her presence. Even Mr 
 Grahame who visited her was rendered dumb 
 by Lizbeth's hardness and silence. Kirsty had 
 it to say that when he told Lizbeth 'twas God's 
 will that laid such a burden on her she broke 
 her silence, and looking him straight in the 
 eye, said she: — 'I'm dootin' the flesh an' the 
 deil's had mair hands i* this business than the 
 A'michty.' 
 
 'You're right, Mrs Cargill, you're right;' 
 said the minister very grave. But I couldn't 
 altogether comprehend the twinkle that sat 
 
Spindles and Oars 33 
 
 in his eye when he related the story after- 
 ward. 
 
 And yet it was easy to see the poor body was 
 not content to bide alone, for she fell away from 
 being a comely woman, and was just a handful 
 of bones. She kept herself to herself, and 
 when her work was done she travelled along 
 the brae looking out to sea as though she 
 expected Andrew to win back that way to her. 
 
 And there was talk among the folk that 
 Andrew's chair stood in the ingle, and Andrew's 
 clothes were aye waiting for him. And each 
 morn Lizbeth baited the lines and mended the 
 nets, and gathered buckies, for all the world as if 
 Andrew hadn't forsaken her for a strange woman. 
 
 It was when the year was at the spring that 
 there was talk of Andrew and Bella, that they 
 had come back and were staying at a lone house 
 down the Cadgers Road. 
 
 How the talk got to Lizbeth's ears none 
 might tell save Pete; but there was no doubt 
 it had taken hold of her. A kind of craving 
 was in her eye, and her white face wore two 
 patches of red till she had the appearance of 
 a woman fevered. 
 
 And one forenoon when the fishers and their 
 
 wives were down at the shore she put on her 
 
 c 
 
34 Spindles and Oars 
 
 Sabbath clothes, and slipped from the haven 
 none seeing, and took her road out by Seaton 
 and down where the Cadgers Road strikes 
 hands with the highway. 
 
 It was a bonnie day — one of those days of 
 the young year that make me think of wee 
 ducklings, so soft and warm and yellow and 
 eager with stirring life are they. Each hour 
 of this day that saw Lizbeth travel to lead 
 Andrew home was glinting with blue and gold 
 and fine young greens. 
 
 The Cadgers Road was not over easy to feet 
 that wearied for the finish of their journey, but 
 it was flaming with yellow gorse and golden 
 broom and the budding willow that the bairns 
 pluck for Palm Sabbath. And above the yellow 
 was a heaven blue as Andrew's eye, and never 
 a cloud crossing it. 
 
 Surely it was a promise of good to Lizbeth ! 
 It seemed to the poor body that the spring 
 had come to her life; and she travelled on in 
 that hope, saying over to herself the words 
 she would speak to win Andrew back to her. 
 But when she came in sight of the cottage 
 she was seeking, the heart in her struggled so 
 sorely that she was fain to lean against the 
 trunk of one of the pines. She could not move 
 
Spindles and Oars 35 
 
 a yard, but her eye sprang out to the house 
 where Dave stayed. And then she heard a 
 sound of singing, and there was Bella in the 
 door with a babe laughing and crowing in her 
 arms. And, seeing her, Lizbeth's heart leaped 
 in her with a terrible bitter cry. 
 
 It was the bitterness of death that took hold 
 upon her then— the bitterness of her long vain 
 hoping, and the bitterness of the hours she 
 had wrestled on her knees for the bairn that 
 had been denied to her. 
 
 She could not keep her eyes from the child 
 and its mother, the two young things that had 
 none but Dave to cherish them ; and her heart 
 failed her for the deed she had come to do. 
 She leaned trembling against the pine, her 
 weight crushing the freshly-budding leaves 
 about her. 
 
 And while she waited Andrew himself drew 
 nigh the house, and seeing the child, he went 
 running and calling to it. And the babe held 
 out his arms to his father, while Bella ceased 
 her singing to laugh with the two. Lizbeth 
 could not tell what time she bided watching; 
 neither the hours that she fought with her 
 love and bitterness. But the light was off the 
 day when she took the road back to the haven, 
 
36 Spindles and Oars 
 
 bearing with her the words she had not spoken 
 to Andrew. And the light was off her face, 
 that was the face of an old woman ; and her 
 limbs tottered under her with the frailty of 
 fourscore years. And all along the rough way 
 of the Cadgers Road the words beat on her 
 heart like a shower of biting hail — ' Oh my God, 
 gin I had borne a babe tae him ! gin I had 
 borne a babe tae him!' 
 
 # * * * # 
 
 All night the storm swept over the brae ; 
 and the sound of the sea roaring among the 
 rocks kept the sleep from the eye of many a 
 fisher's wife. 
 
 Lizbeth rose from her bed, and lighted the 
 lamp and set it in the window. 'Andra wull 
 ken the licht an' mak' for the bar,' she said to 
 herself. But she could not lie in her bed with 
 the wail of the storm about her ears ; and she 
 rose again and stirred the peat to a flame ; and 
 sat her down by the hearth, with her eye on 
 Andrew's chair. ' He canna win oot tae the 
 Cadgers Road the nicht,' she was thinking ; 
 'maybe he wull come ben seem' the licht.' 
 
 His clothes were always ready for him, and 
 she lifted the hose and held them to the flames, 
 warming them. 
 
Spindles and Oars 37 
 
 'An' maybe he's no i' the boatie ava,' she 
 thought. ' Maybe he didna win oot wi' the lave 
 o' them, an' is sleepin' soond i' his bed.' 
 
 But when the morn came in, still, and grey, 
 and dumb, a terrible silence struck on Liz- 
 beth sitting on the hearth. She had no 
 strength to rise ; all the life had gone from 
 her. 
 
 She hearkened to the folk running down the 
 brae to the shore ; she heard them calling one 
 to the other, but she did not move till the 
 sound of feet falling more heavily than usual 
 beat like flails on her heart. Then she rose 
 up, and what a look was on her face! 
 
 "Tis Andra winnin' back,' she said. And 
 she lifted the sneck, and threw the door wide, 
 and found Pete dumb before her. 
 
 'Ay, 'tis Andra,' said he. 'Wull we bring 
 him in by, or tak' him oot tae Bella ? ' 
 
 Her eye had gone beyond Pete to the drowned 
 man they were bearing up from the brae. 
 
 'You wull bear him ben,' she said. 
 
 ' The boat's bottom up, I doot ; 'tis an awfu' 
 like loss,' said Pete. ' He cam' in wi' the tide, 
 but I doot we'll no' get the boat.' 
 
 Lizbeth made no answer, and the men 
 bearing Andrew came in and laid him down 
 
38 Spindles and Oars 
 
 on the .bed, the while the women-folk beat 
 their breasts and tore their hair, and made 
 a heap to do, wailing. Then Lizbeth bade 
 them leave her and she locked the door, and 
 shut herself in with the dead. 
 
 The clothes Andrew needed were waiting 
 for him, and she dressed him with a terrible 
 pride that he had come back to her, and it 
 was she making him ready for his grave. 
 
 She waited beside him. She could not be 
 content without the sight of him once more 
 in his own house. And it was a long hour 
 before the thought took a hold of her that 
 Andrew would ne'er come back to her again. 
 The night fell on a woman in the grip of a 
 dumb agony. The fire was but a handful of 
 ashes. The chamber was cold with the 
 presence of the dead. Against the window 
 the rain beat like fingers tapping, and borne 
 on the wind she heard the wailing of a babe. 
 The cry stirred the life in her and kindled it. 
 She stumbled to the door and, lifted the sneck, 
 and while the wind entering was like to throw 
 her down, Bella slipped past her and into 
 the house. 
 
 ' Lat me in, lat me in ooten the storm,' she 
 sobbed. 
 
Spindles and Oars 39 
 
 Lizbeth shut the door, and sought a candle, 
 and made a light. 
 
 Bella stood with the bairn in her arms, her 
 eyes wide with fright. 
 
 ' The storm's juist awfu',' she said, greeting, 
 'an' I dauredna bide.' 
 
 'And what gars ye come ben to me?' 
 Lizbeth asked her fierce-like. 
 
 "Twas Pete — he telled me — an' I wanted in 
 beside Andra'. Oh, Lizbeth, is't him lying 
 theer? Oh, Lizbeth, wull I look at him?' 
 
 'Ay, surely, ma woman, 'tis meet you suld 
 gaze on the wark o' your hands.' 
 
 'Na, na,' Bella sobbed, 'it's no Andra'— I 
 canna look.' 
 
 •Tis Andra' wha's gien his life for the sin 
 o' his soul,' said Lizbeth, terrible stern. 'Gie 
 me the bairn. The deid'll fricht his young 
 e'e.' 
 
 She lifted the bairn from Bella's arms and 
 pointed her to the bed, but Bella greeted the 
 more. 
 
 'Na, na, I daurna gaze on him. Thon 
 man's no' Andra'. Eh, but a braw man's 
 Andra', an' the wean favours him. Saw you 
 e'er a bonnier bairn, Lizbeth?' 
 
 Lizbeth would have bidden her quit the 
 
40 Spindles and Oars 
 
 house for a shameless woman, but the babe 
 in her arms stayed her. His wee hands were 
 plucking at her neck, and the feel of bairn's 
 fingers woke the mother in her. She turned 
 from Bella, and made up the fire, and warmed 
 some milk for the child ; and while she was 
 feeding him, Bella sat down in Andrew's chair, 
 and spread her hands to the flames. A great 
 cry broke from Lizbeth, but she hushed it, 
 seeing the child was falling on slumber. She 
 could not find words to bid Bella rise from 
 the seat that had been empty so long, and 
 her silence allowed what her heart would have 
 forbidden. She was trembling greatly, her 
 pride and wrongs melting like snow at the 
 touch of the wee, warm, fingers. She could 
 not drive the bairn forth into the storm. 
 
 Bella folded her plaid about her, and slum- 
 bered like a weary bairn; and, seeing her 
 young face with the tears upon it, the hard- 
 ness wore away from Lizbeth's thoughts. 
 She bowed her eyes on the babe, and Bella's 
 words came back to her: 'The bairn favours 
 his feyther;' and she studied each feature of 
 him to find out if 'twas the truth. Then she 
 bore him to Andrew's side, and matched the 
 living face with the dead man's. And indeed 
 
Spindles and Oars 4* 
 
 it was a pitiful thing to see death matching 
 sleep, and the slumbering babe, the wee image 
 of the dead. And at the sight of it there 
 was a terrible bitter cry in Lizbeth's heart. 
 
 She sat down where the light might fall 
 on Andrew, and while Bella and the wean 
 slumbered, her eyes did not move from the 
 dead face. It was like to marble carved against 
 the boardings of the couch ; and she gazed and 
 gazed until a change passed on it, and 'twas 
 the face she had loved ten years ago, young 
 and ruddy, with blue eyes and laughing mouth. 
 
 The candle burnt low, and the flames died 
 from the peat, but Lizbeth's heart waked all 
 the weary night. The babe lay heavy in her 
 arms, keeping her warm, and taking her 
 thoughts from Andrew. She could not mind 
 of the dead for the living babe at her heart. 
 
 And when the day broke Bella opened her 
 eyes, and rose, and stood beside her. 
 
 'Gie me the bairn, an' lat me awa' ere the 
 folk come in aboot.' 
 
 Like one dazed, Lizbeth raised the child, and 
 he wakened with the movement, and lifted his 
 hands cooing and laughing. Lizbeth could but 
 gaze on him and tell herself she was dream- 
 ing. It was the face she had seen through 
 
42 Spindles and Oars 
 
 the night; Andrew's face, ruddy and young, 
 with blue eyes and laughing mouth. 
 
 'Gie me the bairn and lat me awa',' Bella 
 cried to her. 
 
 But Lizbeth tightened her arms round him, 
 while the tears ran down her face. 
 
 ' Na, na, 'tis Andra himsel' won back tae me.' 
 » # # * 
 
 And to this day Kirsty spreads an awful 
 scandal of the un-Christian want of respect for 
 Andrew's memory Lizbeth showed when she 
 made a home for Bella and her babe. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 The Gates of Death 
 
 The minister was well thought of in Skyrle, and 
 the town ministers came about the manse, and 
 talked one with the other of his fine spirit and 
 nobility. He had a hearty cheery way; and 
 though it was a burial, you felt the gladsomer 
 to see him come into the room with his hat 
 off and the pity deep in his eyes. He was a 
 fine preacher too, and there was never a diet 
 of worship but some one would stop and say 
 to David, ' Man ! what a grand sermon we hae 
 gotten the day!' And when David made no 
 answer being too proud to show his pride in 
 the minister, likely as not you would hear the 
 parrot in the manse screaming and using pro- 
 fane language at the doggie, Skye. And many 
 wondered at a good man like the minister 
 keeping the ill-spoken bird. 
 When Mr Grahame had been eighteen months 
 
44 Spindles and Oars 
 
 in Skyrle he made William Rafe circuit steward, 
 so giving offence to Kirsty, who would have 
 had David put into the office, and not a young 
 lad like William. 
 
 ' You canna pick muckle meat oot of a half- 
 grown buckie,' * said she ; and she went near 
 angering Miss Isobel with her tongue grating 
 on Rafe's name the long day through. 
 
 It wasn't likely the lassie thought William 
 was young for the office when he was ten 
 years older than herself, and quite a man with 
 his moustache well grown and a hundred hands 
 under him in his own mill. And Kirsty had 
 no call to think the minister did not know what 
 he was doing, For all his kindness Mr Grahame 
 was a stern man and wouldn't be turned from 
 doing his duty by any matter whatever, and 
 by this time all Skyrle knew him for a man 
 that did the right, laying bare his life to the 
 world, and making no profession he couldn't 
 act up to. But Providence surely had a hand 
 in making William Rafe steward the very year 
 that Mr Grahame was taken ill ; for I cannot 
 tell what the manse folk would have done if 
 Jamie Murphy — who had as much kindliness in 
 him as a smoked haddock— had been in office. 
 
 * Shell-fish. 
 
Spindles and Oars 45 
 
 It was Communion Sabbath in Skyrle ; and 
 when the minister rose to his sermon that day 
 the members ceased counting the new com- 
 municants to marvel at his face. It was white 
 and shining with a kind of inward light that 
 made a hush in the church. None who saw 
 him then will ever forget it, nor the beautiful 
 look of him, nor his solemn loving words that 
 touched the heart of the hardest. And when 
 he stood by the table, all held their breath, 
 for it was as if he knew he was ministering 
 to his people that day for the last time. And 
 the very next Sabbath as he was reading the 
 hymn, he was taken as for death. 
 
 William Rafe looking at Miss Isobel saw 
 her face change while the minister was giving 
 out the verse: — 
 
 ' Sometimes a light surprises 
 The Christian while he sings ; 
 It is the Lord who rises 
 With healing in His wings.' 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 Then Miss Isobel was out of the pew and 
 round to the vestry, for the hand of the Lord 
 had touched him. 
 
 They carried him into the manse, and Geordie 
 Mackay gave out a hymn and read a psalm; 
 
46 Spindles and Oars 
 
 and then William Rafe came back with a 
 white face, and said the doctor was at the 
 manse, and he had no hope of the minister's 
 life. 
 
 When the kirk was out you could tell what 
 had happened by the people going- on tiptoe 
 on the gravel under the manse windows, and 
 not talking till they were well away from the 
 house. 
 
 'The blinds are no' drawn,' said Elspeth, 
 softly, peeping back over her shoulder. 
 
 'Toots! he's no awa' yet,' said Geordie. 'Ay, 
 he was a grand man. Skyrle will no' see his 
 like again.' 
 
 'I kenned fine his time had come,' said 
 Widdy Rafe. 'When he made my Wullie 
 steward he had putten the tap-stane to his 
 work.' 
 
 'The tap-stane was putten at the Communion 
 last Sabbath,' said Geordie. 'Saw you ever 
 such a light on any face?' 
 
 'It was wonderfu',' said Elspeth, greeting. 
 ' And aye he had a sweetie in his poke for my 
 wee maid Eppie.' 
 
 'Tie was vera weel likit,' said David, 'and 
 threw a hail shilling in the plate Sabbath past. 
 Ay, he maun hae kenned it was his lest.' 
 
Spindles and Oars 47 
 
 'Eh, but the bairns wull miss him,' sobbed 
 Elspeth. 
 
 'And wha wull the Conference be sending for 
 Sabbath first?' asked Geordie. 
 
 'Likely the President himsel' for the funeral 
 sermon,' said the Widdy. ' Are the mournings 
 for the kirk ready; David?' 
 
 'Ay! they're aye ready. Happen the burial 
 wull be Saturday first. I could hae wished it 
 on the Friday,' said David, thinking of the 
 cleaning of the kirk. 
 
 'It wasna for naethin' my Wullie led him 
 oot by the graves the first Sabbath he spent 
 i' Skyrle. Ay, and the minister said to him, 
 " A pleasant spot ; a man may sleep sweetly 
 here." Ay, he did that,' Widdy Rafe said. 
 
 'I'm thinking o' the lassie,' said Elspeth, 
 still greeting. ' The puir lambie ! How is she 
 bearing, do you ken, David?' 
 
 ' Nane sae ill. She had a haud o' the minis- 
 ter's hand an wadna gang fra the room for a' 
 the doctor.' 
 
 'The puir lambie! And she has na kin ava, 
 and too young-like for a man of her ain ; ' said 
 Elspeth. 
 
 Widdy Rafe put up her chin, and hastened on. 
 
 It seemed as if all in the town but Miss 
 
48 Spindles and Oars 
 
 Isobel thought the minister was to die; but 
 she would hear no word of it ; and when the 
 Free Kirk minister called at the manse and 
 put up a prayer for the bereaved orphan, she 
 stopped her ears, and went out till he had con- 
 cluded. 
 
 William Rafe found her greeting afterwards ; 
 and sent Elspeth Mackay to hearten her. But 
 when Elspeth came in and saw the minister, 
 and the doggie lying beside the bed, she just 
 turned and cast her arms round Miss Isobel. 
 
 ' Oh, my puir dearie ! ' she cried. ' Oh, my 
 puir dearie ! I ken fine how it is wi' him. 
 He'll sune be awa'. He's taen for the deid. 
 Oh, my puir wee lambie ! ' 
 
 But Miss Isobel loosed her arms, and put 
 Elspeth outside the door, an awful look on her 
 young face. And all night long and for days 
 after she and the doggie were alone beside 
 the minister. 
 
 And it was so for many a day ; Kirsty sitting 
 greeting with her apron over her head, and the 
 poultices burning on the kitchen range. But 
 the lassie died never a tear, and did everything 
 for the minister with her own hands. And 
 seeing her strong and brave and cheery, 
 William came to understand that she was a 
 
Spindles and Oars 49 
 
 woman, self-forgetful and ready for whatever 
 was wanted of her. He was a great comfort 
 at the manse, was William, being tender as a 
 woman at nursing; and oft he sat with the 
 minister while the lassie rested. And so she 
 grew to lean on him, and maybe to love him 
 as well; but that we didn't know for many a 
 long day. 
 
 It was beautiful as the days went by to see 
 how patient and bright the minister was; 
 though his sickness was sore upon him, and 
 he hadn't an hour's ease from pain. He had 
 preached many a grand sermon in the kirk ; 
 but the finest of all was this he preached on 
 his sick bed, and it was heard by everybody in 
 Skyrle. Ay, his voice reached to every house ; 
 and all knew how he lay smiling, and waiting 
 God's will without a murmur while his poor 
 body was in a flaming torment. 
 
 William Rafe knew then what a good life 
 had wrought for the minister; and Geordie 
 Mackay couldn't speak enough of the human 
 nature in him when he heard how from his 
 pillows he studied the rooks in the manse 
 garden, and got to know each one, and his 
 mate, and the nest, and all. And every morn- 
 ing the canary came up to sing for him. But 
 
50 Spindles and Oars 
 
 Miss Isobel wouldn't have the poll parrot in 
 the room, the bird singing psalms that were 
 like to make her greet ; though the minister 
 said it was better than the bad language it 
 used on Sabbath. 
 
 And many a bonnie tale he told the doctors 
 about his cheery window, and the birds that 
 were a treat to him, till they forgot he was a 
 minister and a dying man, and talked with 
 him making jokes that were surely not seemly 
 for a manse sick-room. But the young doctor, 
 who, not being a Methodist, knew but little of 
 true religion, was sure that if aught could 
 have converted him, it would have been the 
 minister's beautiful spirit through his sickness. 
 So the time went on, and Miss Isobel got 
 whiter every day and the minister weaker. 
 And though he was prayed for every Sabbath, 
 there was a feeling in the kirk it was no use 
 to pray, a miracle being needed to restore him 
 again. 
 
 One night William wouldn't leave the lassie 
 alone, and they sat beside the minister, the 
 doggie at the foot of the bed not closing 
 his eyes, but watching with them, as if he 
 knew what was coming. And suddenly the 
 little creature rose trembling and quaking 
 
Spindles and Oars 51 
 
 and growling, seeing what none else could 
 see. 
 
 Miss Isobel started to quiet him, but when 
 she saw the look on her father's face she 
 turned, all in a tremble and dumb, to William. 
 He had seen the minister's changed face, and 
 he just put out his arms to her— 
 
 'Lassie, although he's away, there's one 
 here that loves you.' 
 
 So he caught her to his heart, and there 
 she sobbed out her sorrow. 
 
 Then Skye began to bark, and looking up, 
 William saw the dog wagging his tail, and 
 the minister's hand feeling out to him. 
 
 * Lassie ! he's no deid ! He's to live ! ' he 
 cried joyful-like, and with a sharp cry, Miss 
 Isobel tore herself from him, seeing the 
 moving hand. 
 
 But what a lassie she was ! She turned and 
 gave William a box on the ear, and flung 
 herself, laughing and crying, on her knees by 
 the bed. 
 
 ***** 
 
 And it wasn't so very long after that, that 
 the kirk was crowded, full as it could hold, 
 to hear the minister that had come back from 
 the gates of death. And Miss Isobel sat 
 
52 Spindles and Oars 
 
 listening, with a bonnie light on her face that 
 was surely not from the stained window, for 
 the same light caught William Rafe, whether 
 at the instrument or in the singers' seat, where 
 he sat with his hand over his face, and his 
 eyes glinting through his fingers at the lassie 
 in the manse pew. 
 
 And Kirsty always remembered that Sabbath 
 as the one when David lost count of the 
 pence thrown into the plate for the silver that 
 covered it. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 A Child of the Sea 
 
 I mind of Mr Grahame telling in the first ser- 
 mon he ever preached in the Totum Kirkie how 
 man grows from less to greater, putting out 
 fresh powers and gaining new faculties till he 
 is fully what God means him to be. And I can 
 remember how Kirsty took ill with the sermon. 
 
 She came into kirk that day in a new gown, 
 and couldn't sit for seeing Elspeth Mackay, in 
 the pew before her, wearing the fellow to it. 
 But, however, she was sarcastic on the sermon 
 afterwards ; for, being a servant at the manse, 
 she made the most of her right to criticise the 
 minister in the pulpit. 
 
 ' Na, na,' said she ; ' he had no call to give oot 
 that a man can be built up fra the puir life that 
 floats in the jelly fish we see whiles doon at the 
 shore.' 
 
 And indeed, it takes a deal of faith for a 
 
54 Spindles and Oars 
 
 woman with a tongue like Kirsty's to believe 
 that she has grown from the dumb things that 
 keep a silence more sorrowful-like than any 
 other creature's cries. But David M'Naugh- 
 ten stood by her. He wouldn't be so bold as to 
 disagree with the minister ; but he had a man's 
 wish to believe that Eve was taken out of 
 Adam's ribs. It was the one argument he 
 dare venture when he wrestled with Kirsty, 
 who was for thinking woman the better man; 
 and he was fain to hope man had had the start 
 of the woman in life, and that they were not 
 developed together from lower forms. But 
 how should it be difficult to take humanity 
 that way, seeing life rises everywhere, from the 
 small to the great, from the seed to the flower 
 and tree ? 
 
 And it is the same with places. We have 
 in the town's library histories of Skyrle — braw 
 books telling about the Abbey and the old 
 monks ; but there is none of them can carry us 
 back to the beginning of Skyrle, when the 
 fishers' cottages fringed the burn, and the life 
 of the place was the life of the sea. And it is 
 from this that the town has risen— stepping over 
 the burn and climbing the brae, and at last 
 throwing itself down on the common, its chim- 
 
Spindles and Oars 55 
 
 neys and mills like great limbs flung into the 
 air as it lies in the sun. 
 
 But though Kirsty was severe with the mini- 
 ster's sermon, there was one in the kirk that 
 day who would value it all the more because 
 there was the sound of the sea in it. 
 
 He sat in the corner ; a small man, shy and 
 strange and silent ; with eyes brown and clear 
 like seaweed, and a strong face with gentle lines 
 about the mouth. 
 
 Mr Grahame noticed him'; and heard from 
 William Rafe afterwards that he was Sandy 
 Nicholls ; a fine man, but close, living a lonely 
 life and caring for naught but the sea. And, 
 indeed, it was a strange thing and mysterious, 
 how all his life he had had no friend but the 
 sea ; even as a bairn finding companionship in 
 the waves that ever seemed speaking to him. 
 It was for all the world like the soul in the 
 burn that hears the sea calling to it. And 
 none could wonder it was so when Sandy's 
 story was known. 
 
 Margot his mother, was a twelve months 
 wife when her man went away to the herring- 
 fishing, from which he didn't come back with 
 his mates ; and there's many in Skyrle can re- 
 member her walking the shore with her eyes 
 
5<5 Spindles and Oars 
 
 set — looking out over the sea for Davie; while 
 her heart trembled thinking of what was com- 
 ing to her over a wider sea. 
 
 The babe came home ; and none had the 
 heart to tell her how Davie had been washed 
 overboard within sight of Skyrle harbour on 
 the very night his wee son was born. 
 
 She knew it all too soon, poor body ; and 
 they tell the tale in the town to this day — how 
 one morning saw an awesome sight on the 
 shore. The waves had given her back her man, 
 and he lay close by the rocks, his dead face 
 pressed into the sand by the dead face of the 
 wife who had gone far to meet him. The weed 
 left by the tide was curled about them, and 
 the babe's tiny fingers were tangled in it. He 
 lay smiling and happy in the sun — the little 
 orphan bairn — and the sight brought tears to 
 the eyes of the man who had found them. 
 
 It was John Gouck, a big, idle, tender-hearted 
 lad, who never had had the wit to get him a 
 wife. He stood biting his thumb, and looking 
 down sorely puzzled how to handle the babe. 
 Then he got a hold of it; and carrying it as if 
 it was a drowned kitten, he bore it home to 
 his sister Maggie, put it in the room, then 
 hastened away down the lane, keeking round 
 
Spindles and Oars 57 
 
 to see what would happen to the bairn. He 
 knew well Maggie wouldn't be very well pleased 
 at what he had done; for she was not a young 
 lass, and having never been asked in marriage 
 had a kind of grudge against the innocent 
 weans; and fine and angered she was to see 
 the bairn laid within the door. She rose full 
 of wrath against John, and cried that she would 
 take the babe to the poor's house that very 
 minute. But when she lifted him in her arms 
 that had never held a babe, and felt his wee 
 head on her bosom, the woman in her woke ; 
 and she sat down holding him close, and 
 greeting. 
 
 John watched a long hour to see her come 
 out ; and when he slunk ben the house to his 
 diet he was frightened, expecting a thrawn and 
 vengeful woman. It made another man of him 
 to see Maggie cheery and smiling, and the 
 babe asleep in a basket on the hearth, and 
 from that day Sandy never wanted father or 
 mother. 
 
 All Skyrle lads love the sea. But John was 
 never so taken up with it as some; and liked 
 better to wander in the Abbey, watching the 
 jackdaws, than on the cliffs of a summer's 
 night. And it was beautiful at the sunset to 
 
58 Spindles and Oars 
 
 walk among the graves in the Abbey, with the 
 shadows lying on the grass like a sleep, and 
 the singing of the birds sounding clear in the 
 silence, and the peace of the dead hushing 
 the strife of the living. 
 
 But just so soon as wee Sandy could toddle 
 John had to cease his walks in the Abbey; 
 for it was always the sea with the bairn. And 
 ' I'm for the big watter, dad,' he'd say, tugging 
 at John's breeks to lead him to the shore. It 
 was pretty to see how the bairn could do as 
 he would with big John Gouck that was more 
 obstinate than Maggie his sister; — and worse 
 cannot be said of any man. 
 
 It was always the sea with Sandy; and 
 when he could not be found, Maggie reached 
 down the tawse and went to the shore. And 
 there, sure enough, he would be, playing in 
 the boats or helping the fishermen dry their 
 nets or bait their lines. He was a seaman 
 born ; and when John Gouck died and Maggie 
 put the lad to work in Rafe's mill there was 
 a great controversy in the town about it. And 
 to see the wee, white facie of him, as he 
 turned his back on the sea, and went through 
 the mill doors, was enough to melt the heart 
 of any but a self-willed woman. 
 
Spindles and Oars 59 
 
 But Maggie had never forgiven herself for 
 being so soon conquered by the bairn; and 
 though he was the apple of her eye, she was 
 aye thwarting him to prove to herself and 
 the neighbours that she was not so daft over 
 the boy as John. It was cruel to her to think 
 of his going to the sea that had been the 
 death of father and mother ; but she did not 
 say so. She made as though she sought but 
 her own way in sending the laddie to the 
 mill ; and nothing the folk said could move 
 her. And none, not even Sandy, guessed it 
 was her love for him that made her cross 
 him in the wish of his heart. But she would 
 not have found it so easy to bend his will to 
 hers, if he had not just then become a 
 member of the Totum Kirkie. He had been 
 newly gathered by the minister — a young lad 
 who, being a great man for the sea, preached 
 some awful grand sermons on it when he 
 first came to the charge. Sandy heard them 
 every one; and when it came to the sermon 
 on 'Deep calleth unto deep' there was that 
 in his heart which answered to the call. He 
 went from the kirk into the manse; and the 
 next week everybody kenned that he had 
 joined the minister's class. And it was this 
 
°° Spindles and Oars 
 
 that made him obey her who had been a 
 mother to him, though it broke his spirit to 
 be taken from the fisher's life. 
 
 After that it was pitiful to see him on 
 summer nights, not playing on the common 
 with the other laddies, but wandering on the 
 shore, seeking company among the crabs and 
 buckies and sea-flowers and such like. 
 
 So he came to man's years, a douce lad that 
 was respected in the mill and in the church ; 
 though, to be sure, he was not much use in 
 the Totum Kirkie, not being ready with his 
 tongue or with his silver, as a good Methodist 
 should be. But though he was canny with 
 the bawbies in public, the fisher-wife knew 
 where to turn when help was wanted. And if 
 he was a silent man, he was not deaf to the 
 voice of distress. 
 
 It didn't astonish any Skyrle body that he 
 should go a-wooing to a fisher-lassie; though 
 the fisher-folk will wed but among them- 
 selves. It was to be expected that Lizbeth 
 Mackenzie should say him nay; but it came 
 as a blow to the young lad; and from that 
 day he was more dour-like than ever. And it 
 was a sad thing that the lassie should say to 
 him : ' I like you weel, laddie, and gin you had 
 
Spindles and Oars 61 
 
 been a fisher-laddie I would surely hae thocht 
 on't.* 
 
 He had an awful white face on him that 
 night ; which made Maggie more than usual 
 hard to him, she being afraid of greeting, 
 through sympathy with his trouble. 
 
 For weeks after that the sound of the sea 
 was terrible to him, and he was no more on 
 the cliffs or by the shore. And when the looms 
 stopped working, and the roar of the waves 
 could be heard in the mill, a great sadness 
 would come into his eyes; and he would set 
 his face hard and turn again to his labour as 
 if he would silence the voice that called to him. 
 
 By-and-by Lizbeth was wedded to Andrew 
 Cargill at Eastha'en; and by degrees the old 
 ways came back to Sandy, and he would seek 
 his pleasure on the shore— a lonely man and 
 silent, scarcely smiling but when among the 
 bairns in the school, or seeking shells for them 
 on the sands. So he settled down into a douce 
 bachelor, a [good son to Maggie, and a great 
 stand-by in the Totum Kirkie. 
 
 The Goucks had been great Methodists. 
 And fine and proud was Maggie to tell how 
 her grandmother had out-witted the folk on 
 the occasion of the Reverend John Wesley's 
 
62 
 
 Spindles and Oars 
 
 coming in 1770. Her man had opened his 
 mill for the meetings, and had gone off with 
 Mr Wesley while his wife stayed with the 
 folk who were not for leaving the meeting so 
 soon. 
 
 It was well known that the miller's wife had 
 the gift of tongues ; and whenever the minister 
 was away she took up the Word, and began 
 telling how her Church was the true Church, 
 and her faith the true faith. She was so 
 mighty sure of this, she said, that although 
 the mill dam was full to the brim she could 
 walk from the one side of it to the other 
 without sinking. There were some that took 
 her at her word; and, whether she would or 
 no, they led her to the dam for her to prove 
 her faith that way. 
 
 At the water-side she offered up a prayer, 
 then rose; then she asked the folk if they 
 thought she could do it. 
 
 'Ou ay, wifie; we believe it well eneuch — 
 on you go!' they cried to her. 
 
 'Na, na,' said she; 'since ye're a' sae weel 
 convinced i' your ain minds, your faith maun 
 een be as guid and as soond as my ain; sae 
 it would serve na guid end did I fash mysel' 
 workin' a meerikle.' 
 
Spindles and Oars 63 
 
 With a forbear like that it was no wonder 
 that the Goucks were well thought of in the 
 Totum Kirkie; but, though Sandy had been 
 brought up among the Methodists, he took 
 ill with often losing the minister. And every 
 three years, when they changed, he spent a 
 week of Sabbaths on the cliffs till the new 
 minister had got hardened to a Scotch con- 
 gregation. But Maggie was very well pleased 
 with the system that made her a proud 
 woman every third year. And as soon as 
 the manse had a new minister in it, she 
 bade him to his tea at her house, and brewed 
 the tea in the pot John Wesley had used ; 
 and talked the whole evening of John Wesley 
 and John Gouck — especially of John Gouck. 
 
 And when she lay on her death-bed, she 
 was well content to die, knowing that the 
 intimation of her death would be in the 
 'Recorder.' And she boasted of it to all the 
 neighbours, saying how the 'Recorder' was 
 a great paper among the Methodists, and 
 almost as grand a one as the 'Skyrle Argus' 
 which has all the deaths in the town inti- 
 mated in it, and is fine and instructive to 
 read. 
 
 'And Sandy,' said she with her last breath, 
 
°4 Spindles and Oars 
 
 'gie me your word as a church-member that 
 you'll no' go to sea after I'm awa.' 
 
 Maggie Gouck needn't have asked that 
 hard promise from Sandy, for even had he 
 would have done it, it was too late then to 
 turn to the sea. He was over forty, and had 
 worked in Rafe's mill seven-and-twenty years. 
 
 Old William Rafe was dead, and young 
 William had the mill, and was sorely in want 
 of a man like Sandy to advise him. They 
 were both members of Mr Grahame's class, 
 and had the same religious views; and there 
 is nothing like meeting in the same kirk and 
 believing the same doctrines for knitting folk 
 together. 
 
 William had not long been master before 
 Sandy was advanced to a good post in the 
 mill, and this made Kirsty very bitter. Years 
 before she had set her cap at Sandy, and 
 though she and David M'Naughten were 
 courting, it irked her to see an unwed man 
 getting the salary that should go to keep wife 
 and bairns. And specially she grudged the 
 luck to Sandy, for a woman cannot forgive a 
 man that has slighted her courting. She took 
 the trouble to give William Rafe a pretty piece 
 of her mind when she heard Sandy was to get 
 
Spindles and Oars 6s 
 
 a better wage ; but William never heeded her. 
 He knew fine to let a woman do the talk- 
 ing so long as the doing remained to him. 
 So, while he hearkened to Kirsty— it being a 
 day's journey to get away from her tongue — 
 she could not move him from his intent. 
 
 He was a pushing lad, William, and soon 
 his mill got a name in the town for being first 
 with improvements in machinery and the like. 
 And more than one of the other mill-owners 
 shook his head, saying it was a pity old Rafe 
 had not left a little caution to his son along 
 with the silver. However, William prospered, 
 and one day he got some braw new machinery 
 into the mill. When the thing was unpacked, 
 it stood trembling and quivering, for all the 
 world like a high-spirited horse, and the men 
 held their breath, looking at the delicate 
 springs and shining steel bands of it. 
 
 'She's a braw leddy,' said Sandy, stroking 
 it tender-like. 
 
 'Ay, is she,' cried William, 'a braw leddy 
 and a costly. And there's none in the mill 
 shall put a hand to her saving yourself, Sandy.' 
 
 From that day Sandy was a man content. 
 It may have been that the noise of the 
 machinery reminded him of the sea and the 
 
66 Spindles and Oars 
 
 turning of the wheels of the curling waves, 
 for after that he did not find the mill so irk- 
 some as before. 
 
 He had always been a lonely man, but the 
 engine seemed a friend to him ; for he treated 
 it like a human thing and gave it the love that 
 no creature had ever wanted from him. The 
 men chaffed him about 'Jennie,' as they called 
 it; but, indeed, it was pitiful to see his tender 
 way with it, and his timorous touch as if the 
 creature could feel. 
 
 William was a fine lad ; but there was surely 
 something hard about him, when, knowing how 
 Sandy's love gathered round his Jennie, he had 
 him moved into another part of the mill to tend 
 a finer engine he had brought from the south. 
 
 Sandy said no word to him; but there was 
 a pitiful look on his face when he went into 
 the room where the new engine seemed to 
 mock his sad heart. It was summer-time in 
 Skyrle, and the cliffs were all a-blossom with 
 sea-daisies, and campion, and maiden-pink ; 
 with dwarf-heather and yellow gorse that's in 
 flower when love is in fashion. And, indeed, 
 there is no day, winter or summer, but the 
 thorny stem will hold up a golden cup some- 
 where on the cliff-side. And I've seen Miss 
 
Spindles and Oars 67 
 
 Isobel winning home on a December day with 
 her hands full of the yellow blossoms that made 
 the manse drawing-room a picture. 
 
 The lassie was often on the cliffs that 
 summer, and when she met Sandy, she had a 
 gay word for him always ; and the doggie Skye 
 would never pass without giving him a paw to 
 shake ; but they couldn't drive the trouble from 
 his face. Miss Isobel asked William what 
 ailed Sandy, and he answered that he bothered 
 overmuch about his work, and was thinking 
 he was not able for managing the new 
 machinery. And this was likely true, for the 
 responsibility of it fretted Sandy. His nerves 
 were aye on the strain. The engine moved 
 intricate machinery, and had secret curious 
 ways of its own that were hard to mind of, and 
 that, forgotten, would cause terrible accidents 
 among the looms. He struggled with it like 
 a man ; but there was a noise of waters in his 
 ears that drove him desperate with longing to 
 get away from the stifling mill into the air full 
 of the sound of the sea. The old power came 
 on him, stronger than ever; and he would 
 wander half the night on the cliffs to fit him 
 for the work that weighed on him through the 
 day. 
 
68 Spindles and Oars 
 
 At the New Year he besought William to take 
 him from tending the machine; but William 
 lost his patience with him, and told him sharply 
 there was no other that could do his work, and 
 there was nothing more to be said. 
 
 Sandy went out from the mill that day more 
 wae than ever ; but Miss Isobel met him, and, 
 seeing how it was with him, craved a favour if 
 he would. The lad had no heart for granting 
 favours, but he couldn't deny the lassie; and 
 she took him to the manse to his tea, and 
 heartened him with her chatter till he almost 
 forgot his troubles at the mill. 
 
 Miss Isobel would have the names of the 
 flowers on the cliffs, and told him how she loved 
 the gorse better than any of them. And for 
 many Sabbaths after she found a bit of yellow 
 blossom sitting on the ledge of the manse pew. 
 No one ever said who had put it there ; but the 
 lassie would turn smiling to Sandy and nod 
 at him. And this was a scandal to Widdy 
 Rafe, who thought such conduct unseemly in 
 a daughter of the manse. But I'm sure it was 
 that smile that kept Sandy from breaking down 
 over his work ; and it cannot be unseemly to 
 cheer a lonely heart, whether in the kirk or 
 out of it. 
 
Spindles and Oars 69 
 
 When Mr Grahame was taken sick, there 
 was none that felt it more than Sandy. He 
 had been a favourite with the minister, and 
 the want of a kind word now and again was 
 sore on him. His work was always more of 
 a burden, and a strained look was in his eyes. 
 It seemed as if that engine was a bodily terror 
 that he couldn't get away from. 
 
 But none noticed how it was with him. Miss 
 Isobel was nursing the minister, and William 
 had no thought but for the manse people, and 
 Sandy was not heeded by anybody whatever. 
 He lived by himself, and none guessed how 
 he neglected his food and couldn't rest; lying 
 awake through the night, or else walking out 
 on the cliffs under the cold, wintry stars. His 
 mates saw him at his work ; and if they noted 
 the look on him they did not inquire if he ailed 
 anything. 
 
 So it came to March, when Skyrle was white 
 with drifting snow. The air danced with the 
 thick flakes on the night when they sought 
 Sandy up and down the shore. 
 
 He had been a lonely man, but it was wonder- 
 ful to see the number of those eager to face the 
 stormy night seeking him. Along the shore 
 they went, and up the frozen road past St 
 
70 Spindles and Oars 
 
 Ringan's Well; and the red lights of the lanterns 
 were like sudden roses in the snow on the cliff 
 paths. Far and near through the stern night 
 they travelled; William Rafe nigh distraught, 
 fearing death had overtaken Sandy. 
 
 In the dawn he went into the manse, his pale 
 face frightening Miss Isobel, who had been up 
 all night with the minister. 
 
 ' Have you found him ? ' she asked whenever 
 she saw him. 
 
 He shook his head, and the lassie's face 
 changed. 
 
 'We can find no trace,' said William. 'It 
 is four days since he has been a-missing. He 
 was last seen out by the cliffs.' 
 
 'But surely, surely, there must be some 
 trace?' said Miss Isobel very earnest. 
 
 'Only this,' and William opened his hand. 
 His fingers were bleeding, for they had closed 
 over a sprig of blossoming gorse and the 
 thorns had pierced. 
 
 'It isn't much of a guide,' he said; 'but 
 Geordie Mackay saw him with a bunch of 
 the flower four days ago.' 
 
 Miss Isobel gave a cry, then her face 
 trembled. 
 
 'He must have been getting it for me; he 
 
Spindles and Oars 7* 
 
 has been caught in the storm and lost. He 
 is dead — and — and, it is for me!' 
 
 'No, no, lassie, it is my blame,' William 
 groaned. 'I kept him to the work that he 
 hadn't strength for. I thought more of my 
 advantage than of Sandy, and—' 
 
 With that he bent down his head, and Miss 
 Isobel heard him sob. She rose and knelt 
 on the floor beside him, throwing her arms 
 round his neck while the tears ran down her 
 bonnie face. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The snow never stays long in Skyrle, and 
 it leaves the rocks near the shore as soon as 
 it falls. When the storm was over and every- 
 where the drifts were melting, they found him 
 on the very spot where he had lain a smiling 
 babe beside his dead father and mother. 
 
 The seaweed had twined a crown about his 
 hair. His fingers still held a bunch of blos- 
 soming gorse. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 May-Day 
 
 The Sabbath school swarree is the bonniest 
 sight in all the year, and it is a picture to see 
 the happy bairns riding all the road to Fyston 
 Den on the lurries decked with flowers and 
 bracken. It is not only the bairns, but the 
 mothers and fathers, and all the kirk members, 
 that go out to the den on that day ; and, young 
 and old, we are all bairns together once in the 
 year. Two hours before it is time to start, you 
 may see the children gathering in Ponderlaw 
 and looking in through the kirk gates, impatient 
 for their opening, and then David M'Naughten 
 saunters along with his eyes cast down and 
 his lips pursed up making as if he can't see 
 the bairns. But for all that he opens the 
 gate only just far enough to let himself In ; 
 and he is very particular to bolt it on the 
 other side when he goes into the manse 
 
Spindles and Oars 73 
 
 garden to inquire of Kirsty if the berries are 
 ripening. 
 
 After a while Geordie Mackay crosses the 
 road with a creel full of books, and parcels, 
 and toys for the prizes ; and the bairns cannot 
 contain themselves with the desire to get into 
 the kirk. 
 
 'An' are ye wantin' in, bairns? ' says Geordie, 
 very grave. 
 
 'Ay, are we,' they cry, leaping about him 
 and shouting. 
 
 ' I doubt you'll no' be winnin' in,' he says drily 
 and locks the gate behind him. But they get 
 in when William Rafe comes; and he gives 
 them leave to flatten their noses against the 
 diamond panes of the vestry windows while 
 he and Geordie and David count over the 
 tickets sold, and add up the cost of the tea, 
 and the money they will make by it. At last 
 the lurries roll up — six big lurries — and a 
 bunch of fern is nodding on the head of each 
 horse ; and each driver is chewing a piece of 
 stalk and taking no manner of interest what- 
 ever in the bairns. Then there is laughing and 
 shouting and struggling till they are all on 
 the lurries, with their little legs dangling over 
 the sides, and their little faces hot with happi- 
 
74 Spindles and Oars 
 
 ness gazing up at the manse window. There 
 stands the minister, and Miss Isobel is beside 
 him with the doggie in her arms, and the lurries 
 are waiting till he gives the word to go. 
 
 Then Jamie Murphy straightens his bonnet, 
 and Alec M'Dougall hitches his plaid on his 
 shoulder, and the two step to the front with 
 the pipes, and stand with their cheeks puffed 
 out, ready to begin. The minister waves his 
 hand; the pipes skirl bravely; the doggie 
 barks; the bairns cheer; the great wheels 
 turn ; they are off and away to the den ! And 
 for many a mile the clouds of dust show the 
 road they have travelled to Fyston. In the 
 den how happy they are. The bagpipes play; 
 the choir sings; the bairns dance. The mini- 
 ster ceases to think of his sermon, and 
 Kirsty's tongue wags kindly once in the 
 year; while everybody makes the most of 
 the bonnie day, the green shade, the air, 
 the sea, and the bairns' happiness. Ay, but 
 it is well to be young and innocent, and able 
 for the joy of life ! And, thank God, we can 
 be that; though the sods on which we dance 
 to-day shall be laid above our heads to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Kirsty always said that Geordie Mackay 
 
Spindles and Oars 75 
 
 was the making of the school swarree, and 
 I must say that he was a wonder among 
 the folk on those days. But likely it was 
 only because the poor lad saw himself where 
 he could be blithesome and happy. He was 
 a real child of nature, finding his best plea- 
 sure among the birds and insects, and flowers 
 and trees; and always seeking to understand 
 the men and women round him. Kirsty had 
 never much of an opinion of him, Geordie 
 being one of those unlucky lads that think 
 but little of women, and particularly little 
 of gossips like Kirsty. He was always writ- 
 ing ballants, and putting bits of rhyme to- 
 gether; and it seemed to Kirsty a foolish 
 twisting of words out of their natural way, 
 and like to Barrie Allister's curls that were 
 not her own but due to curl-papers and many 
 a sair head. But, however, the rhymes pleased 
 Geordie and kept him in occupation when he 
 might have been taken up with some other 
 body's poems in curls. And that is unsettling 
 for any young lad and apt to drive the poetry 
 inwards. 
 
 But Geordie was scarce in his teens before 
 he was set to study human nature in a hard 
 school. Kirsty and Widdy Rafe still talk over 
 
7<5 Spindles and Oars 
 
 their tea of his mother and his sister Nan ; and 
 indeed a more heart-breaking history never 
 kept two women's tongues from wearying. 
 
 Mrs Mackay had been a woman of a meek 
 spirit, the wife a man is fain to marry when he 
 would be master in the house. And, to be sure, 
 Robbie Mackay showed himself a power in his 
 family till he was carried off by a misadventure 
 at the mill. Then, having none to worry her 
 in this world, the widdy broke her heart with 
 wearying to join Robbie in the other. Poor 
 body she had had little experience of a quiet 
 life; and indeed she knew nothing of the life 
 to come, but she was one of those women that 
 think the things they don't possess must needs 
 be better than those they have. And I would 
 not be for saying Mrs Mackay did not find out 
 her error in the long last. But, however, the 
 Book tells us they neither marry nor are given 
 in marriage in the next world ; and, that being 
 so, I would fain hope the power of the man is 
 limited, and that he finds in the angel the 
 discipline he missed in the wife. 
 
 A year after her husband died Mrs Mackay 
 was touched by a stroke; and from that hour 
 she sat day and night in her chair in the ingle 
 and never stirred a limb of herself for fifteen 
 
Spindles and Oars 77 
 
 long years. She had the bairns Geordie and 
 Nan beside her, and the two young things 
 were just devoted to the helpless mother. 
 They tended her themselves Nan rising twice 
 through the night to feed her. But it was not 
 to be expected that the lassie should be able 
 long for such work, and when she was turned 
 sixteen she began to pine and dwine away. 
 
 It was then Geordie showed what spirit he 
 had, and each night he rose and went to his 
 mother and Nan. And this he did till the 
 time when he was left alone. 
 
 Nan was the first to go ; and well I mind the 
 day when the coffin was lifted into the room 
 for the widow to gaze on her young lassie 
 away before her. Her fingers twitched as if 
 they would fain have stroked the dead face, 
 but she could not move and she sat with not 
 even a tear for the bairn she loved. We all 
 thought she was to follow Nan ; but she lived 
 on, Geordie waiting on her with the help of 
 one of the neighbours, and watching beside 
 her through the nights. It was then he wrote 
 his poetry, and grand were the rhymes he 
 made, though they could not match the poem 
 that he was living, and that never was put 
 into words. But when his mother was laid 
 
78 Spindles and Oars 
 
 beside Nan in the Abbey yard, it was plain 
 how the long-, weary nights had tried him. 
 He had not taken a whole night's sleep for 
 years, and now when there was none needing 
 his care, he could not bide in his bed, but 
 would rise and walk in and out of the rooms 
 until he was like to lose his wits. 
 
 He was a tall lad with a stoop in his back, 
 and his eyes big and soft like a lassie's, and 
 the Skyrle lads mocked at him for an old 
 wife. But he was more of a man than any 
 one of them in his intellect, though he would 
 not join in the curling on the pond, or the 
 bowling on the green, or the cricket on the 
 common. He wearied through the days; and 
 Kirsty told him it would run him into an un- 
 necessary expense to set up a stone to Nan 
 and his mother, and 'twould be better to bide 
 while he was lying beside them, and then the 
 one inscription would do' for the three. And 
 the whole town was of the same mind as 
 Kirsty, seeing his white, wan face and spiritless 
 manner. Then the doctor bade him go to 
 the south, and after he had journeyed about 
 the country, and seen the terrible strange 
 ways of English folk, he came back to Skyrle 
 very well content to be among his own again. 
 
Spindles and Oars 79 
 
 He was not able for work ; and he sought his 
 pleasure on the fells and moors, and learned 
 the names of the butterflies that love the 
 heather, and the ways of the bees and spiders 
 and ants, that the other laddies passed with- 
 out seeing. 
 
 The bairns liked well enough to walk with 
 Geordie, for he could call all the stones and 
 birds and flowers on the cliffs, and could give 
 grand names to the sea-weed and shells left 
 by the tide on the beach. The cliffs were 
 grand company for him, and he was never 
 lonely walking on them watching the sunrise, 
 or sauntering along with the gloaming light 
 red on the water, and the fishing boats asleep 
 on a dreaming sea. Surely, surely, there never 
 was a bonnier place than Skyrle, and I am 
 like to greet thinking of the days that will 
 come no more. When Geordie sat in the 
 kirk on Sabbath, he was maybe more lonely 
 than any other time, for I've seen his blue 
 eyes grow wistful and dim, and I've known 
 his thoughts were out by among the shadows 
 in the Abbey yard. 
 
 It was at the school swarree in Fyston Den 
 that he had the first thought of marriage and 
 Barbara Allister. 
 
So Spindles and Oars 
 
 The bairns had gone out to their tea, and 
 the den was full of happy faces and children's 
 voices. It was a bonnie place and had been 
 formed by the burn winning down through the 
 slack to the sea. At one time the water had 
 travelled through a flat country, but year by 
 year it had worn the ground and hollowed 
 out a channel for itself, deepening it till now 
 the burn sang at the bottom of a steep dell. 
 
 The birks and rowan-trees rose from the 
 slopes and met overhead ; and at their feet the 
 flowers glinted through sprays of bracken 
 and fern and tangled grass. A randy path 
 wound down the den, and you followed it till 
 just when you lost the burn you found the 
 sea. Eh, and it is often that way in life. We 
 lose what made our hearts gladsome, and 
 then, ere the tears are well out of the eye, we 
 have a sight of some bigger happiness spread 
 out before us. 
 
 On the day of the picnic, Geordie had wearied 
 himself serving the bairns. They had sat 
 round on the grass, and he had given each 
 bairn a wee bag with a cookie and three pieces 
 of fine bread in it. The tea had been infused 
 ere the lurries started from Skyrle ; and David 
 M'Naughten— with Kirsty beside him, be sure ! 
 
Spindles and Oars 81 
 
 — stood and filled the cups from the big 
 pitchers; and he'd fill some of the cups six 
 times ere the bairns would be content. 
 
 All at once there was something to do among 
 the lassies; and there was Barbara Allister 
 with her red cheeks all a-fire and her black eyes 
 glowing because the proud hussies wouldn't 
 let her sit with them, she being in the gown 
 she was used to wear at her work in the mill. 
 The lassie was an orphan, and it took her 
 all her time to live, without getting the hats 
 and gowns that were a temptation to the mill 
 lassies. It was a kittle work to quiet Barbara 
 when she was in a rage; but when Miss 
 Isobel heard what the trouble was, she set 
 her lips and rose in her high way. 
 
 ' Come and sit with me, Barbara dear,' said 
 she, and she led her out before them all, and 
 gave Barrie her tea beside her ; and after- 
 wards she called the doggie, Skye, and made 
 him shake hands with the lassie, and beg for 
 cookies and go through his tricks till Barrie 
 had forgotten her old frock, and was as blithe 
 as any. 
 
 Geordie hadn't seen this, and, being wearied, 
 he wandered away and laid himself down among 
 the ferns ; where he maybe thought of a rhyme 
 
82 Spindles andjOars 
 
 or two about the flowers and the bees, and 
 the burnie and the trees, and all the bonnie 
 sights around him. Or maybe he just fell a- 
 nodding and dreamed. But, however, he heard 
 the sound of singing, and lifted his eyes to 
 see a crimson light streaming through the 
 heuch, and the tree trunks rising tall and 
 straight and white round him, and at the 
 head of the path two young lassies dancing 
 down hand-in-hand. 
 
 The one was golden-haired, and the other a 
 gipsy for darkness; but they each had flowers 
 in their hair and sang as they danced. And in 
 the red light the fair young things looked like 
 spirits. Then Geordie saw no more. And 
 while he kind of swooned his dream went on, 
 and it seemed to him that a soft hand was 
 laid on his mouth; or maybe his mother had 
 kissed him. He woke all in a daze. There 
 was something on his lips, and when he put 
 up his hand he felt it was a flower. 
 
 Well, being a poet, Geordie saw more in that 
 than mere lassies' fun. He pinned the rose in 
 his coat ; and afterwards he flushed red as. the 
 pickling cabbages in the manse garden to see 
 Barrie Allister with her hand full of roses the 
 fellows to his. 
 
Spindles and Oars 83 
 
 After that Geordie would wander in the 
 den at the gloaming and think about Barrie ; 
 though, to be sure, he said he was studying 
 human nature. And often he shut his een and 
 saw round him the tall trunks of the birks, 
 the red light, and a lassie, with dark eyes 
 and roses on her cheeks and in her hands, 
 singing through the den. 
 
 ***** 
 
 On May Day, all the lads and lassies in 
 Skyrle go out to the cliffs in the early morn- 
 ing; the lassies to wash their faces in May 
 dew, and the lads to gather primroses and 
 choose their sweethearts for the year. 
 
 Geordie Mackayhad always loved the custom, 
 and every year he went out to watch the 
 young folk making happy together. He liked 
 the simple bonnie way of it ; and found a deal 
 of poetry in the day dawning over the sea, and 
 the pale light of the primroses in the copse, 
 and among the uncurled fern fronds; in the 
 sight of the blushing lassies, young and win- 
 some, and the awkward laddies, shy and bold. 
 And he liked to watch them come out blate 
 and tender like the young day, and win back 
 bold and hearty as the noon. 
 
 And many beside Geordie have had reason 
 
84 Spindles and Oars 
 
 to think well of the first of May in Skyrle. 
 Geordie had no thought of the dreariness of 
 winning out to the cliffs all alone till the May 
 after the swarree that had caused him to get 
 into confusion between human nature and a 
 lassie. 
 
 He wandered out that morning, not rightly 
 knowing whether or not he should make for the 
 cliffs ; but he found himself on the brae with 
 the sea stretching out dim and patient, and 
 the dawn stirring in the east. He was early 
 enough; but a woman's figure stood out on 
 the Ness, and when he came near he saw it 
 was Kirsty. 
 
 ' Weel, Kirsty,' said he, ' I'm doubting David 
 wull no come a-Maying the noo.' 
 
 Kirsty made him no answer, making as if 
 she didn't see him. 
 
 ' Ay, Kirsty,' said Geordie, climbing up beside 
 her; 'his auld banes wull no take weel wi' 
 pulling primroses.' 
 
 'And wha are you, mocking the lichtsome 
 day wi' siccan havers ? ' said Kirsty glowering 
 on him. 'Maybe I'm winning out to wash 
 my face in May-dew wi' a' the ither lassies.' 
 
 'Tosh, woman, you're weel-favourt eneuch 
 wi'oot stooping to siccan like airts. Na, na, 
 
Spindles and Oars 85 
 
 Kirsty, it's seeking David that you are. Toots ! 
 a' the warld kens he is wantin' you.' 
 
 'Aweel!' said Kirsty, very well pleased with 
 the compliment; 'I'm no to say Dawvid's no 
 been speirin' at me this whilie. Na, na, I've 
 no cause to fash mysel' huntin' the gowk 
 on the cliffs.' 
 
 'Then it's the sunrise you're for admirin'?' 
 said Geordie very simply. 
 
 ' Havers, man ! it's just Miss Isobel that was 
 fain to leave her bed and win oot to see the 
 lassies mak' fools o' the laddies. Eh, but she 
 could see that ony hoor o' the day— she could 
 that.' 
 
 'Puir lassie, she's but young. When she's 
 your age, Kirsty—' 
 
 'She'll no be fashed crackin' wi' a witless 
 loon, I'll promise,' said Kirsty very sharp. 
 She had had a sight of David on the cliff- 
 path, and was wishful to be rid of Geordie ere 
 David came up. 
 
 'And where's the lassie?' Geordie asked. 
 
 ' And where wad she be ? ' said Kirsty all in 
 a flutter. 
 
 Well she knew that David wouldn't go a- 
 Maying that morn if Geordie was to have his 
 laugh at him. And just in the moment Geordie 
 
86 Spindles and Oars 
 
 cast his eyes down and spied David panting 
 up the Ness, which was a stiff climb for a 
 stout widdy-man with eight of a family. 
 
 'I'll no leave you, Kirsty, unless you tell 
 me where Miss Isobel is,' said Geordie. And 
 he looked at her very straight. 
 
 1 She's bedded,* said Kirsty, sairly put about ; 
 ' and I'll be obliged tae ye if you'll gang your 
 ain gate the noo.' 
 
 'Ou, ay, I'll wish ye a guid day, Kirsty; for 
 here's David winning oot to tak tent o' the 
 minister wha's in his bed snoring.' With that 
 Geordie walked on laughing; for indeed it 
 was a treat to see a woman of Kirsty's years 
 going a-Maying like a young lassie. But 
 there! a woman may know everything, and 
 yet not know when she is past youth. Kirsty 
 had led David out that morning to settle with 
 him; and she kept him a while on the cliffs, 
 and flattered him into thinking he was a 
 young man, till— what with the flattery, and 
 needing his breakfast, and wearying for quiet- 
 he lost his head and proposed marriage to 
 her. Eh! I'm thinking it will be a long day 
 before the Skyrle lassies give the lads leave 
 to cease the Maying on the cliffs. 
 
 Well, Geordie walked on, seeing the young 
 
Spindles and Oars 87 
 
 folk pairing off and setting themselves to pull 
 the flowers ; but he was not for joining them, 
 and he dandered past Dorrent's Den where 
 the primroses grow thickest, and crossed the 
 loaning, and so reached Fyston Den. The 
 doves were cooing, and a soft light was round 
 about the birks. All was fresh and young 
 and green, and the morn touched the secret 
 in his heart, and gave him a pain that was 
 surely a pleasure, he took such a delight 
 in it. 
 
 If he had thought to go a-Maying he must 
 have had a sair heart when he was through 
 the woods, for he had not pulled a single 
 flower, or had speech with a woman besides 
 Kirsty. But, however, his face was fine and 
 glad; and as he walked he told himself how 
 he would not have a fine lady for wife, but 
 would seek a lassie that he could train in 
 simple, natural ways to be a mate for him. 
 
 'And,' says he, 'there's a deal of human 
 nature in Barrie Allister, and she's a fine lassie 
 and orphaned. Maybe she would quit the 
 mill and go to school for a year or two, till 
 she's old enough to be wedded. A lassie like 
 that wouldna set her will up against mine, 
 gin she was early taught a wife's duty to her 
 
88 Spindles and Oars 
 
 man. Eh, but I'm hoping Barrie will be 
 willing to think about it.' 
 
 By this time Geordie had reached the open 
 road, and Skyrle lay spread out before him, 
 with the mill chimneys rising tall and straight, 
 and the Abbey in their midst, and the blue 
 sea fringing all. It was a bonnie sight, and 
 the picture pleased Geordie, for Skyrle was 
 the place where Barbara was to be trained to 
 his liking. By-and-by he would wed her under 
 the shadow of the mills, and when they had 
 spent their lives together in the home that 
 was to be the wonder of the neighbours for 
 its simple ways, they would rest together 
 under the shadow of the grey old Abbey. 
 
 He was very well content by the time he 
 went through the streets, and it seemed like 
 a providence when just at the Abbey pend 
 he came on Barbara with her hands full of 
 primroses. Her cheeks were red as roses, 
 and her eyes sparkled when she saw how 
 blate Geordie looked at the sight of her. He 
 was wearying to have speech with her, but 
 he could think of nothing to say, and he stood 
 with his mouth open and his knees shaking 
 till she had passed him by. And when he 
 saw her back his wits came to him again. 
 
Spindles and Oars 89 
 
 'Barrie,' he cried to her, 'Barrie, wull you 
 no gie me a flooer?' 
 
 But she just flouted him and ran on laugh- 
 ing. And Geordie hung his head, feeling 
 a weighty heart within him as he walked 
 through the pend. 
 
 'Na, na,' he said to himself, 'there's a 
 posseebeelity o' gettin' ower muckle human 
 nature in a lassie. I'll no be thinkin' o' 
 marriage and — * 
 
 'Twas then he stopped. The saucy lass 
 had turned and cast a bunch of primroses at 
 him, and they had smote him full on the 
 cheek. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 Her Heart's Desire 
 
 It was well known in Skyrle that the Totum 
 Kirkie was not altogether as peaceful within it- 
 self as it might be ; for although nor Kirsty nor 
 Widdy Rafe would let any other body speak 
 against the Methodists, they had many a 
 word to say one against the other. And 
 indeed it was a treat to them that Elspeth 
 Mackay's man should aye be giving occasion 
 for their tongues to wag. I mind how the 
 two would sit over their tea cracking about 
 the manse and the kirk, the members and 
 the minister, till Miss Isobel couldn't sew a 
 new shirt to her father but the whole town 
 knew of it. And there was none that bought 
 a hymn-book from David but Kirsty knew 
 the price and the bargaining that had passed 
 ere David would lay it in the pew for use 
 on the Sabbath. And Kirsty herself could 
 
Spindles and Oars 91 
 
 tell the spirit of each body in the kirk by the 
 way they treated their books. 
 
 Elspeth Mackay, poor body, was awful fond 
 of John Wesley, and aye put a kerchief round 
 the book of his hymns after the sermon on 
 Sabbath night. She had her lassie, Eppie, 
 growing up, and she thought how the book 
 would be needed when she herself was laid 
 in the Abbey graveyard. 
 
 But Kirsty often said how the folding up 
 of the book minded her of Elspeth herself; 
 for the poor body was just bound about by a 
 life that hid her from all, though it was fair 
 and white to look upon. And indeed many a 
 time I have thought that the soul under her 
 sad face was just as bonnie and full of thought 
 as the hymns that made the singing in our 
 kirk the best in all the town. 
 
 Kirsty always had a feeling against Elspeth, 
 because she had gotten a man of her ain — 
 though, to be sure, he was not much to be 
 proud of when she had gotten him. But some 
 women are that way, and would sooner marry 
 two wooden legs than none at all. 
 
 It was terribly edifying to see how Kirsty 
 had tried now one and now another, and had 
 failed with all till she was fain to make up to 
 
92 Spindles and Oars 
 
 David, a widow man with eight bairns. And 
 then, just so soon as she was like to have a 
 lad of her own, she turned and flouted Els- 
 peth. And this was natural, seeing that the 
 two women had been friends all their lives. 
 
 There were many in Skyrle could mind of 
 Elspeth as the bonniest lassie in the town, 
 even though now her patient, white face was 
 sealed with a silence that she hadn't broken 
 for years. 
 
 She lived in the Abbey Wynd, and worked 
 at Rafe's mill through the day, so silent-like 
 and so solitary that none of the neighbours, 
 not even Kirsty, dared ask her about her man. 
 And yet it seemed but yesterday since she had 
 gone out of the mill, with her bonnie face red 
 as a rose, to her first tryst with Wullie Mac- 
 kay. And it was surely a cruel thing for 
 Kirsty, knowing that Wullie was a bad fellow, 
 to stand by silent and let the lassie go. But 
 she did that. She was maybe not overpleased 
 at Elspeth getting a lad before her, or maybe 
 it was because Elspeth hadn't told her aught 
 about it. But, however, although she knew 
 that Wullie wasn't a steady lad, she stood by 
 and said nothing. 
 
 ' Gin Elspeth had telled me she was courtin' 
 
Spindles and Oars 93 
 
 I micht hae had a ward wi' her aboot her 
 sweetheart; but I winna speak the noo,' said 
 she, setting her mouth very firm. And she 
 let the lassie go unwarned to her sorrow. 
 
 Ay, but the poor thing must have been 
 blinded not to see it for herself! But a mole 
 can see fine compared with a woman when 
 she's in love. 
 
 The marriage was at St Tammas's holidays, 
 and after it the two were away to Dundee to 
 spend the week ere the mills opened again. 
 
 There was surely no gladsomer heart than 
 Elspeth's anywhere that day when she went 
 out from Skyrle a blithe lassie, fair and inno- 
 cent, and full of love for her Wullie. She was 
 but seventeen, and life stretched before her 
 with happiness glinting bright on it. She 
 would have to work in the mill as she had aye 
 wrought, for Wullie had not enough to keep 
 the two ; but she wasn't thinking of the toil. 
 She was just very proud, thinking of the 
 bonnie home she would make to herself and 
 Wullie. For though she wasn't a clever lass 
 like Kirsty, she knew the meaning of the 
 words love and duty. 
 
 The poor, innocent lamb ! A week after the 
 wedding day she came back to Skyrle, with 
 
94 Spindles and Oars 
 
 the light gone from her eye and the joy from 
 her heart, and but duty to anchor her to the 
 life before her. She had wedded a drunken 
 lout, and found it out too late. From that day 
 Elspeth was a silent creature. She said no 
 word to anybody, and bore her trouble alone ; 
 but she was a changed woman, and with her 
 marriage morn her happiness ended. 
 
 During the courting Wullie had put a bridle 
 on himself; but after the marriage his conduct 
 was a scandal, and Kirsty took care that it 
 should be no secret that Elspeth had never 
 won her man. 
 
 Surely Kirsty was the biggest gossip Skyrle 
 ever hearkened to. It pleased her to tell every 
 body Elspeth had not done so well with Wullie, 
 and would have been the better wanting him. 
 And at the Abbey Wynd she wrought night 
 and day to find out how Elspeth took with 
 her bargain. But Elspeth set her lips, and 
 though her voice trembled sore, she smiled 
 when Kirsty asked, and would aye answer:— 
 
 'Wullie is better to me than I merit, I'm 
 obleeged to you, Kirsty. And I'm thinkin' that 
 love and duty are worth mair than happiness, 
 Kirsty, in a woman's life.' 
 
 And Kirsty couldn't get her to say any other. 
 
Spindles and Oars 95 
 
 When Eppie was born, a kind of hope grew 
 in Elspeth's heart that Wullie would change, 
 and that the wee fingers would draw him in 
 the right way. She would hold the bairn for 
 a long hour, while she prayed that the little 
 child might lead him into a different life. And 
 it seemed as if this would be the way of it, 
 for Wullie was fond of the girlie, and would 
 win home sooner to have a romp with her ere 
 she was bedded. 
 
 But the change didn't last long. Soon the 
 drink had him fast again, and many a time 
 the neighbours heard blows in the attic and 
 although Elspeth didn't scream they knew 
 he was using her ill. 
 
 At last wee Eppie began to fear him, and 
 to run from him when he came in drunk, 
 and this angered him more than her mother's 
 silence. It was then a thrawn look came 
 into Elspeth's eyes, and her breast rose. 
 She could be patient for herself, but not for 
 the bairn, and she always dreaded some hurt 
 to her. And then, one day, worse than she 
 had ever thought was at her threshold. 
 
 She came in from the mill to find the bairn 
 sleeping, drunk— poor wee maid!— beside her 
 drunken father. Elspeth didn't understand at 
 
96 Spindles and Oars 
 
 the first ; but when the truth cut through her, 
 her heart almost failed her, and she was near 
 to hating the father of her child. 
 
 She lifted Eppie to her knee, and all the 
 night through she sat there stunned, not able 
 for anything but a dumb cry that God would 
 take the wee maid to Himself, if that was the 
 only way. 
 
 I don't rightly know what she said to Wullie, 
 but he was canny the most of the day after. 
 And he had need; for little Eppie was fevered, 
 and it seemed that Elspeth's prayer was to be 
 answered just on the moment. Towards the 
 gloaming, however, the bairn looked up at 
 her mother and smiled. 'See, Wullie,' said 
 Elspeth softly, 'the wee maid is to live.' 
 
 He came beside her, putting out his hand 
 to the baby, but she hid her face and wouldn't 
 let him touch her; and at last he dashed out 
 of the room, crying that it was Elspeth who 
 had set the bairn against him. 
 
 From that day she altogether lost her hold 
 on him, and it was a rare hour that found 
 him without the drink in him. 
 
 She daredn't leave the girlie with him after 
 that night, and would take her with her to 
 the mill, where young William Rafe made an 
 
Spindles and Oars 97 
 
 awful pet of her till she would look at no 
 other body in the place. 
 
 One Wednesday night, Elspeth had her early 
 bedded, and won away to the minister's class 
 at the Totum Kirkie. Mr Grahame was just 
 getting over his sickness, and it was beautiful 
 to hear his experience. Elspeth hearkened to 
 him speaking of the good gifts to be gained 
 from pain and trouble and difficulty, till her 
 poor heart was lightened of its load ; and she 
 rose and went from the class with patient faith 
 for the end of her trials. 
 
 Poor body! she needed all the comfort and 
 strength the minister could give her. She was 
 passing the tavern in Barber's Croft when her 
 heart leaped within her and she halted, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 Surely, surely it was not her Eppie speak- 
 ing ! A bairn's voice came out into the night, 
 and she shuddered to hear the curses pour- 
 ing from the wee mouth. 
 
 The poor creature pressed forward, holding 
 her hand to her heart, and could scarce hear 
 for greeting that such-like words should soil 
 a bairn's lips. But she was like to die when 
 she looked inside. There was Eppie in her 
 bed-gown, staggering up and down the long 
 
98 Spindles and Oars 
 
 table, altogether foolish with the drink, saying 
 the bad words. 
 
 And there stood her father among the other 
 men, roaring and laughing to see the wee thing 
 acting like a drunken clown. I cannot tell how 
 Elspeth didn't die to see that sight. She held 
 on to the door-brods, gripping them to keep 
 herself from falling ; and in another minute an 
 awful shriek stopped the laughing in the room. 
 Then she had gotten Eppie in her arms, and 
 was fleeing along Barber's Croft as if the evil 
 one was at her heels. As indeed he was ; for 
 no sooner was she in the attic than she knew 
 that Wullie had cursed his bairn with his own 
 awful weakness, and that Eppie's little fair 
 body held the same devil that possessed her 
 father. 
 
 'Mither, mither,' sobbed the littlin, 'I'm for 
 mair o' the bonnie watter. Gie me anither 
 drink like feyther's.' 
 
 And though Elspeth infused tea to her, and 
 brought out the Sabbath sweeties, nothing 
 would please Eppie, and she sobbed herself to 
 sleep, greeting for the bonnie water. 
 
 After that Elspeth's one prayer was that the 
 bairn might be taken from the evil to come, for 
 as each day passed it made her the more 
 
Spindles and Oars 99 
 
 hopeless of ever rooting out the seed that 
 had been planted in Eppie's nature. She 
 was aye craving for the whisky, and made 
 up to her father when she found she could 
 get it from him. He was first with her 
 now, and it pleased him fine to have the 
 bairn's love, though he bought it at such a 
 price. 
 
 In the meantime Elspeth's heart was like to 
 break. But she kept her trouble to herself, 
 and not even the minister knew the terrible 
 fear that was upon her. Her white face, with 
 an awful look on it, met him in the kirk every 
 Sabbath, and he couldn't keep his eyes from 
 seeing her. But he couldn't touch the sorrow 
 hidden under that white silence. And when he 
 spoke of joy and hope Elspeth changed the 
 words to duty and love; and that kept her 
 dumb when she might have won help by tell- 
 ing her trouble to the minister. And she 
 was silent too towards Wullie, not giving him 
 word for word, though indeed the mother's 
 heart in her could not forgive the work he 
 had wrought on the bairn. 
 
 It was the winter after Mr Grahame's sick- 
 ness that her silence was broken. One night 
 at the closing of the mill she hastened home, 
 
ioo Spindles and Oars 
 
 thinking to take Eppie with her to a swarree 
 at the Totum Kirkie. 
 
 The bairn was not in the house, but Bab- 
 bie Stewart from the next room cried in to her 
 that Wullie had gone out by the cliffs, taking 
 Eppie with him. 
 
 This was sair news to Elspeth, for she aye 
 dreaded the bairn being with her father. 
 
 'I'll follow them and maybe get her before 
 the swarree,' she said to herself. And she put 
 on her Sabbath gown in a hurry and hastened 
 out. 
 
 The gloaming was all round her as she 
 hurried along the brae, and the sea moaned 
 black at her feet. But as she got past St 
 Ringan's Well and climbed the Ness, a young 
 moon glinted out and made a track of bonnie 
 light across the dark waters. She couldn't see 
 Wullie, but she heard voices before her, and 
 her face grew whiter when from the sound she 
 could tell he was not sober. 
 
 The bairn was cracking with him, and her 
 voice was like his, hoarse and thick with the 
 drink. 
 
 Elspeth's heart shuddered as she hearkened. 
 She pressed on, but they were both silent and 
 she couldn't tell where to seek for them. 
 
Spindles and Oars 101 
 
 4 Eppie,' she called, ' Eppie, my woman ! ' 
 
 They could not have heard her. The next 
 instant Elspeth halted on the brow of the 
 cliff, trembling with a great horror. 
 
 The silence had parted. A bairn's voice 
 had thrust through it to the mother's ear — 
 
 'Mither! mither!' 
 
 She wanted nothing to tell her what had 
 happened. Her heart followed the sound, 
 down, down, till the splash on the water 
 below had printed itself on her brain. 
 
 How she reached Wullie she never knew. 
 He was on his knees, leaning over the cliff- 
 wall, a sober man. 
 
 ' Eppie, my bairn ! Eppie ! ' she wailed, pull- 
 ing at his arm. 
 
 He was shaking with a mortal terror, and 
 he couldn't answer her. 
 
 'Eppie!' she said, and again, 'Eppie, 
 Eppie!' And down below the waters mut- 
 tered around a patch of white. 
 
 Wullie staggered to his feet at the cry she 
 made, when her eye had a sight of it. 
 
 ' She is awa' ! ' he said, hoarse-like — ' ower 
 the cliff! I couldn't save her.' 
 
 'Eppie, ma wee maid!' said she, in a voice 
 that pierced him like a knife. 
 
io2 Spindles and Oars 
 
 ' God help her, she couldna live,' he answered. 
 
 Then he caught his wife's hand, for she 
 was like to throw herself over the cliff. 
 
 'It's my blame, Elspeth,' said he. 'It's my 
 blame. It's me what has killed the littlin.' 
 
 She turned her white face to him in the 
 darkness, but she spoke no word and in the 
 silence they heard the wash of the waves on 
 the rock below. 
 
 Then an awful cry came out across the night. 
 
 ' Ma wee maid ! Thank God ! Thank God 1 ' 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 The Battle of the Bannocks 
 
 Bab was firing bannocks. All the morn she 
 had been mixing meal and water, and flatten- 
 ing and rounding the cakes, laying them on 
 the griddle, and watching until their colour 
 came clear 'and brown, with a glint of gold in 
 the brown. It was a warm work. Her face 
 burnt, and a patch of red showed up the lean- 
 ness of her cheek-bones. She had never been 
 bonnie; her eyes were tender and red about 
 the lids, and her face was thin and peaked with 
 a mildness in it that showed she was even- 
 tempered. She wore a print, short gown, with 
 the sleeves well above the elbows, and her 
 scraggy arms bare. Her cotton frock, and her 
 apron were dusted with the meal, but she 
 had awful neat feet, and her shoes were well 
 polished. Excepting for the make of her 
 shoes, a body seeing Babbie Stewart would 
 
io4 Spindles and Oars 
 
 have thought she had not an idea beyond 
 bannocks. 
 
 And it was well seen that she gave a deal of 
 thought to these, for she patted and shaped 
 each cake in a dainty way she had with her, 
 and she scarce took her eyes from it till it was 
 perfect ; a bonnie golden platter that made a 
 fragrance in the house. The two piles of 
 cakes on the table kept changing, the one 
 growing larger the other less. Bab now and 
 again looked at them with a kind of pride in 
 her eye, and went on patting, and shaping, and 
 firing without a stop in her work. But though 
 her hands were full of the present, her heart 
 had gone forward to meet the finish of the 
 day. 
 
 After Sabbath, Wednesday was the day of 
 all days to Bab ; and this was a Wednesday. 
 At seven o'clock that evening she would put 
 off the drudge Bab with her cotton gown, 
 and, gowned in her braws, she would put on 
 the lassie Bab— Tam Fergusson's sweetheart. 
 At the thought she began to sing, going 
 over and over again a psalm-tune that seemed 
 to her to hold in it the harmony of Tarn's 
 voice. It was the last tune they had learned 
 Wednesday past at the choir-practice in the 
 
Spindles and Oars 105 
 
 Totum Kirkie, and she could hear his bass 
 notes deepening through her own treble. The 
 singing seemed to hasten the hour for the 
 next practice, when she would sit opposite to 
 Tam in the choir-pew, and there would be 
 nothing between them but the fine link of 
 the music that was like a passion with 
 them both. Babbie's voice was not so bad; 
 it somehow matched the colour of the ban- 
 nocks on the table ; and when she sang life 
 and meaning came into her face. The pale 
 skin with its patches of heat, had a glow in 
 it ; her grey eyes wakened ; and out of them, 
 like a bird from its nest, gazed a timid-like, 
 beautiful happiness. She sang in the same 
 dainty way that she had shaped the cakes. 
 
 Whenever the last was fired she laid it 
 aside to cool, the while she set herself to 
 clean up the house. She cleared away the 
 board, and the basin in the which she had 
 mixed the meal, and she swept up the 
 splashes of meal that whitened the bricks. 
 Then she brought a bucket and flannel and 
 washed round about the floor, finishing it 
 afterwards with a layer of red-rud that made 
 the bricks like the terra-cotta images on the 
 mantel in the manse drawing-room. And as 
 
io6 Spindles and Oars 
 
 you saw her at her work it was clear to be 
 seen that she was fine and clever with her 
 hands ; and as clean in herself as Miss Isobel 
 at the manse, whose hardest labour was 
 washing the doggie Skye. 
 
 Babbie was at the sink when her mother 
 came ben the house. Nancy Stewart was one 
 of the oldest members of the Totum Kirkie, 
 and had wept at more farewell discourses 
 than any other body in Skyrle. She was a 
 wee creature and had been a married woman 
 fifteen years ere her one bairn was born; and 
 I mind well the explanations and apologies 
 she made to the neighbours when the babe 
 came home. But however she might affect to 
 take ill with the child you could see her pride 
 in it. None could say she spoiled Bab, for 
 the poor lassie grew up with never a sus- 
 picion that she was the very apple of her 
 mother's eye. Nancy was terrible stern with 
 her, and might not have been mother to her; 
 and indeed there was little resemblance be- 
 tween the two. 
 
 Nancy's wee body was just full of life, 
 and her keen old face was as dry and as 
 withered and as red as a yule apple. Her 
 mouth was a thin line with hard corners, and 
 
Spindles and Oars 107 
 
 her lips were drawn tight across her teeth. 
 Coming: into the house her footmarks made 
 wet tracks on the floor, but she stepped here 
 and there, and walked all round about ere 
 she would be content to sit her down. In the 
 long last she found a chair and took the seat, 
 wiping her face with the corner of her shawl. 
 
 ' Aweel, we hae dune wi' thae Fergussons ! ' 
 she cried. 
 
 Bab turned slowlike— ' Mither, what's adae 
 wi* Tarn?' 
 
 'Tarn? Wha's spoken o' Tam?' Nancy 
 asked in a thin, cutting voice. 'It's his 
 mither, puir, ongrateful body! May she ne'er 
 crave a guid bannock tae her diet an' no' get 
 it. She telled me tae ma face I couldna mak' 
 bannocks, an' a' the neebours sayin' oor ban- 
 nocks are the bonniest i' Skyrle ! I wad I 
 could cry her ben the noo.' 
 
 She pointed a long finger in a triumphant 
 way at the cakes on the table, and her lips 
 snapped with a click. 
 
 Bab took up her bucket again and went 
 over the footmarks on the floor wiping them, 
 while her face settled into its peace. So long 
 as all was right with Tam, Nancy might 
 quarrel with whom she would. 
 
io8 Spindles and Oars 
 
 'An* her a kirk member, wi' sittings on the 
 same side o' the kirk,' Nancy went on. 'Wi* 
 siccan a tongue she'll no hae muckle o' a 
 speeritual experience, I ken.' 
 
 Bab's silence was not over welcome to her 
 mother. She lifted herself where she sat, and 
 gazed down at the lassie wiping the floor. 
 
 'An' I'm bold tae say she micht hae said 
 waur an' no hae gar'd you fash yersel', Bab.' 
 
 'She micht hae said waur,' the lassie made 
 her answer. 
 
 'She micht hae said waur?' Nancy cried, 
 her anger rising. ' She couldna hae said waur ; 
 an' if you hadna been coortin' Tammas you 
 wad hae seen it yersel'. Hand me oot my 
 kerchief an my Sabbath bonnet. Maybe 
 the meenister will gie me the consolation I 
 canna win fra ma ain bairn.' 
 
 ' Mither, dinna seek the meenister wi' siccan 
 havers!' Bab called rising to her feet. 
 
 'Havers! an' is't Jamie Stewart's dochter 
 that wad see me insultit an' ca' it "havers?" 
 Weel-a-weel, it'll no be havers gin I tell Mr 
 Grahame you'll no' sing in the singin'-pew an' 
 no' sit under his preachin' ony mair. That 
 wull you no'— nor mysel nether.' 
 
Spindles and Oars 109 
 
 'Mither, you winna dae't!' Babbie cried, 
 amazed at Nancy's . rough speaking. 
 
 'Wull I no?' said the old body setting her 
 lips. 'Hand me oot my bonnet.' 
 
 Babbie bided where she stood 
 
 'Mither, I canna live wantin' the singin', 
 an' . . . . an' Tarn,' she said with a sudden 
 new passion sounding in her voice. 
 
 'You'll live wantin' the singin' and wantin' 
 Tam as weel, fra the noo onward,' said 
 Nancy. 'I'll no' permit you tae merry wi' 
 Tam Fergusson, an' that's a' aboot it. Hand 
 me oot ma bonnet.' 
 
 Babbie's face was awful white; but she said 
 no word, and fetched out Nancy's Sabbath 
 bonnet, from its box beneath the bed. She 
 smoothed out the ribbons and tied them under 
 the sharp chin her mother lifted. Then she 
 folded the shawl about her, and stood at the 
 door watching as Nancy went briskly down 
 the loaning. All the life died from the lassie's 
 body the while she watched; and her face 
 took on a dull grey, save where the two 
 patches of red burnt themselves in. 
 
 It was not her mother that she was watch- 
 ing go from her sight, but the hope and 
 brightness of her life— the hour's singing that 
 
"o Spindles and Oars 
 
 opened Heaven's gates to her, the love that 
 led her right through the open gates. All was 
 fading away from her vision — blotted out by 
 the will of the mother she had feared even 
 more than she loved. She had no spirit in her 
 to think of changing Nancy's temper towards 
 Tarn's mother. Nancy Stewart's will was well 
 known in Skyrle— and it was as far beyond 
 human control as measles, or marriages, or any 
 other dispensations of Providence. 
 
 Babbie turned back into the room. It was 
 awful clean, and the burnish on the stove shot 
 through her like to sharp steel. The kitchen 
 was redd-up for the Wednesday's happiness — 
 ' St Tammas' Day ' as she had been used to 
 call it, blushing to herself. She had made the 
 bannocks on the table for Tarn's supper; but 
 he would not be needing them that night — or 
 indeed any other night. She set them aside, 
 thinking with a mild wonder of the foolishness 
 of the thing that had taken all the beauty out 
 of the day. And it made her little cheerier to 
 know that her mother was altogether in the 
 wrong. Nancy Stewart could make neither 
 bannock nor scone so as any grown body could 
 eat them ; but it was so long since she had 
 given herself the credit of Babbie's baking that 
 
Spindles and Oars «i 
 
 she had grown to feel it was her hand that 
 made the best bannocks in Skyrle. 
 
 When Nancy came back from the manse, 
 the set of her face told Babbie all she wanted 
 to know. The lassie said nothing, but her 
 eyes were pitiful-like when she lifted her 
 mother's bonnet. 
 
 'Tarn wull no' be heer the nicht,' Nancy re- 
 marked cheerfully, her temper being the better 
 for her having had her own way in spite of the 
 minister's counsel. 'I telled him you wis in 
 nae mind tae merry intae the family.' 
 
 ' An' did he say aught ? ' Babbie asked, knit- 
 ting her hands and scarce breathing for the 
 pain at her heart. 
 
 ' He telled me he wis well content tae be oot 
 o' his bargain, an' I telled him you wis the 
 same, an' wad be merryin' wi' a likelier lad 
 than him.' 
 
 'Mither!' Babbie cried; and that was her 
 only word at the finish of her hopes. Save 
 that she had no singing-practice through the 
 week, and that she ceased attending the Totum 
 Kirkie on Sabbath, it made no extraordinary 
 difference to her outward life that she had lost 
 her sweetheart. 
 
 She kept the house as fine as when Tarn 
 
"2 Spindles and Oars 
 
 had come ben to praise her for a bonnie 
 housewife. She made bannocks that were 
 more than before the pride and boast of 
 Nancy; but there was no meaning now in the 
 work. It had no love in it, and 'twas like a 
 mockery. When the summer came in, and 
 she saw the empty nests in Fyston Den they 
 minded her of her empty life from the which 
 the hope had flown. She ceased to sing at 
 her work, and she could not go to the town's 
 concerts — she dared not run the risk of 
 meeting Tam Fergusson. 
 
 Nancy saw fine that the lassie was wearing 
 away, growing paler, and thinner, and more 
 spiritless, and peaked. And well she heard 
 when the neighbours had it to say that some- 
 thing ailed Bab, and Jamie Stewart had died 
 of a decline ; but she closed her eyes and 
 tightened her lips'. However, though she said 
 nothing she got a bottle from the chemist in 
 the High Street, and bade the lassie drink 
 the bitter stuff. Babbie took it meek as ever, 
 but it worked no miracle, and only put her off 
 her food. She could not understand Nancy's 
 watching her at her diet, neither the reason 
 why there would be such like luxuries as 
 kippers or jelly to their tea, though they took 
 
Spindles and Oars "3 
 
 it by themselves. But though nor Babbie nor 
 Nancy fancied such dainty ways, there was 
 never a meal but the old Ibody would reach 
 down the jelly and bid Babbie taste if 'twas 
 worth the eating. 
 
 And when the winter wore through and the 
 spring came in again, Babbie ceased to cook 
 and to clean and was content to lie in her bed 
 and watch Nancy making a terrible business 
 of seeing to the house. 
 
 The old body was past work, but she was 
 too proud to let the neighbours know it ; and 
 she broke the crocks, and spoiled the cooking, 
 and wearied her poor bones rather than con- 
 fess her frailty. And after every misfortune 
 she would set her lips and begin all over 
 again, making double work for herself. And 
 in the meantime Babbie lay in her bed and 
 said nothing. It seemed that the lassie was 
 dying as patiently as she had lived, going out 
 of life without a sign that she would fain 
 have bided in it; but Nancy refused to see 
 her condition. And when Miss Isobel came 
 and with many tears entreated the old body 
 to be reconciled to the Fergussons for Babbie's 
 sake, Nancy closed the door in her face, and 
 bade her see to the buttons on the minister's 
 
 H 
 
"4 Spindles and Oars 
 
 clothes. She had said that Babbie should not 
 marry Tarn, and she would not go back on 
 her word. So she closed her heart just as 
 she had closed her eyes; and she told Kirsty 
 that Bab had aye been frail and she had 
 never thought to rear her. 
 
 And Kirsty sought to soften Nancy's heart, 
 and came about the house, sorrowing greatly 
 for the trouble that was fallen on Babbie. 
 And indeed, had it not been for many an 
 hour's work that Kirsty put into Nancy 
 Stewart's house when the old body was away, 
 the lassie would have been in a sore case 
 with her mother. 
 
 It was Kirsty who led Mr Grahame to 
 Babbie's couch ; but though he pleaded with 
 her to see Tam she answered him in her 
 patient way that she was content to bide her 
 mother's will. And when the minister called 
 for Nancy and pleaded with her, she answered 
 him the same that she had answered Kirsty. 
 
 But for all her pride her face took on a 
 sharp look, and night and day she watched 
 Babbie as if she could not keep her eyes 
 from her though she might deny her even life 
 itself. 
 
 And then one day the stubborn old heart 
 
Spindles and Oars "5 
 
 failed her; and she rose and stepped to the 
 couch, and gazed down at Babbie who was 
 in a light slumber. Sleep but heightened the 
 whiteness of her poor face ; it was long since 
 the patches of red had faded out, and now 
 the bones stood clear on her pinched features. 
 Her eyes were sunk deep, and there was a 
 shade around her mouth. That shade it was 
 which made Nancy catch her breath with a 
 cry— 'Her feyther went that way, an' she's a' 
 that I hae gotten, ma bairn ! ma bairn ! ' 
 
 Two heavy drops fell on her cheeks, but 
 she dashed them off at the sound of Babbie's 
 voice. 
 
 ' Mither, I could eat a bit bannock the day.' 
 
 It was the first cry for food she had made 
 for a week past, and hope leaped up in 
 Nancy's heart. 
 
 'An' sae you sail, an' sae you sail,' she said 
 cheerily, hastening the while to the cupboard. 
 ' I made bannocks the day. They're bonnie 
 and new ; you'll eat a bittie fine.' 
 
 She came back holding a piece bannock in 
 her hand, and the lassie took it hungry-like. 
 But at the first taste her face changed, and 
 she let the piece fall, while her eyes filled up 
 with tears. 
 
"6 Spindles and Oars 
 
 'It's true, mither,' she said, 'you ne'er 
 kenned hoo tae mak' bannocks.' 
 
 'Twas the hardest word Babbie had said in 
 the length of her gentle days, and Nancy's 
 anger rose at it. 
 
 'You wouldna hae fancied it, gin it had 
 been a better,' she said shortly. 
 
 'Ay, would I,' Bab said weary-like, and 
 turned herself to sleep again. 
 
 Nancy stood fighting a battle with herself. 
 Her face worked sadly ; the thin lines about 
 her mouth were all broken and quivering. . . . 
 She drew her bonnet out and took a hold on 
 it, as one uncertain. Then she shook her 
 head and set her mouth. ' Na, na,' she said, 
 and would have laid down the bonnet but 
 that one of the strings fell across her arm. 
 It minded her of the day when Babbie had 
 tied them for her, and had folded the shawl 
 round her, knowing the while she was bent 
 on doing her a mischief. Nancy trembled 
 greatly, and she sat her down holding the 
 bonnet in her hand. Then she rose and set 
 it on her head, and fixing her mouth like iron, 
 she lifted her head and went from the house 
 and down the loaning to Widow Fergusson's. 
 
 Tam and his mother were at their tea when 
 
Spindles and Oars "7 
 
 she darkened the door, and they rose gazing 
 with amazement at her. Her little body was 
 straight as could be, and there was all the 
 pride of a proud woman in her face. She 
 spoke in a thin, high voice that did not quiver 
 though her breath came hardly. 
 
 ' I was aye a puir hand at makkin' ban- 
 nocks,' she said, 'an' I wad tak' it awfu' kind 
 gin you'd gie me the loan o' ane o' your ain, 
 Mrs Fergusson. Babbie is but ailin' an' she's 
 cravin' for a bite o' bannock. An' Tam, maybe 
 you wad come in by tae call for the lassie. 
 She's a tender-hearted creature, an' I doot 
 she's frettin' at the words I hae made atween 
 you baith.' 
 
 'Come in by, Mrs Stewart,' said Tam 
 simply, 'I hae been talkin' tae the minister's 
 lassie, an' she telled me I suld call for Babbie 
 again. I'll walk roond wi' you the noo, an' 
 tell her the choir practice winna be the same 
 tae me till she's back again i' her auld place.' 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 How Robbie Became a Poet 
 
 Many a time I've heard it said that the poet 
 is born, not made ; but when I think of Robbie 
 Christie I am fain to question the saying. 
 
 To be sure, Geordie Mackay said that Robbie 
 was a poet on the day when— a laddie newly 
 breeched — he told his mother that he heard 
 the lark sing 'The sky, the sky, the sky,' as 
 it mounted up from the field on the brae. 
 But surely had he been born a poet he would 
 have been making bits of rhymes like Geordie 
 and printing them in the Skyrle Echo for the 
 other poets to make light of. 
 
 No, no; it was Nan Mackay's love that 
 made Robbie a poet. Had he been born one 
 he would have showed it in his face, and not 
 frightened all the bairns with his uncanny 
 looks, and his shoulders rising above his ears. 
 
Spindles and Oars "9 
 
 Though that last was not his blame, but was 
 owing to a fall when he was a babe. 
 
 He was a lad I liked, and I couldn't bear 
 to see his white face, and the look in his eyes 
 that were always hungry and as if praying for 
 what he hadn't got. It was little he had ; for 
 after his mither died, he lived with ne'er a 
 creature to love, and no woman to tend him, 
 though half his days were a long battle with 
 the pain the doctors couldn't cure. 
 
 But, he never seemed to weary, although he 
 was grave-like; and when he couldn't work, 
 he would sit the long day through watching 
 the sunbeams creep about the trees, or flash 
 on the waves by the shore. And always 
 on his face was a strange light, and he 
 would seem to listen to a voice that none else 
 could hear, and see sights that were hid from 
 the folk about him. 
 
 Geordie said it was because Robbie was a 
 poet; though I told him had he been a poet, 
 he wouldn't have been silent, wanting the 
 words to clothe his thoughts. For what is a 
 poet but a man who can make a rhyme that 
 the papers will print? 
 
 I had never any patience with Geordie's idea 
 that the poet is one who knows the invisible 
 
i2o Spindles and Oars 
 
 meaning of visible things. And often he 
 angered me, saying the poet sees the mea- 
 dows of space a-blossom with stars, and finds 
 a solar system in every cluster of gowans on 
 the brae-side ; with such-like upside-down talk. 
 
 But though I couldn't be troubled with 
 Geordie's wild sayings, it pleased me greatly 
 when he began to notice Robbie; and one day 
 the thing began that made him a poet. 
 
 He and Geordie had been having a turn on 
 the cliffs, and they stood talking outside the 
 door of Widdy Mackay's house in the Abbey 
 Nook. All on the sudden the sneck started, 
 and the door swung backward, showing the 
 kitchen. It was the gloaming, when the lights 
 are dim inside and out, and Robbie had never 
 seen a bonnier picture than the open door 
 showed him then. The fire was bright in the 
 range, and the flames danced on the walls and 
 on the shining lids hanging over the mantel. 
 The bricks had been newly raddled; and on 
 the wool-rug before the fire a cat sat purring 
 loud enough to quiet the kettle on the hob. 
 The brass fender was like gold, and every 
 thing in the room looked as if it was fresh 
 from the hands of the maker. In the corner, 
 near the window, was a chair-bed, on which 
 
Spindles and Oars 121 
 
 Mrs Mackay was propped, her patient hands 
 idle on her lap. Poor body, she hadn't moved 
 a finger for many a year. There was a white 
 cloth on the table, and some blue cups and 
 saucers, and a plate of bannocks that Nan 
 had fired that forenoon. And the lassie her- 
 self stood on the far side of her mother ; and 
 all about her the flames danced, showing her 
 steady eyes and her soft hair. 
 
 And, seeing all this, a great hunger rose in 
 Robbie's heart for the home life he had not 
 known. But ere the longing had time to 
 make itself into a thought, Geordie had taken 
 hold of his arm and had led him into the 
 house. 
 
 Hearing the fall of their feet, the lassie 
 came forward, and welcomed him kindly, and 
 took his bonnet, and bade him sit in the big 
 chair in the ingle and warm himself while she 
 infused the tea. She was but a poor creature 
 herself— with delicate health, and waiting on 
 her mother — and it was maybe this that made 
 her take to Robbie when most lassies would 
 have flouted him. 
 
 Since his mother's death he had known 
 nothing of a woman's soft ways ; and her 
 kindness was such a delight and a wonder 
 
i22 Spindles and Oars 
 
 to him, that he didn't remember his bashful- 
 ness, but sat watching her with a colour on 
 his face and his eyes shining. 
 
 He had his tea with them, and then Nan 
 asked him if he had a fondness for music. 
 And when he answered her that the only music 
 he had ever hearkened to, beside the singing 
 in the kirk, was the wind sighing through 
 the corn-stalks, and the sound of voices in the 
 sea's moan, she gazed at him pitifully: — 
 
 'You will tak weel wi' Geordie's piano,' said 
 she, 'and I hope you will no object to my 
 fiddle.' 
 
 There was a quaint old piano in the corner, 
 and Geordie opened it; and presently they 
 began to play, the lassie's fiddle following her 
 brother's music like a voice. Robbie had never 
 hearkened to such playing before, and the cry 
 of the violin went to his heart as if it sought 
 to tear some secret thing from it. 
 
 He knew there was something there that 
 would fain have answered to the cry, but he 
 could not find speech for it; and he sat with 
 his eyes burning, feeling that his heart must 
 burst if it could not find utterance. He strove 
 and wrestled with the feeling in the same way 
 he had struggled before when he had tried 
 
Spindles and Oars 123 
 
 to tell Geordie the secrets he heard in the 
 woods, and the mysteries he learnt from the 
 waves on the shore. But the words wouldn't 
 come, and at last he laid his head down on 
 the table, and wept like a bairn, for the heart- 
 hunger that couldn't find a voice. 
 
 After that, each night he went to the house 
 in the Abbey Nook, and prayed Nan to reach 
 down her fiddle and play for him. And since 
 music was the lassie's life, she was but too 
 happy to please him; and the violin spoke to 
 his heart, till the time came when he could 
 answer. One night — a shy, proud laddie— he 
 slipped a bit of paper into Nan's hand, and 
 then sat down, trembling greatly while the 
 lassie read the verses he had penned. 
 
 After a while she looked up with a rare 
 smile on her face : — ' Robbie, lad, oh, but 
 you're a poet ! ' 
 
 ' Na, na,' he said, humble-like, ' I'm no' that. 
 If I could find the words for the bits of thochts. 
 . . . But they dinna come, an' I'm dumb juist.' 
 
 'But, Robbie, this is real bonnie. And it 
 maks me see the Bell Lighthouse as gin I was 
 on the brae gazing ower the sea to it, wi' the 
 haze saft on it, an' the white gleamin' o' the 
 
i24 Spindles and Oars 
 
 stanes. Bide still the noo, and let me read 
 it up for you.' 
 And these were the words Nan read— 
 
 ' Far from the shore as a landman's voyage, 
 
 Four-walled round with the four winds' flight, 
 White were it day as a dove's soft plumage, 
 
 A tower uprises, sheer of height. 
 Strong where is strength from its broad base shaken ; 
 
 One lurid lamp o'er a moonless track ; 
 Red were it night, and the wild waves waken 
 
 Grim wrecker-reefs to their feast of wrack. 
 Yet white were it day, or red were it night — 
 
 And white lips close round a swift-thought prayer, 
 
 From two men's hearts 'neath the lamp's red flare — 
 Plumed for the flight it hath never yet flown, 
 From the homes and the hearts of a sea-girt town, 
 
 A tower uprises, sheer of height.' * 
 
 'It's beautiful!' said Nan. 'When the sun 
 strikes the white tower, it's like what you call 
 it, "a dove's soft plumage." An' when the 
 nicht fa's, then you mind but of the red licht 
 ower the watter. An' the Bell Licht is set in 
 oor hearts as it is in the hame o' ilka body i' 
 Skyrle. Robbie, it's beautiful!' 
 
 The laddie sat blushing and twisting his 
 hands together too happy to have much speech 
 on his tongue. 
 
 * The verses in this sketch are by ' Quill ' a native of 
 Arbroath, N.B. 
 
Spindles and Oars 125 
 
 'It's a sonnet,' he said, shyly at the last. 
 
 ' I dinna care what you call it,' said she, 'but 
 you're a poet, Robbie.' 
 
 Well, after that, scarcely a day passed but 
 Robbie had something to show Nan, and 
 having begun to rhyme, it was just a craze 
 with him to turn everything into poetry. He 
 seemed to have put on strange spectacles; 
 for he saw meanings in the most ordinary 
 things, and when he showed them to Nan, 
 it seemed as if she had seen them too, and 
 as if the meaning was greater than the thing 
 itself. It was just wonderful to see the 
 change in Robbie. He had surely lighted on 
 a new world, and wherever he touched it the 
 life sprang up. His face grew to be all eyes 
 and to shine till it was more uncanny than 
 before, and always he seemed burning with 
 the fire of his inward life. The poor deformed 
 body was nothing to him now. He did not 
 seem to think of it, and even his pain opened 
 his eyes to understand the mysteries that had 
 puzzled him. 
 
 But while he was feeling his manhood in 
 him, Nan was fading to a pale shadow. So 
 softly and quietly she was wearing away that 
 it was like a snowflake melting, and none of 
 
i26 Spindles and Oars 
 
 them saw she was getting frailer and whiter 
 every day. Even Robbie did not see it, al- 
 though she had grown to be the best part 
 of his life. 
 
 He was giving her a young lad's uncon- 
 scious love, and his thwarted soul was 
 weaving its thoughts round her till they hid 
 from him the white, wae lassie that she was. 
 
 It was drawing to the fall of the year, and 
 the harvest was waiting for the sickle. All 
 along the cliff path the fields were yellow ; 
 and the trees in Fyston Den had a glint of 
 gold even when the sun did not strike 
 through them. 
 
 In the Abbey the leaves were turning; and 
 the chatter of the jackdaws sounded shrill in 
 the silence of the other birds. When the old 
 men sat under the wall at the sunset, they 
 drew their coats round them, and shivered as 
 they talked of the harvest and the winter 
 coming on. The grass among the grave- 
 stones was dry and parched ; and here and 
 there a bare patch on the ground showed 
 where death had been reaping. 
 
 The bairns played among the graves, or 
 stood spelling out the names on the stones, 
 till they saw Robbie on the path and stood 
 
Spindles and Oars 127 
 
 to watch him. A year since they would have 
 mocked at his poor disfigured body and have 
 run away. But a change had passed on his 
 face during the months; and now the bairns 
 did not mind of the crooked back, and saw 
 only the kindly eyes and the face with the 
 light on it. He was strolling along under the 
 trees, and his thoughts were away in another 
 world, till a wee girlie pulled his coat-tail 
 and laid a rose in his hand. 
 
 Robbie smiled down at her, and sat himself 
 on a gravestone and called the bairns round 
 him to hear a story. And when he had 
 ended, he bade them finish their play while 
 he watched the sunset. 
 
 The tomb on which he sat was one of the 
 oldest in the Abbey yard, and sitting there 
 with the girlie's rose in his hand, his thoughts 
 led him away into the past, and brought to 
 his mind one of the legends of the old Abbey. 
 
 It wasn't a ruin to him any longer, and he 
 could see with his mind's eye the arches up- 
 reared, and the corridors stretching away 
 dark and dim into the shadows. He could 
 see the lights on the altar, and the bonnie 
 carvings round the pillars, and the grand 
 embroideries that hung round about. He 
 
i28 Spindles and Oars 
 
 could hear the slow, sweet chanting of the 
 monks, and could feel the smell of the in- 
 cense in the air around him. 
 
 Then the music changed to a dirge very 
 still and solemn, and Rob saw that close 
 under the altar a monk was lying in his 
 shroud, and in his hand was a faded rose. 
 
 And at this he started and came back to 
 his senses. 
 
 He was still sitting on the stone in the 
 Abbey yard, and his fingers were closed round 
 the flower the girlie had given him. The 
 bairns were singing as they played, and the 
 clouds in the sky were red and gold. The old 
 men in the distance were talking among 
 themselves, and under the Abbey gateway 
 Geordie Mackay was going home from his 
 work. 
 
 Robbie waited till he saw him go towards 
 the house in the Abbey Nook, then he 
 followed him bashful-like, for he was weary- 
 ing to see Nan, and had been biding in the 
 yard for Geordie's coming. Nan was whiter 
 than ever, but he noticed no change in her, 
 for she had cheery words for him that night. 
 
Spindles and Oars 129 
 
 Poor lassie, she knew how it was with him, 
 and she felt the love he had never dared put 
 into words. She had grown to love him her- 
 self, but well she knew that nor for him nor 
 for her was the earthly love. And she had 
 set aside her own feeling to encourage him 
 with his poetry, thinking that when she was 
 away he would have his verses to comfort him. 
 
 She must have known it was the last time 
 she would see him, for she spoke to him 
 bonnie words of the love that could never pass 
 away in the darkness. And she bade him be 
 strong and humble, and mind that where love 
 was, there was life. 
 
 She was soon wearied that night; but ere 
 he went out she would play one of her songs 
 for him, and the lad listened, while, for all she 
 was so weak, her fiddle sang high and clear 
 above the note of Geordie's piano. But when 
 the song was ended, Robbie got himself up, 
 and laid his rose in her hand, and went out 
 with never a word to them. And that night he 
 wrote another poem, calling it :— 
 
 THE MONK AND THE ROSE 
 
 With just such a light on his face as tips 
 The sky's far rim when the last star dips, 
 
 He lay there dead— closed eyes, closed lips, 
 Yet looking, they thought, so overwise. 
 
 I 
 
130 Spindles and Oars 
 
 And, stranger still for a monk and old, 
 In his nerveless hand held closely clasped 
 
 Was a withered rose, with what of its gold 
 Remained of a summer of roses past. 
 
 He had treasured it best of his sacred things, 
 Long years, unseen, in his life's day-book; 
 
 A far-off summer scent round it clings, 
 With a ribbon some one from her fair neck took. 
 
 And soft waxed the hearts of these monks grown old 
 (O love will lurk under years of snows) , 
 
 Some thought of the story he never once told; 
 And the youngest of all kissed the pitiful rose. 
 
 But the rose for a kiss would have nothing to say 
 That the dead through life as a vow held dear ; 
 
 And they might have guessed for a year and a day 
 And known no more than is written here. 
 
 Say, rose, fresh plucked from your niche in the wall, 
 
 When death with its gift of sleep dowers all, 
 
 For the kiss now given, in the years outgrown, 
 
 Be you too dumb as if you never had known. 
 
 When Robbie saw Nan again she was in 
 her coffin, and it seemed to him that death 
 had given him what he dared not have craved 
 from life. She was his now ; part of all beauty 
 and all peace, and the life that made up to 
 him for his misshapen body. He saw her in 
 the sunbeam, and heard her voice on the wind, 
 and through the day she spoke to him in 
 bonnie ways. 
 
Spindles and Oars 131 
 
 But when the night fell, then the darkness 
 hid her ^from him; and he would go to the 
 house in the Abbey Nook and sit him down 
 and wait, half expecting she would come into 
 the room with her pale smile to welcome him. 
 And when she didn't come, he would rise, 
 sighing, and go out without a word. 
 
 This went on till one night, sitting there, 
 he remembered Nan's words, of the love that 
 could not go out in darkness. 
 
 But his heart was too sore for the comfort 
 of it, and he said to Geordie that just as they 
 would not hear again the sound of her fiddle 
 striking through the piano's music, so their 
 hearts could not meet in the silence that had 
 fallen between them. And Geordie rose and 
 fell to playing the music he had played with 
 Nannie the night she died. 
 
 The fiddle lay dumb on the shelf where she 
 had put it, and the silence of the strings 
 cried to Robbie's heart. Geordie played on 
 till all at once a strange thing happened, and 
 Out of the silence where the fiddle lay a high 
 note came answering to the note he had 
 touched on the piano. 
 
 Geordie knew how it had happened, but to 
 Robbie it was like the voice of Nan telling 
 
J 32 Spindles and Oars 
 
 him that love was in death's silence, and 
 would speak to him again. And the verses 
 he wrote after that showed that he had taken 
 comfort from the message. 
 
 YESTERDAY'S MIGHT 
 
 Standing amid the roses, while a song as of beaten gold 
 Comes up the path from the river, the river that grows not 
 
 old, 
 I almost see what I cannot see, path shaded by beechen 
 
 boughs, 
 And a light on the blossoming limes like the sun upon 
 
 winter's snows. 
 Ah, the breeze through the green aisle shivers, and the night 
 
 grows sudden cold 1 
 
 In the light that is half the twilight, and half the red firelight 
 
 play, 
 I kneel as I knelt by the altar in yon minster old and gray ; 
 And I almost hear what I cannot hear, the chimes of a 
 
 marriage bell, 
 With the fond ' God speed you,' ' Happy days,' from the many 
 
 lips that fell. 
 Ah, tears and ashes, and rose-leaves fall in the might of my 
 
 yesterday. 
 
 You tell me of roses and tears, that they smell of rosemary 
 and rue, 
 
 Can I wonder the beechen boughs that they intertwine with 
 the yew ? 
 
 But, say, when the heart grows weary giving battle to yester- 
 day's might, 
 
Spindles and Oars 133 
 
 And the glow from the firelight glancing sinks down into 
 
 darkest night, 
 Can a woman be less than womanly, to her true heart prove 
 
 untrue ? 
 
 Still I almost see what I cannot see, and hear what I cannot 
 
 hear, 
 The phantom forms of yesterday with their rhythmic beat 
 
 and clear ; 
 Till in through the hush of the gloaming darts a gleam of 
 
 light from the skies, 
 'Tis the sheen of the emerald portals enfolding my Paradise ! 
 And I turn again to my heritage, humbly to do and to bear. 
 
 But that was the last of the verses Robbie 
 penned ; for afterwards he had not time, he 
 said, to be making rhymes when there were 
 hearts round him needing love and comfort. 
 He was no longer a lone man, for it was 
 strange how all in sorrow drew to him to 
 learn the message that had taken the sting 
 from loss and death. And finding himself a 
 help to those around him, Robbie was com- 
 forted himself. 
 
 But the life in him wore the frail body; and 
 as the soul grew, the frame withered, and all 
 saw that Robbie was to die. And day by 
 day the love waxed on his face that was a 
 wonder to see ; and when he lay dead, none 
 
i34 Spindles and Oars 
 
 remembered his crooked body, seeing his face 
 as the face of an angel. 
 
 Geordie held to it that Robbie's life had 
 been a grander poem than any verse he had 
 penned ; but however, it was love itself that 
 made him a poet. 
 
CHAPTERJX 
 
 Crossing the Bar 
 
 It was summer in Skyrle. Down at the shore 
 the fishers were busy with the herrings. All 
 along the harbour there were rows and rows 
 of casks waiting to be filled and sent all over 
 Scotland. At the end of the pier the women 
 were cleaning and sorting the fish for the 
 barrels. The men were all about ; some in 
 the boats making ready for going out again, 
 some sauntering along the harbour wall with 
 their pipes in their mouths, some leaning their 
 arms on the stones, speaking a word now and 
 then one to the other. 
 
 The waves washed at the foot of the walls 
 —a soft 'lap-lap' that was surely a blythe thing 
 to hear in the summer gloaming. And the air 
 was full of the sound of bairns' voices and the 
 smell of the nets and creels. It was the time 
 of the year when Skyrle has more to do with 
 the sea than with the mill. And out in the 
 
136 Spindles and Oars 
 
 pleasant sun it did seem a fine thing to be 
 one of the fisher folk, dancing on bright 
 waves away from the roar of wheels, out of 
 the noise and heat and dust of the factory. 
 
 Ay, a fine thing it seemed with the sun 
 glinting down on the boats rocking safe as 
 bairns' cradles beneath the harbour wall. But 
 to them that looked backward at the winter 
 past, and forward to the storm that each 
 green wave carries in its bosom, it was not 
 altogether a fine thing. 
 
 Surely it is well to be content with our lot; 
 hearing the song we heard yestreen, though 
 the keen be in our ears the morn— seeing the 
 heavens open above us, though earth has 
 been cloven through by the passing of our 
 dead. 
 
 Old Swankie stood leaning over the wall; 
 his pipe in his mouth, his boots covered with 
 little bright scales from the herrings. His 
 eyes were towards the Bell light, the tower 
 standing straight and tall against a clear, 
 gray sky, for his sight was keen with many 
 years' peering through night and storm. He 
 was an old man; his hair and beard like the 
 waves when they break on the brown rocks 
 on the shore. An old man he was, but strong 
 
Spindles and Oars i37 
 
 and hearty, putting to shame many a younger. 
 For all his age he took his place in the boat 
 now as he had done fifty years ago; and did 
 a strong man's work on the sea, and in the 
 kirk, where he was greatly respected. He 
 walked blameless before the town ; and up 
 and down the coast from Wick to Newcastle, 
 there was no fisher but knew him for a stern, 
 upright man, sticking to his word as a buckie 
 to the rock. 
 
 He looked stern enough gazing out over 
 the sea that summer night ; but yet his arms 
 were round a wee bairn that kicked her little 
 red shoes on the wall ; and his ears were 
 hearkening to a lassie talking with his old 
 wife Margot over a tub of herrings. 
 
 Though a stern man and a silent, he was 
 fine at a song, and in his day had been pre- 
 centor at the Totum Kirkie. When they got 
 an organ into the church, Swankie laid down 
 a sight of money towards it, although the 
 thing must have been in his mind as not 
 altogether a compliment to himself and his 
 singing. But though he might have a rough 
 way with him, he was not one to bear 
 malice; and once when William Rafe ab- 
 sented himself from the kirk, and there was 
 
138 Spindles and Oars 
 
 none to take the instrument, old Swankie 
 rose in his seat and struck his tuning fork 
 (he never went to t a diet of worship without 
 the fork in his pocket), and set the tune over 
 the heads of Geordie Mackay and all the 
 proud singers in the singing pew. But Miss 
 Isobel had a story against him that she told 
 all the folk that came to the manse, roaring 
 and laughing at rough Scotch ways, while 
 she repeated it. 
 
 One night at the meeting, neither William 
 Rafe nor Geordie Mackay being present— I 
 doubt they were at cricket on the common—, 
 the minister signed across to Swankie to give 
 the tune. The which he did. But coming to 
 the next, which was one of those irregular 
 hymns like a cork-screw, in the new part of 
 the book, he could not think of a tune to it. 
 Mr Grahame waited on him a while ; then 
 said he — 'Can you set that tune for us, 
 brother Swankie?' upon which the old man 
 looked up glowering at the minister — 'Set it 
 yoursel' ! ' said he. 
 
 Miss Isobel laughed out then and there to 
 the great scandal of the members assembled ; 
 and she never told the story after but she 
 
Spindles and Oars 139 
 
 roared at the minister's face when Swankie 
 bade him start the singing himself. 
 
 But this evening Swankie's tune was ready 
 to him, for he had made it himself to fit the 
 verses of one of our Skyrle poets. So while 
 the men smoked and hearkened, and the 
 women ceased their gossip to get the song, 
 he sent his/ voice far across the water, the 
 waves keenng time to the music as they 
 lapped at jfis feet. 
 
 And this was what he sang:— 
 
 'to sea from the old red pier, 
 /hen the morning is breaking fair, 
 f gaze, and the lapping of wavelets hear, 
 
 And I revel in ocean air. 
 My heart keeps time with the laugh and spray 
 
 As, bearing to seaward far, 
 The fisherman, silently sailing away, 
 Is crossing the Fairport Bar. 
 
 In from sea on the autumn day, 
 
 With the sun on the western rim, 
 The wild waves hurry and break away 
 
 On the lee land— phantom dim ; 
 And keen through his rigging the tempest sings 
 
 As steady the gallant tar 
 Stands at his post as the vessel swings, 
 
 Crossing the Fairport Bar. 
 
 I think of youth on the old red pier, 
 Ere the din of day is begun ; 
 
ho Spindles and Oars 
 
 I think of age in the autumn blear, 
 When the voyage is almost done ; 
 
 And I wonder if I shall as calmly stand 
 As that weary but dauntless tar, 
 
 When my bark is nearing the silent land — 
 Is crossing the Fairport Bar.' * 
 
 As he ceased up came the minister and his 
 lassie, Miss Isobel, and the little doggie Skye 
 sniffing about among the bits of fish lying 
 on the pier. The minister held out his hand 
 to Swankie ; and stooped and kissed the bairn 
 swinging her legs on the wall. He was a 
 great man for children, the minister — perhaps 
 because he had never had more than the one 
 — and always had a sweet in his pocket when 
 he met a bairn. So now he gave the little 
 one a tome-ball as well as a kiss. 
 
 ' This is the youngest of your grandchildren, 
 is she not ? ' said he to Swankie. 
 
 'Ay, is she,' Swankie made answer, 'and 
 Leeb, ower at the tubs, she's at the ither end 
 o' them— aucht bairns ; an* their father awa 
 afore his father.' 
 
 His old face hardened. It was a bitter 
 thing to him to speak of his laddie whose 
 grave was the sea. 
 
 * By James Christie, Arbroath. 
 
Spindles and Oars *4i 
 
 'And the mother?' said the minister, put- 
 ting his hand on the bairn's head. 
 
 'She went before her man,' said Swankie, 
 and spoke no more. 
 
 'And faith follows both, and knows the love 
 that has called them,' said Mr Grahame gently, 
 his face beaming with kindliness. 
 
 'Ou ay, ou ay,' Swankie made answer. 
 
 He was a man of few words, speaking little 
 where he felt the most ; but there was a 
 strength in his face that told of inward 
 struggle, and peace that he had gained 
 through strife. Lassie though she was, Miss 
 Isobel understood it; and it was her pity for 
 the old man that made her hold out her 
 hands to the bairn. 
 
 'She'll no tak wi' strangers,' said Swankie. 
 
 But Miss Isobel had a way with her that 
 none could resist, and the babe was soon 
 happy in her arms. Holding the wee thing 
 to her, she crossed over to the women at 
 the tubs. 
 
 'And how are you getting on, Libbie?' said 
 she. 
 
 'Fine,' said Libbie. 'And indeed, it's a 
 wonder to see the babba sae guid wi' you, 
 Miss Isobel. Isn't it no, gran?' 
 
142 Spindles and Oars 
 
 'Ay,' said old Margot, without ceasing her 
 work. 
 
 'She's good with everybody, I'm sure,' said 
 Miss Isobel laughing. ' And see how jealous 
 Skye is. He wants me to put her down.' 
 And indeed the little doggie sat on his hind 
 legs begging before the lassie. 
 
 'No, no, Skye,' said Miss Isobel, 'I can't 
 take you up. Babies are better than doggies, 
 you know. Libbie' — she turned all on the 
 moment to the lassie — 'what ails you? You've 
 been crying.' 
 
 'Weel-a-weel !' said Libbie, brushing the 
 tears from her eyes ; ' it's just granfer, Miss 
 Isobel. I canna thole him to sing that sang. 
 I'm like to greet ilka time I hearken to it.' 
 
 'Toots, toots, woman!' said old Margot; 
 'gin you carried my years you wouldna fash 
 yersel* at a sang. Tears are no easy when 
 the heart's o'er-laden, and when the years are 
 many and ill.' 
 
 'What are you afraid of, Libbie?' Miss 
 Isobel asked. 
 
 ' It was my ain mither, Miss Isobel ; the 
 nicht she won awa she had an awfu'-like 
 dream. She saw father an' granfer winnin' 
 to her across the watter. There was a bonnie 
 
Spindles and Oars 143 
 
 light all aboot them ; they smilin' to see her. 
 An' then it was black darkness, and the 
 watter deithcauld to her puir feet. An' 
 father was drooned a year syne ; and I think 
 whiles, when granfer sings o' crossin' the bar, 
 he'll win tae her by the way o' the sea.' 
 
 'Toots, toots!' said Margot again. 'Bide 
 till life has you in its grip, lassie. Aiblins 
 then you'll live mair an' dream less.' 
 
 'But I think Libbie is working too hard, 
 said Miss Isobel very pitiful-like. 'She 
 doesn't get enough pleasure in her life, and 
 so everything seems sad and fearful to her. 
 
 'Life wasna gi'en to us for pleasurin',' said 
 old Margot. 'I hinna had the time these 
 fifty years to speir at mysel' how I'd do gin I 
 lost Swankie. Lassie, I hinna had the time 
 to greet for the five laddies the sea has ta'en 
 fra me.' 
 
 ' Poor Margot ! ' said Miss Isobel. ' But, 
 Libbie, you mustn't fret. We are as safe on 
 the sea as on the land.' 
 
 'Ay are we,' said Libbie. 'But mony a 
 nicht, I lie wakefu' when the wind's high, 
 prayin' for granfer. An' mony a nicht, Miss 
 Isobel, I canna sleep for the sicht o' him win- 
 nin' to father an' mither owre the black watter. 
 
i44 Spindles and Oars 
 
 An' gran, too— though she winna own to it- 
 gran wakes o' nichts when the sea's in storm.' 
 
 ' My slimber was aye licht,' said Margot. 
 
 Miss Isobel stooped forward and kissed the 
 brave old woman, and when she rose again, 
 tears had fallen on the face of the babe sleep- 
 ing in her arms. 
 
 Meanwhile Swankie was talking with the 
 minister, telling him about the first harbour 
 built in Skyrle, nigh on five hundred years 
 past, when the monks that lived in the old 
 abbey and the burgesses had the pier sunk 
 and the foundations laid close to where the 
 burn runs into the sea. Many a time since 
 has it been repaired and added to, till now it's 
 a grand harbour, and Skyrle can hold its own 
 as a seaport of the north. 
 
 The minister was never weary of talking 
 about the fishers, and Swankie told him of 
 the gallery in the parish kirk where the sea- 
 faring folk sat together, and the sermon that 
 was preached every spring in the wee kirkie 
 in Abbey Street, ere the boats went away to 
 the Baltic. And Mr Grahame bade him tell 
 about the time when they had sent him to 
 London, to speak before the Parliament for 
 the rights of the fishers. And many a bonnie 
 
Spindles and Oars 145 
 
 tale he told of the strange ways of the south, 
 and the happiness he got in seeing the her- 
 rings and haddies in the London shops, they 
 being the only kenned faces he saw. And 
 Miss Isobel came near and hearkened, the 
 babe sleeping in her arms, till the lights were 
 lit at the end of the pier, and the stars came 
 out pale-like on sky and sea, and the lonely 
 cry of the gull sounded around them. 
 
 Then they called the doggie Skye and 
 turned for the manse, and the minister shook 
 Swankie's hand—' " So He bringeth them into 
 the haven where they would be," Swankie.' 
 
 'Ou ay,' said the old man gruff-like, but 
 his way was gentle as a woman's when he 
 lifted the little bairn from Miss Isobel's arms. 
 
 As they went along the harbour wall, they 
 heard Swankie crooning the last lines of the 
 song, 
 
 1 When my bark is nearing' the silent land, 
 Is crossing the Fairport Bar.' 
 
 But Miss Isobel only heard the sound of 
 the waves lapping against the stones. Into 
 her young life had struck the pain of the lives 
 of others. She was learning the pathos and 
 tragedy of the things folk are used to call 
 commonplace. She turned and looked at 
 
 K 
 
146 Spindles and Oars 
 
 Swankie, and clear against the light she saw 
 his old face, set and rough and strong, with 
 a look on it like the storm and passion of the 
 sea. The wind lifted his white hair, but it 
 did not bend his thin limbs. Straight as the 
 Bell tower he stood, holding the bairn on his 
 arm. And the sight somehow minded Miss 
 Isobel of Death bearing the babe Immortality. 
 
 No Skyrle body is ever likely to forget the 
 storm that lashed the coast in the spring of 
 the next year. All round the cliffs the waves 
 boiled, and the ground was white with the 
 strewn blossoms of the surf. The waves 
 dashed twenty feet above the harbour wall, 
 and the spray was driven far up the High 
 Street to tell the story of what was being 
 done out on the cruel sea. 
 
 All along Seagate the fishers stood, their 
 women clinging to them with hard faces that 
 could not weep. Now and again a wife would 
 tear her hair and beat her breast, but they 
 mostly stood silent, watching the boiling 
 waves with despairing eyes. 
 
 The storm had come down suddenly on 
 
Spindles and Oars W 
 
 the sea, and fifteen Skyrle boats were out 
 struggling with it. 
 
 William Rafe had been to the manse to 
 fetch the minister's lassie; and they two were 
 down at Seagate, watching the storm and 
 straining their eyes for a sight of the boats 
 coming back to harbour. All on a moment 
 Miss Isobel loosed her hold on William; and 
 struggling through the wind and keeping 
 close under the houses, she made her way 
 to two that stood apart, holding to the 
 railings of Jean Wishart's house, their white 
 faces set to the sea. They were Libbie and 
 old Margot; and grief had made the young 
 face and the old like one. 
 
 They did not cry or make any sound 
 whatever; but stood gazing out over the 
 water with such eyes that Miss Isobel had 
 no occasion to ask them who it was they 
 were seeking. 
 
 'Miss Isobel,' said Leeb, with a thick 
 sound in her voice, ' Miss Isobel, my mither 
 dreamed the truth.' 
 
 ' Not yet, Libbie,' Miss Isobel cried ; ' not 
 yet. He may get back yet.' 
 
 She went up softly and put her arm round 
 
148 Spindles and Oars 
 
 old Margot, but the old wife smiled an awful 
 white smile at her. 
 
 1 Dinna greet, lassie,' said she. ' 'Twas meet 
 the auld man suld sleep amang his sons. 
 Five bonnie lads the Lord gave to me, and 
 five bonnie lads the sea took fra me. An' 
 noo, lassie, is't a sair thing that feyther and 
 his laddies suld rest thegither?' 
 
 But Miss Isobel could do no better than 
 break her heart. ' O Margot dear ! don't ! 
 don't ! ' she cried. 
 
 ' Greet, lassie, if it's your will,' said Margot ; 
 'but there maun be no tears for me. Greet 
 for the woman beside you ; for Leeb's lad is 
 awa in yon boatie. Weel may she greet, 
 wantin' him; for she's kenned love nor of 
 man nor of sons. But for Margot, whose 
 heart's been fu', whose men hae a' steppit 
 fra weel-dune wark to weel-earned rest, it's 
 smiles you suld give her, lassie!' 
 
 The noble words of the old body only made 
 Miss Isobel sob the more ; and all that day, 
 and for many days after, her young face was 
 wet for the sorrow in Skyrle. 
 [-One by one the boats won back. One by 
 one; with such lagging steps for the hearts 
 that wearied waiting. And more than one 
 
Spindles and Oars *49 
 
 home was robbed of the mother whose broken 
 heart could not bear the pang of travail 
 following that long waiting. 
 
 Two weeks passed ; and thirteen boats 
 came back to harbour. The Margot was still 
 a-missing, and all felt that there was no hope 
 for the old man and the young lad that had 
 gone out in her on the night of the storm. 
 
 Margot bore her loss with a strong heart, 
 but she aged ; and Libbie knew that it would 
 not be long before she would be left alone 
 with the seven bairns. And then, one Sab- 
 bath, while Mr Grahame was preaching, old 
 Margot arose in her seat in the kirk, and 
 lifted up her white face with a great cry: 
 
 'Do you no' hear him comin' ?' 
 
 Mr Grahame stopped in his sermon, and 
 then went on ; and Libbie plucked at her 
 gran's dress, and begged her to sit down and 
 not disturb the folk at their worship. Mar- 
 got did not heed her, but stretched out her 
 hand to the minister, and stood a minute 
 listening. 
 
 • Do you no hear him comin' ? ' she asked 
 again. 
 
 At the voice there was an awful-like hush 
 in the kirk, and every face was turned to the 
 
i5o Spindles and Oars 
 
 pew where Margot stood, and where Leeb sat 
 with her face in her hands sobbing. Then, 
 gazing right before her, firm on her legs, and 
 straight as on her marriage morn, Margot 
 walked down the aisle and through the church 
 doors alone. 
 
 'Let us pray for one on whom God's hand 
 resteth,' said the minister. 
 
 When they rose from their knees, the folk 
 saw that Libbie and Miss Isobel, and Kirsty, 
 and one and another had gone after her; and 
 a whisper went sighing round the kirk that 
 Swankie's boat had come in. How it reached 
 Mr Grahame in the pulpit none knew ; but he 
 must have heard it, for he only stayed to give 
 the benediction, and in five minutes the kirk 
 was empty and the whole congregation was 
 away to the shore. 
 
 Margot had got there before them, and was 
 on the harbour wall— a gray, lone figure, with 
 eyes fixed on a sail striking round the Bell 
 tower. 
 
 There she stood, dumb, heeding nothing 
 but the flash of white; and a silent crowd 
 gathered, and glasses were set, and the 
 harbour tower signalled the Bell, but could 
 not make the name of the boat. But Margot 
 
Spindles and Oars 151 
 
 knew : for though her face was like the dead, 
 her eyes were two flames that saw what the 
 boat was bringing to her. Ay, I cannot 
 doubt she saw the sail spread above the quiet 
 limbs, and the peace of the face looking up 
 to the Sabbath skies. I cannot doubt it. 
 Libbie stood beside her, and Miss Isobel was 
 there, holding the lassie's hand. But none 
 dared touch the one that grief had made 
 sacred. 
 
 She was an old woman, and had borne her- 
 self stooping many a long day ; but this day 
 she stood straight before them all, and the 
 change in her quietened the crowd that else 
 would have been screaming round her. 
 
 Larger and larger the sail grew, shining 
 like dazzling silver in the sun; and when the 
 fishers saw that it was making for the har- 
 bour a great shout arose up, and the women 
 sprang on the wall, laughing and greeting, 
 and mad with joy. 
 
 But Margot stood apart, and didn't heed 
 the noise round her. 
 
 Suddenly, over the men's shouts and the 
 women's voices, a fisher cried : ' It's Swankie's 
 boat ! It's the Margot comin' in ! ' 
 
 Even then old Margot didn't speak ; but 
 
152 Spindles and Oars 
 
 her eyes, like two flames, clove the distance 
 and saw what none else saw— just as she had 
 heard what none else heard — the dead man's 
 feet returning home. And the boat, with its 
 sail shining like silver, came gliding in over 
 the bar. 
 
 And when it had crossed the bar Margot 
 gave a long sigh, and sank down on the wall, 
 and drew her mutch over her eyes. Libbie 
 stooped, and would have put her arms about 
 her, but Margot signed her away ; and the 
 lassie was fain to strain her eyes at the 
 young lad guiding the boat. Then William 
 Rafe, standing beside Miss Isobel, put up his 
 hands to his mouth — 
 
 ' Is Swankie aboard ? ' he shouted. 
 
 'Ay is he!' came back over the water; and 
 Libbie threw her arms round Miss Isobel and 
 sobbed aloud; for it was her sweetheart, Jim, 
 that had answered. William moved a step 
 towards Margot to tell her that her man was 
 coming home; but her head was down on her 
 breast, and her eyes were closed, and he 
 wouldn't speak for he didn't understand the 
 meaning of the one man guiding the boat. 
 
 The Margot was nigh the harbour now, 
 close in under the wall ; and a hundred heads 
 
Spindles and Oars *53 
 
 were hanging over watching the lad lower 
 his sail. Only Margot sat still and didn't 
 move. 
 
 'Libbie,' Jim cried up from the boat, 'tak' 
 grannie ben the hoose. Dinna lat her see; 
 dinna lat her ken. I've brocht him hame wi' 
 me, but — ' 
 
 The joy faded from the lassie's face. She 
 ceased her greeting, and turned and bent 
 over Margot. Then she raised her white 
 face. 
 
 Tse no need to hide aught, laddie. She's 
 wi' him the noo.' 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 Kirsty M'Naugh ten's Bairn 
 
 ' Kirsty will sune be getting wedded,' said 
 Widdy Rafe. 
 
 ' You dinna say sae, mem ! ' Elspeth Mackay 
 cried, letting her spoon fall into the saucer 
 with a rattle. 
 
 'Ay, wull she,' said the widdy. 
 
 ' Likely she has telled you all aboot it, 
 mem? ' 
 
 1 Kirsty hasna opened her mouth to me on 
 the maitter. She kens weel I think her a 
 daft woman.' 
 
 The widdy supped her tea and looked very 
 irritating at Elspeth, as if she could say more 
 if she would. Elspeth was a timid body ; but 
 she had a woman's right to discuss a mar- 
 riage, and she kept Widdy Rafe to the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 'Aiblins Miss Isobel has been crackin* wi' 
 you then, mem?' 
 
Spindles and Oars i5S 
 
 'Miss Isobel? Havers! Think you wad I 
 Stoop to crack wi' a licht-headed lassie like 
 yon? Na, na. I got it from Kirsty hersel', 
 i' the kirk the day.' 
 
 'From Kirsty hersel', Mistress Rafe?' 
 
 'Ay, I saw her reach doon the book, and 
 turn up the merriage hymns, and through the 
 minister's sermon — an awfu' powerfu* dis- 
 course it was— she sat taking the paittron 
 of Jean Wishart's new goon.' 
 
 ' Kirsty wadna suit a goon-piece like yon. 
 It's fittin' for a young lassie to wear a flowered 
 delaine, but it's no richt for an auld ane.' 
 
 'And who's to say that to her? And who's 
 gien you opeenions, Elspeth Mackay?' said 
 Widdy Rafe, with a crook in her voice; for 
 it was true Elspeth was but slow of under- 
 standing. 'Who has gien you opeenions on 
 goon-pieces or ony ither maitter? a woman 
 that canna keep a man in his place! But, 
 however, Kirsty has gotten the measurements 
 on her fingers, and it's ten yards she'll be 
 buyin' before she's a week aulder.' 
 
 'Aiblins she was but takkin' note o' the 
 goon for anither year, mem?' 
 
 Widdy Rafe set her lips very firm, and 
 took a sip of tea ere she answered Elspeth 
 
156 Spindles and Oars 
 
 Mackay, for she was not used to contradic- 
 tion, and had her own way in the kirk, not 
 e'en the minister ever making so bold as 
 to gainsay her. 
 
 'Was it for next year she was suiting her 
 finger to the size o' a ring the while the 
 lesson was bein' read?' she asked scornful- 
 like. ' Na, na. And she keeked at her hand 
 this wey and that wey to see how it wad set 
 her. Ay, her thochts rin on merriages. Ony 
 body micht hae seen her thinkin ' where she 
 should sit in Dawvid M'Naughten's pew the 
 Sabbath efter she is wedded. Ou ay, it's to 
 be at St Tammas's holidays.' 
 
 'She hasna sae muckle as gotten a new 
 bonnet for it then,' said Elspeth. 
 
 'Toots! I ken fine what like of a one 
 she'll be gettin'.' 
 
 'An' dae you indeed, mem?' 
 
 'Ay, she'll juist be havin' a fine straw like 
 mine, and ribands like Leeb Swankie's. 
 During the prayer she sattled it all, for when 
 she rose her eyes moved fra my head to 
 Leeb's, and fra Leeb's to mine, though she 
 made as gin the licht in the windy was ower 
 muckle for her. Ay, she is a' theer, Kirsty.' 
 
 'She is that,' Elspeth sighed. 'And I 
 
Spindles and Oars i57 
 
 wadna say but she micht hae dune waur 
 than to tak Dawvid M'Naughten.' 
 
 'She couldna hae dune muckle waur— a 
 widdy man and aucht o' a family.' 
 
 'The puir bairns! And sairly they'll be 
 needin' a mither, Mistress Rafe.' 
 
 'You're a daft creature, Elspeth Mackay; 
 but you aye had mair heart than wit. Think 
 you an auld cot like Kirsty wull be a mither 
 to anither woman's bairns?' 
 
 'I'm no sayin', mem. But ony woman wad 
 need to be guid to the mitherless. And she's 
 a clever body, Kirsty.' 
 
 'I doot she's been too clever for Dawvid, 
 and for the manse people too. Here's the 
 minister sayin' Kirsty's a fine creature that 
 hasna had a chance to show what like stuff 
 she's made of. Havers ! ' 
 
 'They say Dawvid gaes ben the manse 
 each Sabbath nicht, Mr Grahame favourin' 
 the coortin',' said Elspeth. 
 
 'Ay, does he? And that's mair than 
 Dawvid's doin'. Hae you seen them at the 
 coortin', Elspeth?' 
 
 ' Na, mem ; I canna juist say that I hae.' 
 
 'Weel, indeed, it's a treat! The minister's 
 lassie was telling William aboot it. Dawvid's 
 
i58 Spindles and Oars 
 
 juist vera canny wi' Kirsty, and it taks her 
 a' her time to hold him to his bairgin.' 
 
 'Mem!' 
 
 'Ay, indeed. If it wasna for the supper he 
 gets at the manse on Sabbath I doot he'd 
 gie her the slip.' 
 
 'An' him the church officer! Deary, deary; 
 but it's a wicked warld ! But he winna daur, 
 Kirsty bein' at the manse.' 
 
 'Ay, she has gotten him fast, Fse feart. 
 When the kirk and the manse gae hand-in- 
 hand there's few can pairt them. Ou ay, 
 that's how she's keppit him.' 
 
 'An' the coortin', Mistress Rafe?' 
 
 'The wey o't is this. Dawvid sits doon to 
 his diet— it's an awfu' extravagant manse, a 
 roast ilka Saturday and cold for the Sabbath. 
 It's eneuch to mak Wesley rise fra his grave 
 to stap it! — Weel, Dawvid sits doon to it, and 
 fine he kens what to do with the minister's 
 meat. Syne Kirsty taks the chair that's 
 neighbour to his an' sets her tongue going. 
 "Ou ay, ou ay," says Dawvid noo and again. 
 Syne he slimbers, an' Kirsty cracks awa' for 
 a fu' houer, him noddin' in 's chair. Then the 
 lassie cries them to the parly to worship; 
 and efterwards Dawvid wins oot wi' ne'er a 
 
Spindles and Oars iS9 
 
 ward to ony body. But Kirsty*s vera weel 
 pleased wi' her man, an' she'll get him at 
 St Tammas's.' 
 
 'Weel, to be sure! An' what has Dawvid 
 to say to that?' 
 
 ( I doot he doesna ken it. But I wadna be 
 in his shoon for a' the toon's siller.' 
 
 'Likely she'll be guid to the bairns, the 
 puir lambies!' said Elspeth sighing, for her 
 heart was hungry for the girlie she had lost, 
 and she had room in her love for all the bairns 
 in Skyrle. 
 
 ' I'm no sayin',' said Widdy Rafe. ' But 
 when a woman's been guid to hersel' for forty 
 years, she's no likely to be muckle guid to 
 ony ither body.' 
 
 She poured the last drop from the teapot 
 into her cup. Then she asked Elspeth 
 Mackay if she would have some more tea. 
 
 ' Na, I thank you, mem,' said Elspeth. 
 
 'Aweel there's nane, e'en though you had 
 been for't,' said the widdy, emptying her own 
 cup and turning it upside down in the saucer. 
 She pushed her chair to the one side and 
 took up her knitting. A fine figure of a 
 woman she was, straight and tall for all her 
 sixty years, with a braw white mutch over 
 
160 Spindles and Oars 
 
 her braw white hair, and a pair of eyes that 
 were keen and bright as any lassie's. She 
 was knitting a stocking to William, and you 
 could see by the way the needles moved that 
 she had a stubborn way with her. 
 
 ' I shouldna wonder though the merriage 
 was at the auld leddy's in Barber's Croft,' 
 said she. 
 
 ' At Dawvid's mither's hoose ? ' Elspeth ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 'Ay, the puir auld body is gey lanesome, 
 and has had nae entertainment syne her 
 dochter's funeral twa year past. She's bought 
 an awfu' grand curtain to the windy. An' 
 she has askit the loan of three wine-glesses. 
 Ay, the merriage will be there juist.' 
 
 'The minister winna tak' weel wi't, gin 
 theer's to be wine i' the glesses,' said Elspeth. 
 
 ' Havers ! The minister winna set himsel' 
 higher than his Mester wha made the wine 
 at the merriage-feast. I'm thinking there'll 
 be twa bottles, an' the minister wull tak' a 
 gless fra the best wine— twa and saxpence it 
 is at M 'Lean's i' the High Street. It's a braw 
 wine. Eh ! I doot Kirsty wull no pass the 
 compleement o' biddin' me to the merriage.' 
 
Spindles and Oars 161 
 
 'There'll no be muckle room if the aucht 
 bairns are to be bidden, mem.' 
 
 'Weel, weel, at St Tammas's Kirsty wull 
 be wed,' said the widdy very decided, turning 
 the heel of her stocking. 'And it's a queer 
 thing what a woman wull dae to get a man 
 o' her ain. There's the minister's lassie noo— ' 
 
 'Miss Isobel? Bless her! She'll no' be 
 wanting a man lang,' said Elspeth, taking her 
 up. She would never hear a word against 
 Miss Isobel, who had always been a friend 
 to her. But indeed, it was only Widdy Rafe, 
 who was like to a crab-apple for sourness, 
 that ever said a word to the lassie's discredit. 
 
 'Wull she no?' said the widdy, very dry. 
 'What like a wife wull siccan a lassie mak 
 to ony God-fearing laddie?' 
 
 'She'll no mak a wife to ony Skyrle laddie, 
 mem; and although William Rafe is a douce 
 lad, he's no guid eneuch for the minister's 
 lassie, wha micht wed wi' the best in the 
 land.' 
 
 Her own words and boldness make Elspeth 
 tremble ; and her hand shook again, when she 
 sought her kerchief and wiped her mouth. 
 Widdy Rafe pushed up her glasses and 
 looked long and straight at her. 
 
162 Spindles and Oars 
 
 'Elspeth Mackay,' she said, in a terribly 
 quiet voice, ' do you ken that you are speak- 
 ing of my son ? ' 
 
 'It's the truth, mem,' said Elspeth. 'An' 
 I'll bid you a guid day. An' I'm muckle ob- 
 leeged tae you for your hospitalitee.' 
 
 'And, indeed, I wadna hae thocht it,' said 
 the widdy. 
 
 She did not rise or take the hand Elspeth 
 held to her; and this gave the poor woman 
 such a turn she was fain to go to David's 
 mother's house in the Croft to get her 
 strength back. And it was there she learned 
 that Kirsty was to be wedded from the 
 house at St Tammas's holidays. And Mrs 
 M'Naughten, seeing her so upset, would have 
 her taste the wine she had got for the mar- 
 riage. She even let her smell at the min- 
 ister's bottle that David had bought from 
 McLean's and for the which he had paid so 
 much as half-a-crown. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Next to the New Year's day St Tammas's 
 is the greatest day of the year in Skyrle. It 
 is then the mills are closed, and the weary 
 lads and lassies get leave to spend a whole 
 week away from the noise and din of the 
 
Spindles and Oars 163 
 
 factory. And then it is that thrifty folk are 
 wed, and take the week for their honeymoon 
 away among the heather, or maybe among 
 the grand sights of Edinburgh or the south- 
 ern towns. For many a year the day has 
 been kept ; but - 
 
 ' Wha first ordained this annual tour 
 Is lost in ages' misty shooer ; 
 It maybe was some abbot sour 
 
 At Abbey holy, 
 Wha yearly made poor sinners scour 
 
 For sin and folly.' 
 
 But there's little of penance now through 
 the days. The penance comes afterwards, 
 when the lads and lassies pay for too great 
 liberty in eating and drinking. 
 
 As Widdy Rafe had said, Kirsty was one 
 of those to get wedded that year at St 
 Tammas's. 
 
 It was a grand marriage, but spoiled by 
 the number of people at it ; even the manse 
 doggie being invited. Though it is but justice 
 to say that David made the most of his 
 mother's house, and put a guest wherever 
 there was room for a pair of soles to stand. 
 And this was to please Kirsty, who would 
 have had the whole town present to see her 
 wedded. She wished the marriage at the 
 
i°4 Spindles and Oars 
 
 manse; but old Mrs M'Naughten was bed- 
 ridden, and was fain to see her son's second 
 marriage, saying it was not likely she would 
 live to see the third. This scarcely pleased 
 Kirsty; but the old lady had a handful of 
 silver to leave David, and was accustomed 
 to say what she would, and to have her 
 wishes attended to. So there was nothing for 
 it but to humour her, and bid the guests to 
 the house in Barber's Croft. 
 
 For days beforehand Kirsty was at work 
 in the one room, making ready. And she 
 went so far as to bring the most of David's 
 bits of furniture to his mother's house to 
 make a show before the minister and Miss 
 Isobel. And the room looked beautiful with 
 a bit of carpet on the floor, and a posy 
 wherever there was a jug to put it in. The 
 old lady sat in her bed with a grand shawl 
 on her, and a pair of white cotton gloves; 
 for Kirsty was set on doing the thing re- 
 spectable. In the other bed, which was just 
 the hole in the wall, they put all the eight 
 bairns, who strained their necks and quar- 
 relled among themselves to get a sight of 
 the company, and the fine bread and cookies 
 
Spindles and Oars 165 
 
 that were on the table with a newspaper 
 spread over them. 
 
 The bairns made so great a disturbance 
 that, so soon as David had put the ring on 
 her finger, Kirsty turned and pulled the slide 
 of the bed, and so shut them in till the whole 
 matter was concluded. But she was douce 
 enough ere the ring was on ; and when the 
 minister asked her if she would have David 
 M'Naughten to be her wedded husband, she 
 was awful polite, and curtsied to the floor 
 with — ' If you please, sir, and thank you 
 kindly.' The which made Miss Isobel catch 
 up the doggie, and hide her face behind him, 
 while she roared and laughed. Though 
 there's little to laugh at in a woman who is 
 not too proud at getting a husband to re- 
 member her manners. And Kirsty was not 
 the one to forget her place, and take a hus- 
 band with less gratitude than she would show 
 at taking a piece. 
 
 There was a deal to do ere David would 
 sign the marriage lines ; but Kirsty held him 
 to it, and indeed guided his hand while he 
 put his name to the paper. Then the min- 
 ister said a few words, and gave the benedic- 
 tion. He had scarcely finished before Kirsty 
 
i<56 Spindles and Oars 
 
 had turned her gown up (it was the flowered 
 delaine like Jean Wishart's), and taken the 
 paper from the meat on the table, and begun 
 to serve the company. 
 
 The minister was wanting to hasten away ; 
 but the old lady would have him drink to the 
 health of the newly married. There were just 
 the three glasses, and one was cracked ; and 
 in the confusion of getting a sound glass for 
 the minister the cheap wine was poured for 
 him. They did not find out the mistake till 
 he had gone, and then the old lady would 
 have had the ceremony all over again, so as 
 to set the matter of the wine right. And it 
 was not long ere David would have paid half- 
 a-crown for another bottle of wine to have 
 had no marriage at all ! 
 
 He had been a widow man four years and 
 had got himself into ways that were a weari- 
 ness to a woman used to a manse; and his 
 wife soon showed that she was not to allow 
 a man's fecklessness in her house. 
 
 It was naturally a bitter thing for David 
 to come home to a house that was too clean 
 for him to sit in. Each day it was, 'Dawvid, 
 tak off your shoon,' and 'Dawvid, gae ben 
 the hoose and wesh yoursel',' and ' Dawvid, you 
 
Spindles and Oars 167 
 
 maunna pit yer fit on the hearthstane,' till he 
 was like to be driven distracted. 
 
 And the bairns made it no better. Even 
 wee Ailie greeted, telling him 'It was aye 
 the Sabbath the noo, wi' clean faces and fresh 
 pinners ilka day i' the week.' 
 
 Between Kirsty and the bairns David had 
 a heavy heart ; and when one day Kirsty gave 
 him a clean kerchief on a Wednesday, he just 
 broke down to William Rafe. ' Man ! ' said 
 he, wiping his brow, 'I hinna kenned ere this 
 what the minister has gotten tae pit up wi'. 
 It's a marvel he can carry a face sae content 
 wi' clean claes ilka day o' the year. It's 
 powerfu' hard on a man, that. Na, na, 
 William, dinna merry wi' a lassie that dwells 
 in a weshtub. Man ! it's juist awfu'.' 
 
 He wiped his brow again, and sat down 
 under the old clock in the vestry; for it was 
 the night of the class, and he and William 
 were waiting on the minister and the other 
 members. But for all his words, David was 
 proud when his friends admired the bonnie 
 house Kirsty got together in a few weeks. 
 The saucepan lids on the wall were like 
 pictures ; and David did not recognise him- 
 
168 
 
 Spindles and Oars 
 
 self when he saw his own face in the oven 
 door. 
 
 To be sure it was not altogether comfort- 
 able when four plates had to serve the ten 
 of them, Kirsty having hung up most of the 
 dinner set on the wall to imitate Miss Isobel's 
 blue china in the manse drawing-room. But 
 there! a man cannot be like the quality with- 
 out paying for it somewhere. 
 
 When David had been wedded a while he 
 had the wit to let Kirsty go her own way, 
 though it irked him to see the bairns with 
 no spirit in them, and to know he was not 
 master nor in the house nor in the kirk. 
 Though he was church officer, Kirsty stood 
 in the porch on Sabbath to see what the folk 
 threw in the plate; and she would even have 
 carried the books into the pulpit before the 
 minister, gin Mr Grahame had permitted it. 
 
 So Kirsty went her own way, and never 
 dreamed she was pulling down the family 
 life, while she made a show of building it up. 
 To be sure she fed the children's bodies; but 
 she starved the wee souls, and did not take 
 a mother's place in their poor little empty 
 hearts. 
 
 I'm not to say her system did not work 
 
Spindles and Oars 169 
 
 well enough with some of the bairns; but 
 wee Ailie, who was a tender little maid, 
 grew peaked and wan for wanting a loving 
 word now and again. Her father had always 
 made much of her; but after the marriage, 
 when Kirsty got the upper hand, he dare 
 not so much as take Ailie on his knee 
 at nights, for his wife's tongue. She was 
 more than ordinary severe on Ailie; but she 
 favoured the boys, who, needing them, throve 
 well on hard words. 
 
 I'm not sure but the life would have killed 
 Ailie if Kirsty's eyes had not been opened 
 to see the emptiness of the little heart. 
 When she had been married a while, a 
 babe came to her; and the wee thing taught 
 her in a month what her whole life had not 
 been able to teach— that love was a better 
 thing than managing a house, or getting the 
 power into her own hands. There was no 
 power left to Kirsty when the babe came 
 to the house, and she just gave in to be 
 ruled by it, like the weakest-hearted woman 
 in Skyrle. 
 
 The little child led her into a new life, and 
 she grew soft and tender-like, and would even 
 forget to scold lest her voice should wake 
 
i7o Spindles and Oars 
 
 the babe. Eh ! how she loved the wee thing ! 
 She was even jealous of it, and would not 
 let it out of her sight an hour. The other 
 bairns were all taken up with it, and would 
 sit like mice beside the cradle; and seeing 
 their love for her child, Kirsty's heart waxed 
 kind to them, and so the family drew to- 
 gether. As for David, although he was silent 
 as ever, he was fine and content after the 
 babe came; for now he got leave to please 
 himself, and was not troubled with clean 
 handkerchiefs, or indeed any other clean 
 thing, week-day or Sabbath. 
 
 Widdy Rafe was awful sarcastic on Kirsty 
 being the mother of a babe, and many a 
 pointed word she stuck into her advice to 
 her. But Kirsty let her talk as she would. 
 Her sharp tongue was learning silence from 
 the babe's dumb lips. 'Kirsty McNaughten's 
 bairn has dune mair for Kirsty than a' the 
 ministers at the Totum Kirkie,' the neigh- 
 bours said. And indeed it was true. 
 
 So the months went by, and there was a 
 happy change in David's house by reason 
 of a kindly woman in it, when a hard test 
 was put upon Kirsty. A great sickness went 
 
Spindles and Oars 171 
 
 through Skyrle, and three of David's boys 
 were laid down with it. 
 
 When the doctor told Kirsty that her babe 
 would likely take the fever if she stayed to 
 nurse the laddies, a terrible cry broke from 
 her, and she snatched up the wean and made 
 as if she would fly from the house. But she 
 was not farther than the door when she 
 turned again, with a noble look in her eyes, 
 though her mouth was all of a tremble. 
 'Doctor,' said she, 'I canna leave the laddies. 
 I'm a' the mither they hae gotten. I maun 
 e'en bide wi' Dawvid's bairns. Wull the babe 
 tak the sickness, think you?' 
 
 He did not know how to answer her, but 
 though his silence cut like a knife through 
 Kirsty's heart, she would not give in to her 
 terror. 'God winna tak my bairn fra me, 
 though I dae my duty tae the laddies,' said 
 she, turning away from the doctor laddie, 
 who, being new to the profession, still had a 
 hold of truth. 
 
 After that it seemed as if she could not 
 take her eyes off the babe ; but when Elspeth 
 Mackay came in and offered to bear him 
 away out of danger, she just laid him in 
 her arms and turned away without a word. 
 
i72 Spindles and Oars 
 
 But afterwards she slapped Ailie soundly for 
 greeting for the wee thing. 
 
 Through six days Kirsty bided wi' the 
 laddies, and the very morning when the 
 doctor said the crisis would come, Elspeth 
 Mackay sent word that Kirsty's bairn was 
 not keeping well. I mind the look on the 
 poor body's face when the word was brought 
 her, but she just turned sharp on David. 
 'Gae you to the babe. I maun bide wi' the 
 laddies till the danger's past.' 
 
 Never another word she said ; but their own 
 mother could not have been softer with the 
 laddies all that day, and through the night. 
 When the morn broke, the doctor looked 
 frankly into her face : 
 
 'God bless you for a brave woman!' said 
 he. 'You have saved the laddies.' 
 
 Kirsty made him no answer. She reached 
 down her shawl, and pinned it over her head. 
 Then she spoke very gentle to David, who 
 had come in from Elspeth's. ' Dawvid, my 
 man, Jeannie wull tak tent o' the laddies. I 
 maun gae to my bairn, who'll be needin' 
 me.' 
 
 David let his eyes fall, and opened his 
 mouth to stop her. But he could not find 
 
Spindles and Oars 173 
 
 words to say to her the bairn would not be 
 needing her again. 
 
 When Kirsty entered Elspeth Mackay's 
 house, little Ailie was sitting holding the 
 dead babe in her lap; and two or three 
 neighbours were talking together as to how 
 David would break it to Kirsty. She stopped 
 on the doorstep as she saw the women, and 
 her face changed. 'Gie me my bairn,' said 
 she, in a voice that went to the heart of each 
 one in the room. 
 
 The women gazed the one at the other, and 
 Elspeth stepped forward and lifted the babe 
 from the girlie's knee. 'That is no' my bairn,' 
 said Kirsty in an awful-like voice. 'Where 
 is my living bairn?' 
 
 Elspeth fell back from her white face; but 
 little Ailie sprang up and knit her arms 
 round her neck with a great cry— 
 
 ' O mither ! mither ! I'm your bairn the noo ! ' 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 At the End of the Days 
 
 It was well known that the Totum Kirkie 
 was given to changing its minister oftener 
 than any other kirk in Skyrle. Every 
 three years, just when the members had 
 begun to think of liking the minister and to 
 have a notion of what manner of man he 
 was, the Conference put its hand upon him 
 and moved him on. And the members would 
 have been left greeting for the old minister 
 if they had not wanted their sight clear to 
 criticise the one that followed him. 
 
 It was a truly irritating system for the 
 Scotch, who are slow to find out the human 
 nature in their ministers, and are suspicious 
 of changes in doctrine; but it had its advan- 
 tages whiles. To be sure it was greatly en- 
 vied by the Established members, who had 
 listened to the same sermons for a matter of 
 
Spindles and Oars *75 
 
 forty years, and were like to listen to them 
 for another forty, the little old minister wear- 
 ing as well as Easthaven salt cod. And I have 
 seen the Free Kirk wearying for a Conference 
 that would take a man from the charge with- 
 out reflecting discredit on the members that 
 wanted him away. 
 
 John Wesley must have known human 
 nature when he ordered the ministers to be 
 moved every three years. I have observed 
 that, although a deal was said to the depart- 
 ing minister about the wrongfulness of the 
 system, the members did not quarrel with 
 it when his successor got among them. 
 But at any rate the arrangement acted like 
 the tide in the sea, and the continual coming 
 and going kept the Church's life fresh and 
 sweet and healthy. Only now and again the 
 tide bears away one that leaves some loving 
 heart broken for his loss. 
 
 When Mr Grahame's time drew to an end 
 there was not a member in the Totum Kirkie 
 but would have petitioned to the Conference 
 to bid him stay in Skyrle another three years. 
 There were even some that would have gone 
 a further length, and prayed to have him 
 always. But none took any notice of these, 
 
*76 Spindles and Oars 
 
 for they were young things who had not 
 learned caution from their years, nor had 
 much knowledge of the heart's deceitfulness 
 to guide them. 
 
 However, when it came to August, and the 
 manse was cleaned down, and there was al- 
 ways a packing-case sitting at the gate, 
 young and old would fain have had leave to 
 keep the minister in Skyrle a while longer; 
 and William Rafe, who, being circuit steward, 
 had a deal to do with the flitting, was chief 
 in crying down the English rule of change, 
 which was not well suited to the northern 
 character. But Miss Isobel just mocked at him. 
 William could not get a serious word from 
 her, and his heart waxed heavier and heavier, 
 poor lad; for she could not care for him, he 
 thought, if she could be so light-hearted at 
 going away from Skyrle. 
 
 It was well seen that William had no know- 
 ledge of the way a lassie conducts herself 
 when she has a secret to hide. 
 
 And then on the last Saturday night Miss 
 Isobel's face changed. 'Oh, I wish we were 
 never to leave Skyrle,' she cried, passionate- 
 like. 
 
Spindles and Oars i77 
 
 'And what makes you wish that?' said 
 William bashful-like. 
 
 'It is my father,' said Miss Isobel. 'I 
 know he feels leaving this place more than 
 any one guesses. I dread to-morrow for him.' 
 
 But the lassie need not have troubled her- 
 self; for the next day when the minister rose 
 up in the pulpit one would have thought he 
 was a young man come to his first charge, 
 to see the strength and vigour of him. 
 
 The kirk was full of its own members, but 
 it was not crowded, all the other churches 
 being in. However, David had set the 
 benches in the vestry handy; for he knew 
 he would be needing them at night to ac- 
 commodate the strangers that were always 
 ready to flock about the kirk when there 
 was anything to do. For it is astonishing 
 the pleasure human nature finds in a funeral, 
 or a parting, or any other sorrowful-like 
 thing. 
 
 To be sure there was small greeting in the 
 kirk that morning; the most of the members 
 keeping their tears for the night when tears 
 would be expected of them. But here and 
 there the parting lay heavy on one and an- 
 other. William Rafe at the instrument played 
 
 M 
 
178 Spindles and Oars 
 
 more than one wrong note; and do what she 
 would Elspeth Mackay could not keep a dry 
 eye. But she sat very quiet, and did not put 
 the tears away with her kerchief, being 
 shamed to be the only one in the kirk greet- 
 ing. For all that she could not escape 
 Kirsty's eye; and Mrs M'Naughten set her 
 kerchief to her mouth and closed her eyes, 
 and rocked herself, to show she had her feel- 
 ings as well as Elspeth Mackay. 
 
 The minister was very plain with his 
 people that morning. He did not trouble 
 himself talking of partings and tears; and 
 he did not quote poetry to prove his sorrow 
 at leaving the church. You would have 
 thought it was a second year's sermon, so 
 frank was he with the members, and so clear 
 on the privilege of giving, and the duty of 
 attending the means. 
 
 There were some there that took ill with 
 such plain-speaking. And afterwards there 
 was a great controversy at the kirk gates, 
 the members not being quite agreed as to 
 the person Mr Grahame intended the sermon 
 for. Everybody saw its application to some 
 other body; and, indeed, Widdy Rafe went 
 so far as to say the most of it was suited to 
 
Spindles and Oars *79 
 
 Kirsty, whose failings were open to all, and 
 especially since she had wedded with the 
 church officer. 
 
 'Ay,' said the widdy, wagging her head; 
 'the minister is a wise man. He kens weel 
 the members that mak profession, and the 
 profession that maks members. An' I'm sure 
 I marvelled to see Kirsty M'Naughten biding 
 so still under the truth that maun hae cam 
 hame to her.' 
 
 'And indeed, Mistress Rafe,' said Kirsty, 
 speaking loud for all to hear; 'when the 
 minister spak o' a bitter tongue I thocht to 
 mysel' he maun hae veesited you through the 
 week.' 
 
 'And indeed he did that,' said the widdy, 
 not taking in Kirsty's meaning. 'And when 
 he bid me farewell I was very faithful wi' 
 him on his duty in his new charge. I doot 
 he's no dune a' he might hae dune i' Skyrle.' 
 
 'You're richt, mem. He micht hae wrought 
 a change in ane or twa hearts that dinna 
 ken their ain hardness,' said Kirsty very 
 direct. 
 
 'Weel, Kirsty, you should ken, if ony. And 
 what-like manse is yon fleein'-about lassie 
 to leave?' 
 
*8o Spindles and Oars 
 
 'You maun speir at her yoursel', Mistress 
 Rafe, and you'll likely be seein' ower the 
 manse yoursel'. I doot William wull be hav- 
 in' a wife to tak that wark fra you ere 
 anither minister gaes oot.' 
 
 'Weel, I'll hae a sicht o' a" that's in the 
 manse ere Sabbath first. I doot there'll no 
 be muckle i' the keepin'-room, for yon prood 
 lassie has stayed intil't week-day and Sab- 
 bath. It is a guid thing for the manse she'll 
 soon be awa'. She'd hae been the ruin of 
 the church wi' her extravagant ways. Siccan 
 a change frae the carefu' creature that had 
 the manse before her.' 
 
 'You're richt,' said Kirsty. 'I mind the 
 haill o' the furniture was destroyed i' her 
 time wi' the damp; she keepin' the rooms 
 lockit, an' no livin' i' them ava.' 
 
 'Ay. It's awfu' what a Circuit has gotten 
 to pit up wi',' the widdy sighed. 'If the 
 members didna ken what true religion is, I'm 
 thinkin' they couldna thole the minister oot 
 o' the pulpit.' 
 
 She would have said more ; but just then 
 Miss Isobel came out of the kirk talking 
 with William Rafe, who kept a dour face 
 and had not a smile for any body. At the 
 
Spindles and Oars 181 
 
 sight of him his mother's face changed; for 
 she was angered that Kirsty should see him 
 too taken up with the lassie to mind of keep- 
 ing his mother waiting on him. I doubt it 
 was jealousy that made her bitter-like to 
 Miss Isobel, for she was the only body in 
 Skyrle. that had a word to say against the 
 minister's daughter. She had never gotten 
 over the sight of the lassie dancing down 
 the street on Sabbath with her little dog ; and 
 when she saw her happy ways, frank and 
 daring and open-handed, she just trembled 
 at the thought of William wedding such, 
 instead of a douce Skyrle lassie that would 
 keep the money warm in her pocket. 
 
 And, moreover, the widdy was set on his 
 looking where there was silver; and this 
 being so she was not likely to favour Miss 
 Isobel, who hadn't any bawbees whatever, 
 but was only sweet and bonnie, and as true- 
 hearted a lassie as ever stepped. 
 
 It is not every mother that has eyes to see 
 good parts in the woman that is to take the 
 first place in her son's heart, and the widdy 
 was more than ordinary blind when William 
 praised Miss Isobel. 
 
 ' I dinna care aught for qualities that canna 
 
182 Spindles and Oars 
 
 be told i' siller,' she'd say to him. • Nae guid 
 can come o' a flighty lassie like yon, wi' hair 
 that is a disgrace to ony manse.' 
 
 'Miss Isobel is not flighty,' William would 
 answer. ' It's true her hair is bonnie, but 
 that's not her blame, and she is the finest 
 lassie in Skyrle, and has the truest heart.' 
 
 'And what can a laddie like you ken o" the 
 mystery and deceitfulness o' a woman's heart, 
 William ? ' 
 
 That was always the way of it. She never 
 seemed to observe that he was grown to man- 
 hood, but treated him as if he was in bairn's 
 frocks, seeing in him still the babe she had 
 dandled on her knees. And when she saw 
 him drawing to the minister's lassie she would 
 have had the tawse to him, if she had not 
 had the conviction that he would never marry 
 wanting her consent. He was the best son 
 in Skyrle in his obedience to his mother, and 
 gave in to her whims whether he held with 
 them or no. And it was a picture to see 
 them on Sabbath going to the kirk, she on 
 his arm, awful proud, yet making as if she 
 thought but little of it. 
 
 Widdy Rafe was well known in the kirk for 
 a woman of a critical spirit, but true and just 
 
Spindles and Oars 183 
 
 where duty can be reckoned in silver. And 
 after her duty was done, hard and close as 
 the iron chest in William's office at the mill. 
 She was proud too, and had never pardoned 
 her husband for willing the mill-house and 
 furniture to her only so long as William was 
 a single lad. At his marriage she would have 
 to flit to a wee house on the Fairbank road, 
 and she could not bend her mind to that. So 
 she settled with herself that it should be a 
 long day ere she ceased to be mistress of the 
 big house that, overlooking the mill, gave her 
 the opportunity of seeing how William was 
 managing the business. 
 
 After the business of the mill, the widdy 
 was mostly taken up with the business of the 
 manse, and could tell better than the minister 
 himself what way Miss Isobel managed the 
 house and treated the furniture. 'And dae 
 you no' ken I'm waiting on you, William, to 
 win to the Abbey yard?' said she at the kirk 
 gate that Sabbath when she saw he was like 
 to follow Miss Isobel into the manse. 
 
 'I am sorry I have kept you, mother,' said 
 he absentlike, his eyes on the lassie as she 
 stepped through the garden. Then he gave 
 his arm to the widdy and led her out to the 
 
184 Spindles and Oars 
 
 Abbey, where they halted together beside his 
 father's grave. 
 
 The ivy had grown all about the stone, and 
 it covered the text that had been written 
 after the name and age of the deceased. The 
 widdy stood a while looking down at the long 
 grass that was over the grave. Then she 
 would have turned away, saying that old 
 Macleish did not do his duty by the grave, 
 but William stopped her. 
 
 'Mother,' said he in a voice that was 
 strange and hoarse; 'you and my father 
 were happy together, were you no' ? ' 
 
 'Ay, laddie; I'd none cause to murmur. 
 There's aye crosses in merried life; but he 
 was nae better and nae waur than the maist 
 o' men. But he was sair misguidit when he 
 made yon will that pits me fra the hoose gin 
 you think o' merriage. William — ' 
 
 She turned on him very sudden, and 
 gripped his hand. 'William, gie me your, 
 word as a church member that you'll no' 
 merry wi'oot my consent.' 
 
 'You know I won't do that, mother.' 
 
 'Ay, but gie me your word here beside 
 your dead feyther.' 
 
 •You have it, mother,' said he, very slow. 
 
Spindles and Oars 185 
 
 Then his face was all one colour of red, and 
 he looked at her, bashful yet happy-like. 
 'And, mother, I know you will be very ready 
 to consent if Miss Isobel will have me.' 
 
 'Miss Isobel? That fleein'-aboot lassie 
 that's made you too gran' tae speak your 
 ain tongue? Is it to her you have promised 
 merriage,' screamed the widdy. 
 
 'No; I have said nothing to her till I 
 spoke to you. But she knows I love her, 
 and— and she is gaen awa; and I wad fain 
 speak wi' the minister—' 
 
 He looked at his mother with a prayer in 
 his eye; but he fell away before the anger 
 on her face, and the slow words that dropped 
 like hot lead on his heart. 
 
 'William Rafe,' said she, 'the deid is 
 witness to the word you hae gi'en that you'll 
 no merry wi'oot my consent. And I call the 
 deid tae witness that I'll ne'er consent to your 
 merriage wi' yon lassie.' 
 
 'Mother!' 
 
 'There's nae mair to be said. E'en al- 
 though you spak for ever, I would say 
 naught else. Haud awa hame.' 
 
 There was no doubt the old body meant 
 what she said. William had never looked for 
 
186 Spindles and Oars 
 
 such a blow, and he could not open his lips 
 to her; but the colour went from his face 
 and the strength from his heart. He did not 
 wish that she should see the change she had 
 wrought on him, and he made an excuse to 
 stoop and draw the ivy from the tombstone, 
 his eyes seeing through a mist part of the 
 Scripture written there: 'At the end of the 
 days.' 
 
 And that night Mr Grahame preached from 
 that very same text to the congregation that 
 had crowded in to hear his farewell dis- 
 course. If they had thought to have their 
 feelings wrought upon, it must have been a 
 sore disappointment they got that night. 
 Never a word of parting said the minister, 
 but turned the subject to the end that comes 
 to all, showing how what we call the end is 
 but God's beginning. A terribly impressive 
 sermon it was, and there was that about Mr 
 Grahame that hushed through the kirk and 
 quieted the people, so that each one was too 
 solemn for tears. 
 
 William Rafe sat thinking of the end of his 
 hopes, his eyes fixed on the manse pew, for 
 he could not take them from the lassie 
 there. But Miss Isobel did not notice him. 
 
Spindles and Oars 187 
 
 She was listening with a grave look on her 
 face, and her eyes lifted to her father, seeing 
 only him in the crowded church. And Widdy 
 Rafe was in her pew holding herself very 
 grim and straight, and with no pity in her 
 heart for the end of her laddie's hope. 
 
 There was no gossiping round the kirk 
 gates that night. The minister stood in the 
 porch and shook hands with each one as he 
 passed out; and none did more than grip his 
 hand and go out in silence. But although 
 there was no greeting, and but little to do 
 among the members, it was a more solemn 
 parting than had ever been known at the 
 Totum Kirkie. And the next day, and 
 through the week after, the manse was 
 obstructed with the folk calling. And many 
 a strange gift was offered at the manse 
 during those days, the fishers being extraor- 
 dinary generous to the minister who had 
 always taken notice of them. 
 
 Miss Isobel did not know what to do with 
 all the smoked haddies and red herrings she 
 got; and the sea -eggs and jelly-fish and 
 strange buckies that Leeb Swankie's lad 
 brought to mind her of Skyrle and its fishers. 
 
 Elspeth Mackay knitted some hosen to the 
 
188 Spindles and Oars 
 
 minister, and Widdy Rafe sent the lassie a 
 bookmarker with a worked motto, ' Remember 
 the Sabbath Day to keep it holy.' Geordie 
 Mackay had made a collection of all the cliff 
 flowers, pressed and named by his own hand 
 which pleased Miss Isobel greatly; but she 
 said nothing to anybody of the bonnie pic- 
 tures of the Abbey and the town that William 
 Rafe had sent in a present. Kirsty had been 
 proud to give a family group of David and 
 the eight bairns, and herself behind them in 
 her marriage gown. 
 
 And all this love and kindness seemed as 
 if it would break Mr Grahame's heart. He 
 could not rest, but wandered in and out of 
 the kirk while Miss Isobel was occupied with 
 the cleaning of the manse ; for although it had 
 been like a new pin for a week past, she was 
 always at it with broom and duster. It 
 seemed that she would not give herself an 
 empty moment during these days, and when 
 William Rafe came into the manse, she could 
 not spare the time even to give him good-day. 
 
 So it drew on to the night before they were 
 to leave Skyrle. The minister had wandered 
 out of the study, whose bare shelves made 
 him restless like, into the garden, where there 
 
Spindles and Oars 189 
 
 was nothing to tell him that the time had 
 come for him to leave the place he loved. 
 The rooks cawed loudly in the elm trees, and 
 the doggie Skye ran among the gooseberry 
 beds and pricked his nose with trying to find 
 the berries to which he was partial. The 
 summer was near its end, but the garden 
 was beautiful with dahlias, and asters, and 
 sweet peas, and sunflowers, that Widdy Rafe 
 thought unbecoming to a manse garden. 
 
 By-and-by he left the flowers and walked 
 under the shadow of the trees into the kirk, 
 the evening chill striking through the grief 
 at his heart. The quaint-like wee kirk, with 
 its eight sides and diamond-paned windows, 
 had taken a hold of his imagination. 'Twas 
 in that pulpit that death had touched him, 
 and there that he had struggled with life, and 
 weighed the great questions of sin, and doubt, 
 and hope, and faith. Every seat in every pew 
 spoke aloud, taking the voice of the heart 
 that had cried to him for help Sabbath by 
 Sabbath. 
 
 In that pew Elspeth Mackay had prayed 
 for the child God had called, and over there 
 Margot had stood listening to her man's 
 dead feet crossing the bar. Beside that 
 
190 Spindles and Oars 
 
 window, where you could see the gorse all 
 a-flower in the manse garden, Sandy Nicholls 
 was used to sit, and the carved chair in the 
 choir had Geordie Mackay's wistful eyes. 
 The pew with the horse-hair cushions was 
 Widdy Rafe's, and he could see her sitting 
 straight and tall, keeping from her eyes the 
 pride she could not keep from her heart. And 
 there was the place where Jean Wishart had 
 stood with Nancy Mulholland's bairn, and a 
 bar of gold from the stained window resting 
 on the babe's forehead. 
 
 The minister was truly fond of that window, 
 and liked to mind how each morn the light 
 was red on the text that spoke of justice, and 
 travelled to gold on the words that spoke 
 of love. 
 
 Through the smaller windows he could see 
 the sunset clouds over the elms, and he 
 sighed to think of the lessons and sermons 
 he had taken from the trees and the rooks; 
 and when he thought of the little dark vestry 
 where the old clock had ticked through the 
 hours he had spent with God, he needed all 
 his faith to believe that this parting led by 
 the right way. 
 
 It was maybe because he had come through 
 
Spindles and Oars 191 
 
 so much in Skyrle that he had that great 
 affection for the place. For I think we have 
 the same feeling for places that we have for 
 folk, and are like to love most those that 
 have touched us at the quick of our natures. 
 But no one, not even Miss Isobel, guessed how 
 the minister felt to leave Skyrle. 
 
 The night gathered in the church, but he 
 stood there still. His head was drooped on 
 his breast; and the mournfulness of the end 
 seemed as if it was all about the old man 
 standing lonely in the empty church that was 
 not empty for him. And then he bethought 
 him of his sermon notes that he had left in 
 the Bible, and he dragged his feet up the 
 pulpit steps, and sat down searching the 
 Book for the slip of paper, while he 
 struggled with the weakness that gripped 
 his heart. 
 
 It was close upon midnight when Miss 
 Isobel, after long searching, found him there. 
 The Bible was open across his knee, and his 
 dead finger lay on the headline of his notes. 
 The end is God's beginning. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 Oor Doctor 
 
 When Mr Grahame was taken from the 
 Totum Kirkie, not by the Conference, neither 
 by his own will, but by the Lord himself, 
 there wasn't a body in Skyrle whose heart 
 did not go out to the orphaned lassie he had 
 left. And I'm sure if William Rafe had had 
 his way he would not have been long in 
 claiming his right to lead her home to his 
 mother till the time should come for their 
 marriage. But the laddie was sorely fettered 
 by his promise not to marry wanting his 
 mother's leave ; and the widdy set her mouth 
 fast, and would not allow a word from him in 
 respect to Miss Isobel. Well she knew the 
 wrong she had done the lassie; and it but 
 made her the harder to the young thing. 
 
 It's so whiles that we cannot forgive those 
 we have wronged. And it was that way with 
 
Spindles and Oars i93 
 
 Widdy Rafe. At another time the sight of 
 a lassie left alone without a blood relation to 
 see to her would sorely have fretted the 
 widdy. But, seeing that the lassie was Miss 
 Isobel, who had gotten the first place in her 
 son's heart, all her pity was changed to 
 bitterness towards her. 
 
 But indeed her ill-will against Miss Isobel 
 brought a punishment to herself; for it was 
 little pleasure Widdy Rafe got in the minis- 
 ter's burial, not being able for a tear when 
 every one in the kirk was mourning for him. 
 
 And it was the same at the sermon that 
 was preached for him the Sabbath after; for, 
 although she held her kerchief to her eyes, 
 she couldn't rightly greet for him with a heart 
 hard against his lassie. 
 
 But, however, Miss Isobel wasn't needing 
 Widdy Rafe to befriend her; for there wasn't 
 another house in Skyrle but would have been 
 proud to open its doors to her. And the very 
 day Mr Grahame was taken from the manse 
 to the Abbey-yard, the doctor, who had al- 
 ways been a friend to the family, led her to 
 his wife, saying, their home was hers for so 
 long as she would give them the pleasure of 
 her presence in it. 
 
 N 
 
194 Spindles and Oars 
 
 The doctor had been very well liked by 
 Mr Grahame. He had come backwards and 
 forwards to the manse since ever the minister 
 had had his illness; and, although he didn't 
 belong to the Totum Kirkie, every member 
 of the church had a high opinion of him for 
 his friendliness to the manse. He was but a 
 young lad — not thirty — but he had a great 
 hold on all in the town ; but especially on the 
 fisher-folk, who, man, woman, and child, loved 
 the very ground on which he stepped. 
 
 I mind well his frank ways, and his open 
 face with its rare bonnie smile and its kindly 
 blue eye. It made the day more cheery-like 
 just to see him stepping over the cobbles in 
 the street, with a word for one and a smile 
 for another, and a pull of the ear for the 
 bairns; and no sorrow or trouble escaping 
 him, for all he was so blithe. 
 
 He was an awful man for the sea; and 
 when he was not with the sick, he was down 
 at the shore, sitting on the edge of a boat, 
 baiting the lines or mending the nets with 
 the fishers. Or maybe he was in his own 
 bonnie boat, as happy as a gull on the waves. 
 
 It was wonderful to observe his love for the 
 sea and all things belonging to it; and his 
 
Spindles and Oars 105 
 
 pocket was always full of stones, and shells, 
 and bits of weed that were a sore burden to 
 his young wife. He could name every plank 
 in Skyrle harbour; and well might he do so, 
 for many a time would he give a help in 
 painting and cleaning when the fishers were 
 making their boats neat. And when he was 
 not busying himself with the boats, you would 
 see him with his breeks turned up seeking 
 out the sea-flowers and such-like in the pools 
 among the rocks. Every pool about the 
 shore and at the cliff-foot he knew ; and he 
 would lead the bairns to the spot where the 
 bonniest weed floated, or show them where 
 to gather the finest dulse in all the place. 
 He thought a sight of Geordie Mackay, and 
 Sandy Nicholls, and Robbie Christie, who 
 were all daft about the sea; and he lent 
 them books that just made them dafter than 
 before. 
 
 What a fine lad the doctor was, to be 
 sure! And what a comely sight it was to 
 see him with his young face, sitting on the 
 harbour-wall talking with Robbie George, and 
 Jock Swankie, and the rest of the old men; 
 and himself as free and hearty as though 
 he was a fisher-lad. And he was that ; al- 
 
196 Spindles and Oars 
 
 though when he stood beside the sick you 
 would have supposed he had gotten never 
 a thought in his head that did not run on 
 pills, and bottles, and bandages, and the like. 
 He was just very tender with his patients; 
 and many a poor old body in Skyrle was 
 content to die if she had a hold of his hand. 
 It was the same with the bairns, who took 
 well with their sickness if the doctor came 
 in to frolic with them, and make a play of 
 the nasty bottle he was for giving them. 
 
 There were fifteen doctors in Skyrle; but 
 he never got his own name, and up and 
 down the country-side he was just 'Oor 
 Doctor.' 
 
 It seemed but right that he should take 
 Miss Isobel away from the manse ; and the 
 lassie was willing enough to go with him 
 who had always been a friend to her father. 
 And she had not been long in his house ere 
 her thoughts were drawn from her own 
 trouble by the sickness that visited the 
 doctor's wife and their bairn, wee Donald, 
 the apple of his father's eye. All in a moment 
 the two were stricken down and Miss Isobel 
 turned to be the help and comfort she always 
 was where [there was distress. 
 
Spindles and Oars i97 
 
 The doctor said but little, and just went 
 among his patients as before ; only there wasn't 
 a moment that he was in his house that he 
 didn't give the boy, who all the time was 
 greeting for his father, and couldn't bear 
 him from his sight. 
 
 The mother, a poor, delicate creature, was 
 not seriously ill, but weak and ailing, and 
 couldn't quit her bed to nurse the sick bairn. 
 And one night the doctor sat himself down 
 beside the laddie, saying he would not leave 
 him again till the crisis was gone by. His 
 wife, sorely put about, was laid in the next 
 room ; and Miss Isobel watched beside her, 
 while the doctor sat with his eye on the bairn 
 waiting for the turn of the fever. It was a 
 still night, close and hot for October ;] and as 
 the hours wore by, bringing the time nearer 
 when it would be settled if wee Donald 
 was to live, you could see the big drops 
 of perspiration sitting on the doctor's brow. 
 
 He had but the one bairn, and in the four 
 years the laddie had grown deep into his 
 heart. 
 
 He stood fanning the boy ; but all on a 
 sudden he stayed the fan, listening. A puff 
 of wind had blown through the open window, 
 
io8 Spindles and Oars 
 
 and there was a stir in the air that told him 
 a storm had come on. It was one of the 
 sudden squalls that break sometimes on the 
 coast, and in ten minutes the wind would be 
 rushing overhead, and beating up the waves 
 at the harbour's mouth, while the water would 
 be dashing in white wreaths over the wall. 
 The doctor gave a thought to the fishers, 
 hoping they hadn't put out for the fishing 
 that night ; and then he turned him to the 
 laddie who was each minute drawing nigher 
 to the turn of the fever. 
 
 He was kneeling beside the bed, holding 
 the wee hot hand in his, when a great ring- 
 ing of the surgery bell sounded through the 
 house. In a moment he was up and at the 
 window, and had put out his head to see 
 Libbie Swankie holding on to the railings 
 down below. 
 
 1 Haste ye, doctor,' she cried to him. ' Haste 
 ye ! Come awa' to the shore. The boaties 
 are a' oot, and there isna a man i' Skyrle to 
 pit oot the lifeboat.' 
 
 ' Bide there while I come ! ' he shouted 
 back to her, greatly excited. He was for 
 going straight away to the shore; but when 
 he drew his head within the room again, he 
 
Spindles and Oars 199 
 
 gave a groan. For how could he go to the 
 shore and leave his bairn to battle alone with 
 the fever? 
 
 I cannot tell you the struggle that went on 
 in the doctor's heart while he stood beside 
 the fevered body of his bairn ; but, however, 
 it was soon past. With a terrible stern look 
 on his white face, he stepped softly to the 
 next room, where his wife was sleeping, Miss 
 Isobel watching her, and cried the lassie to 
 him. 
 
 Then he took her two hands in his own. 
 
 'Isobel, I must away to the shore, and the 
 fever will soon be at its height. Will you 
 see to my boy? I'll tell Angus to come in. 
 You know what is to be done.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Miss Isobel. 
 
 'That's a brave lass! Send nurse to my 
 wife. Don't let her know.' 
 
 With that he was down the stairs three 
 steps at a time. Outside the house he took 
 a hold of Libbie's hand, and the two together 
 struggled against the storm that seemed 
 bent on keeping them from the shore. On 
 the way to Dr Angus's house as well as 
 might be for the roar of the wind, Libbie 
 told him how the boats had gone out the 
 
200 Spindles and Oars 
 
 same as ordinary early that morn; and how 
 there wasn't a man left in harbour to take 
 out the lifeboat to the fishers' help. And the 
 doctor hearkened with his lips set tight; for 
 above the roar of the storm and the voices 
 of strong men in peril he could hear his 
 bairn greeting for him. 
 
 When they got to the little bridge over 
 the burn, the force of the gale was like to 
 drive them back; but Libbie was a stalwart 
 lass, and could hold her own as well almost 
 as the doctor. 
 
 The waves were dashing over the wall, 
 but a handful of men and women stood at 
 the end of the pier, wringing their hands and 
 shrieking high above the wind. Not one boat 
 was in sight, and the sea boiled and churned 
 at the foot of the wall and all along by the 
 cliffs. It was a thing to make the stoutest 
 heart tremble; but for them that had son or 
 brother or man out on that stormy sea it was 
 a thing to drive the life from the body. 
 
 When the women saw the doctor running 
 to them under the shelter of the wall, a great 
 cry went up from them. And one and another 
 ran forward, and held him by the feet and 
 hands, crying to him that their men were in 
 
Spindles and Oars 201 
 
 peril, and there was none to save but him- 
 self. 
 
 They had gotten out the lifeboat and pulled 
 it nigh the steps; and there it was tossing 
 up and down and never a soul to man it. 
 
 The doctor cast a sharp look round him at 
 the women and the few men that had gathered 
 beside them. 'We must have out the boat,' 
 said he. 'Who is going in her?' 
 
 At that the men staggered, and never a one 
 offered to go. They were mill hands, and it 
 seemed to them a mad thing to venture out 
 in such a storm. 
 
 ' Likely the boats have made harbour further 
 north,' one of them muttered. But he was 
 stopped by the doctor, who spake an oath 
 that was surely a prayer, and leaped on the 
 wall, with his hand pointing to where, beside 
 the Bell light, a black speck showed a boat 
 making for Skyrle. 
 
 Before they could well take in the meaning 
 of what they saw, the doctor was in the life- 
 boat making ready to put out. 'Are you 
 Skyrle lads, and afraid of the sea? You 
 know I can't work the boat alone,' he sang 
 out to them. But still the men held back. 
 Then the group of women parted; and a 
 
202 Spindles and Oars 
 
 fisher lassie struggled down the steps and 
 jumped into the boat beside the doctor. 
 
 'No, no, Libbie,' said he. 'You're a brave 
 lassie, but a woman is no use in a sea like 
 this.' 
 
 'Let me gae, doctor,' she sobbed. 'My 
 Jim's awa', an' I canna bide here an' lat him 
 droon.' 
 
 'No, no, lassie,' he said again. 'And we're 
 no needin' you. Look ! here they come. I 
 knew Skyrle lads had pluck enough for any- 
 thing. Out you get, my woman. You'll only 
 hinder us if you stay.' 
 
 Libbie looked up and saw six men coming 
 down the steps, their fists in their pokes, 
 their faces set like men that knew what was 
 before them. They got into their places, and 
 the lassie stepped out. Then the doctor 
 gave a cheer for Libbie Swankie, and the 
 boat felt her way round the wall and through 
 the harbour mouth, the doctor guiding her. 
 But it was a terrible sea, and ere they were 
 over the bar it was known that they would 
 never bear to the other boat. 
 
 A great crowd was gathered on the pier by 
 this time, and the screaming and cries of the 
 women were terrible to hear, for they saw 
 
Spindles and Oars 203 
 
 fine the lifeboat was of no use. No men 
 could pull her in such a storm. She wouldn't 
 answer to the helm, and after a while the 
 doctor let her drift with the tide, trying to 
 set her for Skyrle. And then a sair thing 
 befell, and in sight of all watching, a big 
 wave broke over the boat and bore three 
 men away. There were two that were not 
 seen again; but one rose close to the boat, 
 and the doctor got a hold of him, and held 
 on till they pulled him into the boat. 
 
 It was a long ten minutes ere they got 
 the boat in; but the doctor wasn't rightly 
 landed ere he was shouting to man a trawler 
 that was in harbour with steam up, and had 
 been starting out when the storm came on. 
 But there was none that would go with him 
 now. Libbie Swankie was on her face on 
 the ground, and the sight they had seen 
 kept the other men from offering. But the 
 doctor was not to be stayed. He leaped on 
 the trawler and saw to her being ready for 
 sea, and then he shouted again if none would 
 go with him. 
 
 And then Geordie Mackay, with his thin frame 
 stepped in. 'I owe my life to you, doctor. 
 
204 Spindles and Oars 
 
 I may well spend it wi' you. I'm no sailor, 
 but I can stoke,' said he. 
 
 And just then Robbie George, one of the 
 older fishers, who had been in his bed a 
 week with rheumatism, came halting along 
 the wall and settled himself in the trawler 
 with his face glum and never a word to any- 
 body but the doctor. 
 
 'The boat's weel manned that's gotten you 
 aboard her, doctor. Haud awa' the noo, lad.' 
 
 And shouting again cheery-like, the doctor 
 and Geordie Mackay and old Robbie got the 
 boat out of harbour and fair set to the one 
 that was labouring in the sea. 
 
 None will ever rightly know what the three 
 went through that morn. But it was a 
 bonnie thing to see the doctor making the 
 lifebelt fast round the old man, tying him 
 to the *stern-post and rigging up a bridle to 
 work the helm with, ere he would see to his 
 own safety. And well it was he did this, for 
 another big wave bore over the boat, and 
 Robbie would have found his grave in the 
 water but for the ropes that held him fast. 
 Geordie was down below, and the doctor him- 
 self was swept over the side, but he had 
 
Spindles and Oars 205 
 
 gotten a hold of the wire stay, and he 
 wrestled till he won to the deck again. 
 
 And so, with many a struggle, and many 
 a prayer, they bore nearer and nearer to the 
 wee boatie, and at last got nigh enough to 
 take the fishers on to the trawler. There 
 were five of them grown men, and Libbie 
 Swankie's lad beside, and they had made 
 up their minds for death. 
 
 They did not put back to Skyrle at once, 
 but beat about seeking for the other boats. 
 They had no sight of them, however, for 
 they had gotten into safety ere the storm 
 broke, and they won back to Skyrle as soon 
 as the sea calmed. 
 
 It was a weary work getting the trawler 
 back to port, but the doctor would not be 
 discouraged, and at last he brought her in. 
 And the minute he set his foot on the stones 
 of the harbour the women were like to make 
 a god of him that had saved their men. He 
 wouldn't bide with them, however, but got 
 away and made for home, running along the 
 streets like a daft man. 
 
 He had done his duty by the fishers, but 
 the father's heart in him was crying aloud 
 for the bairn he had left in peril. 
 
206 Spindles and Oars 
 
 The house was awfully still when he got 
 in, and he stood in the entry fearful to 
 mount the steps. And while he waited there 
 Miss Isobel came down the stairs and smiled 
 into the wae eyes he lifted up, and signed 
 to him to be quiet. 
 
 'He is sleeping beautifully,' she whispered. 
 'The crisis is past, and he will live.' 
 
 Then the lassie turned herself and went 
 away again; for the big doctor had laid his 
 hand on the balusters and was trembling 
 like a woman. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 Nannie 
 
 Willie Murgatroyd wasn't the lad to beg and 
 pray of a woman to have him, yet he wrote 
 to Jean Wishart two years after he had left 
 her, asking her to give up the bairn and go 
 out to him. 
 
 Nannie was a wee toddle then, and it 
 seemed as though Jean's life was bound up 
 in the child's. She was as proud in her way 
 as Willie. She wouldn't crave a favour, and 
 she wouldn't leave the bairn ; so she wrote 
 a short ' No ' to his prayer. And after that 
 Willie turned to his work and thought no 
 more of love. And Jean wrought harder in 
 the mill that she might forget him, and be- 
 cause of the wee thing depending on her. 
 
 So Nannie grew up, a bonnie bit flower, 
 but with .an awful high spirit. You could see 
 it by the way she looked at you, frank, and 
 
2o8 Spindles and Oars 
 
 daring, and free, yet dropping her blue eyes 
 and turning away, shy and proud, when she 
 saw you noticed her. There was a look of 
 Jean about her; and when she was twelve 
 past, you would have thought it was the 
 lassie Jean come back to life again. Nannie 
 was just as tall and straight and bonnie ; and 
 her face was high and proud, minding me of 
 Jean the day she stood in the kirk to have 
 the bairn named. 
 
 Kirsty always said it was Miss Isobel that 
 taught Nannie her strange ways, daring and 
 shy all at once; for she was often at the 
 manse, and Miss Isobel was full of spirits 
 and fun, yet had a way with her that kept 
 folk from being too pushing. However it 
 was, Nannie was a handful for any woman, 
 and specially for one who hadn't had marriage 
 to sharpen her wits; and if Jean hadn't been 
 braced up through falling out with her lad, 
 I doubt she would never have curbed the 
 bairn's spirit. But I think all are not sent 
 to the same teacher for wisdom ; and some 
 of us learn the meaning of life by pain; and 
 some by the joy that makes the heart unfold 
 like the gowans in the sun in the summer- 
 time. 
 
Spindles and Oars 209 
 
 Kirsty held that it was she that educated 
 Nannie ; for she was always scolding the 
 lassie and dragging her up by the wrong 
 end, as she did her own bairns — who would 
 one and all have gone wrong if it had not 
 been for David keeping them straight when 
 Kirsty was away teaching the neighbours 
 their duty to their children. 
 
 Well it wasn't long before we saw that 
 
 Jean's work with Nannie would soon be over, 
 
 for more than one Skyrle lad was wanting 
 
 her; and on summer nights the road by the 
 
 shore was taken up by young lads strolling 
 
 past Jean's house and casting an eye round 
 
 for a sight of Nannie. But none could say it 
 
 was the lads' blame for wishing to walk along 
 
 Seagate in the gloaming, it being a bonny 
 
 part of the town and a near way to the cliffs. 
 
 The house faced the sea; and when the tide 
 
 was out, it was fine to see the rocks all 
 
 brown and red and gold with seaweed, and 
 
 little pools among them, and the fishing 
 
 boats drawn up on the shingle. And even at 
 
 night it was bonny with the sea stretching 
 
 out, dim and mysterious, and the red light 
 
 from the harbour tower flashing over it like a 
 
 vivid dream across a sleep. And, moreover, 
 
 o 
 
2io Spindles and Oars 
 
 it did no harm for the lads to go by; for 
 Nannie was always reading love stories and 
 hadn't a thought to spare for the real thing 
 dressed in serge breeks. 
 
 It was when the lassie was turned sixteen 
 that Kirsty was curious to explain a change 
 that came over Jean. She had been close 
 and silent, living to herself, since she had 
 had the bairn and had parted from her lad; 
 and her face had grown strong and set, as 
 though she had a secret locked away some- 
 where behind it. But quite sudden-like her 
 eyes began to soften, and her face changed, 
 with a look on it you notice in the woods 
 just before the spring comes in ; and Kirsty 
 said to herself, 'Jean must be courting.' But 
 though she watched and made errands to 
 Seagate most evenings, there was never a 
 sign of any lad seeking Jean. If she had 
 thought, she would have done better to go 
 to Miss Isobel (she was aye Miss Isobel to 
 Kirsty, though by that time the lassie had 
 taken another name) ; for she would have 
 seen by her face, after Jean had been calling, 
 that good luck had come to her. And so it 
 had; for Willie Murgatroyd had sent Jean a 
 letter saying he had kept single for her sake. 
 
Spindles and Oars 211 
 
 He was a rich man now, and was winning 
 home to see if she had forgotten him. 
 
 As you may think, Jean had not done that; 
 and so she wrote and told him ; and then set 
 herself to count the days before his ship was 
 due in, telling none but Miss Isobel that 
 Willie was hasting back to wed her. 
 
 His boat came in a week before the time; 
 and, without writing to her, he took the train 
 and hastened down to Skyrle to see her — for, 
 now that his love had broken from his pride, 
 it was like the Luman in flood, and rushed 
 over him, carrying everything before it till he 
 could think of nothing but the lassie he had 
 given up so easily sixteen years before. 
 
 He had carried her picture in his mind, and 
 he could see her face bright and sunny, and 
 her hair tossed about her forehead, and the 
 proud set of her neck, and her slim young 
 shape. He forgot that the years that had 
 made a bearded man of him must have 
 changed her too; and he never doubted that 
 he should see the same lassie he had left 
 when he went away from Skyrle. When he 
 stepped out of the station, no one recognised 
 him, and the faces he looked at were all 
 strange and unknown; but the streets were 
 
2i2 Spindles and Oars 
 
 the same, and the names over the shop-doors, 
 and he hurried on to get to Seagate. 
 
 When he reached the house it was near the 
 gloaming, and he opened the door without 
 knocking and walked into the room. A 
 young lassie sat in the ingle reading by the 
 firelight, and she started up when he came in, 
 and gave a little cry. For a minute he stared 
 at her, shading his eyes so as to see better. 
 Was it Jean? 
 
 Ay, surely. Jean herself, but bonnier than 
 he remembered her. She was looking 
 frightened-like, her eyes were growing bigger 
 and bigger, and her face was red as she felt 
 his look on her. At last he could bear it no 
 longer, his heart was over full, and he stepped 
 forward and caught her in his arms, crying— 
 1 My bonnie lass ! My own love ! My wee 
 wifie!' 
 
 Nannie would have flouted any Skyrle lad 
 that dared to do the like to her, but her head 
 was full of English love stories; and Willie 
 was so handsome, she just thought he was a 
 gentleman come to marry her and make a 
 lady of her. So, though she trembled and 
 drew back, she didn't rightly discourage him, 
 
Spindles and Oars 213 
 
 but let him hold her hand and lead her to 
 her seat. 
 
 'Sweetheart,' said he, looking very tender 
 at her; but before he could get further the 
 door opened, and in came Miss Isobel and 
 Jean. The blood left Jean's face as she saw 
 who it was sitting there, but she hung back, 
 for Willie made no sign, staring as if he 
 didn't know who she was. 
 
 ' Aunt Jean,' said Nannie, rising in a flurry, 
 ' Aunt Jean—' 
 
 Then Willie's face changed and he rose too, 
 putting out his hands— 'Is it you, Jean — you? 
 he asked, dazed-like. 
 
 'Ay, Willie,' she said, lifting her face all 
 glad and shining to his. 
 
 But he didn't kiss her, neither offer his 
 hand. 
 
 'Who is that?' he asked, pointing to 
 Nannie. 
 
 'That is my lassie,' Jean said very proud, 
 'the wee bairn Nancy Mulholland gave 
 to me.' 
 
 Willie sat down and wiped his face with 
 his kerchief. ' God help me ! ' he said very 
 deep and low. 
 
 They were all silent after that, gazing at 
 
2i4 Spindles and Oars 
 
 each other, then Miss Isobel turned to Nan- 
 nie— 'Will you walk as far as the Abbey with 
 me, dearie ? ' 
 
 Nannie would fain have stopped in the 
 cottage with this man that said he loved her, 
 but she was too much in awe of Miss Isobel 
 to say her nay. So she put on her shawl and 
 went out with her, leaving Willie to use him- 
 self to thinking of Jean as a worn, pale 
 woman, and not a bonnie lassie at all. 
 
 Well, it's natural for a man to like better 
 a bonnie face than a true heart, so when 
 Willie's thoughts turned to Nannie, it was 
 only what was to be expected. But, eh, it 
 was a pity for Jean that everybody in Skyrle 
 knew as a rare fine woman, to be set on one 
 side for the child she had given her life to. 
 We had seen her change from a light-hearted 
 lassie into a fine, deep-natured woman, true 
 and loving for all her silence; a friend to all, 
 yet yielding her life to Nancy's bairn, and 
 sharing her troubles with none but Miss 
 Isobel, who had a big heart as full of other 
 bodies' sorrows as the cushion is of pins 
 that's set for the baby coming home. 
 
 Willie was often at the cottage after that 
 night; very grave and quiet towards Jean, 
 
Spindles and Oars 215 
 
 but smiling and kind to the lassie who didn't 
 doubt but what he was courting her. She, 
 poor bairn, had never heard of Jean's lad; 
 and there was nothing to show that he had 
 a thought of Jean, for he kept himself still, 
 and said no more of marriage. But I doubt 
 she would have heard the story by that 
 time, if it hadn't been that Kirsty was stay- 
 ing beside Ailie in the north, and there was 
 none else to tell her, Jean being too proud 
 to say Willie was her lover when he spoke no 
 word to her. 
 
 So Nannie thought Willie was taken up 
 with her, as indeed he was; and she grew to 
 love him and look for his coming, and a 
 braw light came into her face, and all her 
 pride went under the shyness that made her 
 sweet and gentle and winsome. And Jean 
 noticed nothing, for her heart was sore that 
 the love of her life had come back to her 
 with its sweet turned to bitter. And indeed 
 Willie was no braw lover to her with his 
 silence, and his stormy nature all fretted by 
 the passion he had for Nannie and the wish 
 to be true to Jean. If the lassie had not been 
 there his heart would have gone back to his 
 old love. But it irked him to see her stern, 
 
216 Spindles and Oars 
 
 and pale and patient, and so unlike the bonnie 
 spirited Jean he had thought on for sixteen 
 years; while Nannie sitting beside him was 
 the very picture he had in his mind. 
 
 The day Kirsty came home she saw how 
 things were going, and went in to tell Miss 
 Isobel she doubted Jean's lad was courting 
 Nannie Mulholland; and she, for one, would 
 be fine and pleased to see Jean well rid of the 
 lassie who had been a handful all these years, 
 and needed a man to break her spirit. 
 
 Miss Isobel said never a word but to warn 
 Kirsty not to do a mischief by spreading 
 such-like gossip. But her heart was heavy 
 for Jean, who was a sister to her, and she 
 went round to Seagate that evening to see 
 if Kirsty was right; and as soon as she was 
 in the room she wondered how she had been 
 so blind as not to see it before. 
 
 There sat Jean pale and hard, yet patient- 
 like, as if she expected something ; and there 
 sat Willie with his eyes fixed on Nannie, 
 who was by the fire with the colour coming 
 and going on her face, and her eyes shining, 
 and a great happiness, like a rosy mist, all 
 about her. 
 
 Miss Isobel's heart just broke to see the 
 
Spindles and Oars 217 
 
 work before her, for she loved Nannie as her 
 own; but her duty was clear, and she would 
 not shrink from it. You'd never have thought, 
 seeing her enter so merry and laughing, that 
 she had a great load on her; and as soon as 
 she was in the room, it seemed as if she had 
 brought the sun with her. 
 
 She gave Nannie a kiss, spoke a bright 
 word to Jean, and threw a joke at Willie. 
 Then she sat her down and began talking 
 of the time when they were all young to- 
 gether, and in the same class at the Totum 
 Kirkie; and from one thing to another went 
 on to the days when Willie and Jean were 
 courting, and Jean was the best and bonniest 
 lassie in Skyrle. 
 
 She was surely a fine lassie, Miss Isobel, 
 and clever, for she bided there an hour bring- 
 ing up old tales that made them now laugh, 
 now greet, till they were all back in their 
 youth and had clear forgotten Nannie. And 
 remembering that time Willie's heart grew 
 soft to Jean. The talk had made her cheery- 
 like, and her face was young and gay when 
 she laughed with them; and more than once 
 she blushed, shy and winsome as a young 
 
2i8 Spindles and Oars 
 
 lassie, when Willie spoke of the days when 
 they first loved. 
 
 Before the hour was ended they had drawn 
 together again, and he had found that the 
 woman Jean was the lassie that had won his 
 heart as a boy. 
 
 Then Miss Isobel rose suddenly, and said 
 she must hasten home, and would Nannie 
 walk back with her. She, poor lassie, was 
 glad enough to get away out into the fresh 
 air from the pain that lay like a wounded 
 thing in her heart. And as they walked on, 
 Miss Isobel, not seeming to notice how quiet 
 Nannie was, began to tell her of the girl that 
 had given up her lad for the sake of a little 
 motherless bairn. 
 
 'And think how sad it was, Nannie,' said 
 she, stopping in Barber's Croft. 'After long 
 years his heart returned to his old love, and 
 he came back over the sea to marry her. 
 But the little baby had grown into a maiden 
 by that time ; and when he saw her his love 
 wavered between her and the woman who 
 had loved him all her life. The girl cared for 
 him, he could see; but he could not make up 
 his mind to take her when he was bound to 
 the woman; so he let things slip, and every 
 
Spindles and Oars 219 
 
 day he found it harder to do the right thing. 
 And then, Nannie, and then— the young girl 
 found out what she owed to the woman who 
 had given up her life for her sake; and she 
 was very true and noble, and she had 
 strength to make the hard sacrifice ; and — * 
 
 'Yes?' Nannie said husky-like, when Miss 
 Isobel halted, not being able to go on for 
 sobbing. 
 
 'And— and, she made up her mind. Oh, my 
 dearie,' said Miss Isobel, throwing her arms 
 round the lassie: 'Oh, my bonnie Nan! what 
 did she make up her mind to do?' 
 
 Kirsty told me afterwards how they had 
 stopped right under her window, and she 
 heard the whole talk, and saw Nannie draw 
 herself up straight, and lift her face, smil- 
 ing, but white as the dead, to Miss Isobel. 
 ' Miss Isobel, Miss Isobel,' she said, and her 
 voice had a sound in it like the shudder of 
 the waves falling back over the pebbles 
 when the tide is going out ; ' Miss Isobel, 
 will you take me away somewhere where I 
 may stay till— till they are married?' 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 The Minister's Leddy 
 
 In the far corner of the Abbey-yard there is 
 a place where the wall is overgrown with 
 green, in which at the spring you may often 
 find maybe one nest, maybe more. The wall 
 is rarely old and crumbled, as may be seen 
 where the green is cut away round a stone 
 that the minister had a great fancy for. It is 
 carved quaint-like with uncanny things, such 
 as skulls and cross-bones that are mouldering 
 away and falling to pieces. But Time hasn't 
 set his finger on the words that run on 
 the top of the stone: '/ have waited for Thy 
 salvation, Lord.' 
 
 The letters at the foot of the stone have 
 crumbled away, and but one word of the text 
 is left— Love. Mr Grahame was used to say 
 he saw a meaning in the chance ; for the 
 salvation for which the living wait they will 
 best find in love. 
 
Spindles and Oars 221 
 
 It is just under this tablet that the minister 
 is buried; and you can tell where he lies by 
 the flowers that are always on his grave. 
 There is nothing else to mark the spot; but 
 it is never forgotten by any member of the 
 kirk. And still on a Sabbath eve — though 
 years and years have gone since first he was 
 laid there — many will stroll into the Abbey- 
 yard and stand by his grave, and speak of 
 his beautiful life, and the strange way of his 
 death in the Totum Kirkie; and the bairns 
 still weave their crowns of gowans and ber- 
 ries to put on the minister's grave, as their 
 forbears did before them. 
 
 Mr Grahame had been laid to his rest but 
 three months when Miss Isobel left Skyrle, 
 and went to stay in the south with an old 
 lady that had sent for her whenever she 
 heard that her father was dead. I doubt it 
 was an awful-like place for a young lassie, 
 the lady being one of those spinster creatures 
 that are like to the dry apples at the grocer's 
 with all the juice pressed out of them. By 
 all accounts she was just a piece of leather, 
 no good but to lash folk into rebellion, yet 
 the lassie agreed well with her. The most 
 of her time was passed in washing and tend- 
 
222 Spindles and Oars 
 
 ing- a fat doggie who was too fat to wait on 
 himself, but not too fat to quarrel with Skye. 
 And this minded Miss Isobel of folk that 
 never grow too frail to be spiteful. For the 
 doggie was the picture of his mistress in 
 many ways. 
 
 But, however, the lassie made the best of 
 her life, writing to Skyrle cheerful letters and 
 having her laugh whiles at the doggie, and 
 whiles at the old lady, whose kindness was 
 like the fruit grown in foreign parts that aye 
 has a thorn set inside it. But although she 
 laughed, Miss Isobel sighed often at the 
 pathos of the poor barren life. And she 
 learned the story afterward ; how her father 
 had been to marry with the old lady in days 
 gone by; how she had kept single for his 
 sake; and at his death had sent to make 
 a home for the child of the woman that had 
 parted her from her lover. And that was 
 surely noble of her; and is a proof of the 
 kindliness living in imany a heart that seems 
 to be withered and sour on the outside. 
 
 I'm not to say Miss Isobel took well with 
 the life. It was a sore thing to be parted 
 from her father's grave, and the sea and the 
 cliffs and the Abbey and the common; and 
 
Spindles and Oars 223 
 
 in each letter she wrote, she mentioned her 
 wish to return, and told how she wearied 
 for her friends at Skyrle. But if she wearied 
 for them, it wasn't more than they did for 
 her; and at the diets of worship the manse 
 pew would bring tears to the eyes of many. 
 It was a heavy thing to miss her bonnie 
 face ; but it was a woeful thing to see no 
 less than nine towsie heads crammed each 
 Sabbath into the manse pew. And Kirsty 
 said it was a judgment on Widdy Rafe, who 
 hadn't done justice to Miss lsobel, that the 
 manse carpets were overrun with bairns; and 
 that the kirk was aye being called on for 
 now a new cot and now a new cradle to 
 accommodate them as they came. Kirsty had 
 a deal to say about it; and each Sabbath 
 the talk outside the kirk was not of the 
 minister's sermon, but of the minister's bairns, 
 and the marvel it was that such a godly man 
 should be so sorely chastened in his family. 
 And it was edifying to see the members wag- 
 ging their heads, and seeking out the uses 
 of adversity that didn't touch them. William 
 Rafe couldn't like the manse without Miss 
 lsobel ; but, being steward, he did his duty, 
 and went about it. And presently he was 
 
224 Spindles and Oars 
 
 extraordinary agreeable to the minister's lady, 
 for she told him that now and again she had 
 a letter from Miss Grahame. 
 
 It was after that that Widdy Rafe had 
 occasion to murmur at William for the new 
 furnishings he put into the manse. But the 
 laddie gave her leave to murmur while he 
 sat by the manse hearth, and let the bairns 
 work their will with him so long as their 
 mother would talk ;'of Miss Isobel. And more 
 than once the bairns fell sick through eating 
 of the Skyrle rock he gave them to quieten 
 them while their mother talked. 
 
 She was a thin, eager woman, whose nose 
 went before the rest of her face; and she 
 wasn't over well liked after Miss Isobel— 
 especially as she took ill with the manse, 
 and was always complaining of the things 
 that were not in it. 
 
 Geordie Mackay had it to say that she 
 always had a letter from Miss Isobel when 
 there was anything needed for the house. 
 But Geordie was one that had questioned 
 human nature so long that he couldn't see it 
 without a crook. However, the remark struck 
 both at the lady and at William, for by this 
 time all knew his liking for Miss Isobel, and 
 
Spindles and Oars 225 
 
 blamed him for being ruled by his mother, 
 and for not asking the lassie in marriage. 
 
 In particular Kirsty gave him some plain 
 words that made William afraid of having 
 much to do with women-folk, and made him 
 more content to be a bachelor than he had 
 been since he gave his word to his mother. 
 
 So the time went on to two years, and one 
 night William went into the manse and found 
 the minister's lady sorely put about. She 
 had been at the Free Kirk manse, and the 
 new ways there had made her discontented 
 with what had served two or more genera- 
 tions of ministers at the Totum Kirkie. 
 
 'Oh, Mr Rafe,' said she, 'I wanted to see 
 you. I have a message for you from Miss 
 Grahame. Her letter contains remarkable 
 intelligence.' 
 
 She had been so used to putting copies in 
 the bairn's writing books that she had got 
 into a fine way of framing her talk. 
 
 'Have you, indeed?' said William, striving 
 to seem at his ease ; and he sat down very 
 sudden on the cat's tail, who punished him well 
 till he thought to rise and release her. When 
 the puss had ceased spitting, and William's 
 face was growing cooler, the lady began— 
 
226 Spindles and Oars 
 
 'My husband and I have come to the con- 
 clusion, though I am not certain that we 
 coincide—' 
 
 She stopped and looked at him vague-like. 
 
 'Indeed?' said William, shifting one foot 
 over the other and back again, so as to look 
 comfortable, though he felt far from it. 
 
 'We were thinking you ought to be made 
 acquainted—' 
 
 'With Miss Isobel's affairs?' William in- 
 terrupted. 
 
 'No, oh dear no! Though you will doubt- 
 less be interested to hear that she — ' 
 
 She paused a while. William's heart was 
 in his eyes, and he dared not gaze at aught 
 but the magenta roses on the carpet. (Bonnie 
 were they, and had cost a sight of silver in 
 their time). However, the minister's lady 
 was so long of speaking that he was obliged 
 to raise his face from the floor. 'You were 
 saying that she — ' said he. 
 
 'No, the observation I wished to make was 
 this—' 
 
 'Yes?' said William, when she halted 
 again, and he stroked his moustache as if he 
 was none so eager. 
 
 'I think I hear baby crying. You must 
 
Spindles and Oars 227 
 
 excuse me,' said she. And she rose and 
 went from the room, remaining out so long 
 that William was like to eat his fingers with 
 impatience for her return. He was so wish- 
 ful to hear the news about the lassie that he 
 made ready a half dozen questions to put to 
 the minister's lady. 
 
 Yet when she came back, he sat there like 
 a gowk while she talked of her needs. And 
 he promised curtains for the door— did any 
 sensible body ever hear the like? — and wee 
 cups that would not quench the thirst, though 
 you drank all day, and such extravagances 
 not known in John Wesley's time, while he 
 waited to hear the news she had gotten of 
 Miss Isobel. And when he had run the kirk 
 into an awful responsibility to meet the ex- 
 pense, the lady took a sleepy turn and yawned 
 more than once. 
 
 There was no longer an excuse for him to 
 wait, and he rose, twisting his hat round 
 about on his hands that were damp with 
 nervousness. 'You were mentioning Miss 
 Isobel,' said he, his face matching the roses 
 on the carpet. 
 
 'Was I?' said she sleepy-like. 'Oh, yes. 
 But it is a long story. I must tell it you 
 
228 Spindles and Oars 
 
 some other time. Good-night, Mr Rafe. I 
 I will order the things to-morrow. Let me 
 see — carpets, curtains, cups, candelabra. I 
 think that was all. Good-night, good-night.' 
 
 She bowed him out with English politeness, 
 and when William came to himself he was 
 standing outside the manse in the dark. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 First-footing 
 
 William need not have paid so dearly for the 
 news of Miss Isobel that he didn't get; for 
 the morn's morn Kirsty made an errand to 
 the mill, and broached the matter to him 
 with a wonderful running round about the 
 subject. But that day he didn't quarrel with 
 her tongue ; for when the talk was sifted he 
 had gotten a few grains of information that 
 made a happy man of him. And though he 
 said nothing, delighted he was to hear that 
 Miss Isobel was coming back to Skyrle. The 
 old lady was dead, and had willed to the 
 lassie the fat doggie and enough silver to 
 make a woman of her to the finish of her 
 days. 
 
 'Ou ay,' Kirsty concluded; 'when the Scrip- 
 ture was read on Sabbath that the Psalmist 
 had never seen the seed of the righteous 
 
230 Spindles and Oars 
 
 begging bread, I had the thocht, "Weel, 
 Dawvid, gin you had been langer in the world 
 likely you wadna hae been sae hasty in gi'en 
 your opeenions." Miss Isobel wis i' my mind 
 at the time, puir lambie; and I wis wae tae 
 see her eatin' the bread o' strangers. But 
 noo the Lord has providit. An' glad I am 
 she has nae call tae beg or pray of you or 
 ony ither lad tae mak' a hame tae her!' 
 
 Kirsty tossed her head, but William an- 
 swered very soft and engaging. 
 
 'Ay, Kirsty. But, silver or not, Miss Isobel 
 would ne'er have wanted a friend so long as 
 you were a living woman.' 
 
 'That wad she no'!' said Kirsty, greatly 
 . mollified. And she sat her down again and 
 told William that a wee house nigh the 
 Abbey had been sold by roup; and it was 
 rumoured that Miss Grahame had bought it. 
 And some grand furniture had come by the 
 rail, and was sitting in the station-yard with 
 her name on it. 
 
 'And she'll no' be lang ere she's intae the 
 hoose,' said Kirsty; 'for Groves has putten 
 a stovie intae ilka chamber; and there's five 
 hundred o' coal i' the cellar, wi' ither prepara- 
 tions for warming her through the winter. 
 
Spindles and Oars 231 
 
 And there's shutters tae a' the windies, an* 
 the doors newly painted wi' greens that are 
 eneuch to gie the lassie a sair heid. I doot 
 she'll be in by the New Year, William.' 
 
 'And do you think so?' he asked. 'It's at 
 New Year I'll be speaking to David to place 
 his eldest lad in the mill. He'll be worth a 
 few shillings the week to me.' 
 
 'That will he,' said Kirsty, highly flattered. 
 'And it's greatly pleased his father will be tae 
 hae word o't. I'm obleeged tae you, William. 
 And I'm no' so sure but Miss Isobel micht 
 dae waur than tae tak' you.' 
 
 'No, no, Kirsty,' said William, 'Miss Isobel 
 is a rich lady now. She will look higher 
 than at a Skyrle lad.' 
 
 'Toots!' said Kirsty, 'the lassie will look 
 nae higher than her heart. But sae lang 
 as a laddie is content tae be putten i' his 
 mither's poke, he needna be hopin' for a 
 wife, William.' 
 
 She gave the lad a throw of her eye that 
 made him forget he was master of the mill, 
 and brought home to him his subjection to 
 his mother's whims and fancies. But yet he 
 raised his head like a man. 
 
 'Kirsty,' said he— and there was a patient, 
 
232 Spindles and Oars 
 
 noble look on him then— ' Kirsty, a lad might 
 do worse than to honour his mother.' 
 
 The which answer made Kirsty dumb, for 
 she hadn't credited William with spirit for it. 
 
 'And Miss Isobel? Is she tae want a lad 
 the while you bend to an auld wife's cranks?' 
 she said, very severe. His reply had rebuked 
 her, and she wasn't liking for him to see it. 
 
 'She'll not want a lad longer than it's right 
 for her.' His face turned white the while he 
 said it, and Kirsty fell to greeting. But he 
 stopped her with a question: — 'And is it 
 true that Geordie Mackay is courting Barrie 
 Allister?' 
 
 In another minute Kirsty was playing in 
 that key. She wiped her eyes with her apron 
 and told him the whole story. How Barrie 
 was away to the school to be made a lady 
 of, and how Geordie was cutting his sweet- 
 heart to a pattern of his own. 
 
 'But bide a wee,' Kirsty concluded. 'A 
 lassie unwed is her ain mistress. When she's 
 wedded she's her man's.' And for long after 
 she went away William pondered deeply on 
 a woman's dislike of subjection to the higher 
 powers. 
 
 But after that, there was never a day 
 
Spindles and Oars 233 
 
 passed that he didn't make an errand by the 
 wee house nigh the Abbey. He was too 
 bashful to gaze at it; but for all that he 
 saw it growing neat and making ready for 
 her presence, as you will see in the spring- 
 time the trees bursting into leaf ere the 
 coming of the blossoms. But Miss Isobel 
 didn't set foot in Skyrle, and it came on to 
 the last night of the year and none had seen 
 her. 
 
 The ground was locked in ice, and on the 
 minister's grave in the Abbey-yard the frost 
 had laid a white wreath beside the holly 
 crown that William Rafe had put there on 
 Christmas Day. For he minded how Miss 
 Isobel had been used to put on that day a 
 wreath of berries round her father's picture 
 in the manse. William's heart had been 
 heavy when he stood beside the grave; but 
 looking up he had had a sight of the stone, 
 and the words, 'I have waited for Thy salva- 
 tion, O Lord,' had heartened him. 
 
 He read the lesson of the stone. The skull 
 and the bones, the emblems of our mortality, 
 were crumbling away; but there remained 
 untouched the things invisible, and, above all, 
 love itself. Ay, he could wait till his way 
 
234 Spindles and Oars 
 
 was opened out before him; for though the 
 temporal love passed, the eternal was his, 
 and none could take it away from him. 
 # * * * 
 
 The air was heavy and threatened a storm ; 
 and the light from the lattice windows of the 
 Totum Kirkie lay red on newly fallen snow 
 at midnight of the last day in the year. It 
 was the time of the watchnight service ; and 
 the folk were gathered in the kirk to make 
 a prayer for the year that was gone, and 
 to see a promise in the year that was to 
 come. 
 
 From the High Street came the sound 
 of the lads' voices. They were waiting round 
 about the old kirk for the bell to clang out 
 the hour of midnight. But inside the wee 
 kirkie all was still ; and the solemnity of last 
 moments sat on each face. 
 
 The organ was playing over the first hymn, 
 when on a sudden William Rafe lost his 
 place and gave a bar three times over, to the 
 great scandal of his mother. But all else ex- 
 cused him the minute afterward. The manse 
 pew had been empty, the nine bairns being 
 bedded and their mother too sleepy to attend 
 the watchnight; but in the playing of the 
 
Spindles and Oars 235 
 
 verse Miss Isobel had walked into her old 
 seat in the pew, and was kneeling there 
 with bent head and the snowflakes white on 
 her hair. 
 
 The hymn went very softly after that ; for 
 the congregation knew without any words 
 that [the lassie was greeting for the father 
 who had stood in the pulpit tat the last watch- 
 night service she had attended in Skyrle. 
 
 When the kirk was out every body waited 
 in the porch to give good wishes for the year 
 that was come, and to welcome Miss Isobel 
 back. Widdy Rafe stood apart, not very 
 hearty with the folk, till William came out, 
 when she wished him a good New -Year. 
 But the lad gave her a reply she didn't ex- 
 pect. 'Mother you have the power to make 
 it the best year of my life.' 
 
 She stared at him, not crediting what she 
 heard. 
 
 'Hoity, toity!' said she, 'and theer's sma' 
 hopes for the year gin you begin't i' this 
 fashion.' Then she showed her anger by tak- 
 ing hold of Elspeth Mackay's arm and start- 
 ing for home without him. William gazed 
 after her a while and a great sadness 
 struggled with the gladness on his face when 
 
236 Spindles and Oars 
 
 he turned him to speak to Miss Isobel. But 
 she soon had him smiling and content when 
 she told him how happy she was to be back 
 again in Skyrle. 
 
 The causeway was slippery with the snow, 
 and William went so far as to offer her his 
 arm, and beg permission to see her to her 
 home. Miss Isobel lingered as they passed 
 the manse gate and looked in to see the 
 garden lapped about with snow, and the 
 trees lifting bare arms in the moonlight with 
 the ruined nests like white blossoms on the 
 bareness of the branches. Then she put her 
 hand on William's arm, and they walked to- 
 gether past the old kirk that had looked on 
 many generations of lads and lasses gathered 
 under its steeple— that had clanged its mes- 
 sage of time's flight to many generations of 
 sleepers in the Abbey -yard. It was close 
 upon one o'clock ; but the High Street was 
 full of folk shouting and making merry with 
 whisky; and William could scarce hear Miss 
 Isobel telling him she had been but a few 
 hours in Skyrle ; and Kirsty was going to 
 live with her till her own maid came with 
 the doggies the next week. 
 
 The walk was too short for him, and when 
 
Spindles and Oars 237 
 
 they came to the wee house she gave him 
 the key and bade him ope the door, and bring 
 good luck to her home. William knew well 
 that in Skyrle the first foot that enters a 
 house at the New -Year should take a gift 
 with it. But what with his bashfulness and 
 his happy heart, he forgot the custom, and 
 was in the house ere he thought of it. Then 
 he twisted him round in haste— 
 
 'Lassie, I'm no' like to bring you guid luck, 
 for I hae come withoot a gift, and the ane 
 thing I wad fain offer you is—' 
 
 And what more he would have said I can- 
 not tell, for at that very minute Kirsty hasted 
 in, all in a bustle to 'firstfit' Miss Isobel. 
 She had brought with her a red herring, 
 awful bonnie, with a green riband at his head 
 and a pink one at its tail. 
 
 Miss Isobel was like to roar and laugh 
 when she had a sight of it, but she steadied 
 her face the while she praised it greatly. And 
 well she might, for all in Skyrle know that a 
 red herring at the New- Year will bring good 
 luck to any house. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 Widdy Rafe 
 
 It was in vain that Kirsty M'Naughten 
 schemed to get the news that a marriage was 
 fixed between Miss Isobel and William Rafe. 
 The New- Year was well in, and 'the spring 
 came slowly up the way'; and the flowers on 
 the cliff-sides were all a-blossom. The rooks 
 built their nests in the manse elms ; and the 
 jackdaws were busy among the chimneys and 
 in the Abbey, and still there was no talk of 
 betrothal. The only good luck the herring 
 seemed to have brought Miss Isobel wasn't 
 the luck Kirsty had hoped for, but a better 
 thing — 'A heart at leisure from itself.' 
 
 It was wonderful to see the winsome ways 
 of the lassie as she went in and out among 
 the kirk members, the friend of all, as well as 
 the servant of all, spending her life, as it 
 
Spindles and Oars 239 
 
 seemed, in making others happy. The years 
 she had been in the south had seen a change 
 on her; and the blithe lassie was deepening 
 down into a thoughtful woman. But although 
 she was steadier-like, her eyes were aye glint- 
 ing ; and she couldn't keep the sunshine from 
 her hair that was tossed and tumbled as it 
 had been when she came first to Skyrle a 
 young lassie. 
 
 She had learned to walk quietly along the 
 streets ; but her feet went as if they kept time 
 to some music that none heard beside herself; 
 and always she had the look of the day when 
 she came dancing down between the birks in 
 Fyston Den, with the flowers in her hair and 
 a song on her lips. 
 
 It was pretty to see her in the Abbey 
 talking with the old men ; or walking by the 
 shore with half-a-dozen bairns hanging to her 
 skirts; or in the poor's house singing to the 
 old bodies there. And wherever she went the 
 clouds seemed to lighten and the day to 
 break. She had settled in the wee house 
 nigh the Abbey; and she had for company 
 a spinster body, and the parrot, and the 
 doggie Skye, and the fat doggie that had 
 been willed to her. But she wasn't content 
 
240 Spindles and Oars 
 
 with all these, and the house was always full 
 of folk. 
 
 They were queer bodies that she drew 
 about her ; for whenever she heard of any 
 old wife that was more than ordinary awk- 
 ward, or that was ailing, or poor, or lone- 
 some, she would have her to the house and 
 keep her a week or two beside her to hearten 
 the poor creature. And it was the same with 
 the bairns; and many a one has started on 
 a happier life from the door of Miss Isobel's 
 home. 
 
 Eh, deary! What a name she got in the 
 town and what a sight of good she did with 
 the old lady's silver! 
 
 There were some that thought the lassie 
 almost perfect ; but she was not that, for she 
 had a fine temper of her own as was seen by 
 the way she boxed the ears of a fisher lad 
 that she caught ill-using the fat doggie. And 
 I mind of her shaming a half-dozen men that 
 were making sport of a drunken woman till 
 there was none of them that would look her 
 in the face afterward. Ay, she had a temper, 
 but yet Kirsty had it to say it was a terrible 
 want of spirit in Miss Isobel that she did 
 not resent William's silence, but bore herself 
 
Spindles and Oars 241 
 
 cheerful and brave before him. If she had 
 had a proper spirit in her she would surely 
 have wept, as many a woman has done before 
 her, till she brought him to the point of offer- 
 ing marriage. But Kirsty dared not say this 
 before the lassie, who wouldn't allow a word 
 of William in her presence. 
 
 By this time the whole kirk knew that the 
 two were meant the one for the other, and 
 there was a great controversy as to William's 
 behaviour. He couldn't do enough for the 
 lassie, yet he made no haste to be affianced; 
 and Miss Isobel treated him with the same 
 frankness she had given him at the first. It 
 was a weary business for the kirk waiting for 
 William to propose marriage; but it led the 
 talk from the overful manse, and maybe did 
 good in that way. And through it all Widdy 
 Rafe set her mouth and wouldn't open it on 
 the subject ; though Kirsty wasted a long 
 hour learning a new knitting pattern from 
 the widdy in order to surprise her into giving 
 her views on William's marriage. 
 
 She was getting on in years, was the 
 widdy; but if she felt her physical powers 
 going from her she held all the more to 
 those that were left. She had aye had her 
 
 Q 
 
242 Spindles and Oars 
 
 way in life, and she would have it to the 
 end ; and as her body grew frailer, her will 
 waxed stronger, until all the softness and 
 tenderness of a mother went from her. 
 
 I doubt, seeing the fine lassie Miss Isobel 
 
 had grown — and maybe thinking of the silver 
 
 she had gotten — her mind misgave her that 
 
 she hadn't done right in crossing William's 
 
 love; but yet she was too proud to yield her 
 
 will to make him happy. And if ever his sad 
 
 face pled for him, she smote him with her 
 
 sarcasm. And she would call to mind the 
 
 lassie's free ways, and the bawbees she spent 
 
 on flowers to dead folk that couldn't see 
 
 nor feel them, and such extravagances; and 
 
 would harden her heart, saying she wasn't 
 
 the wife for William. 
 
 And so the weeks slipped by, and a great 
 sickness visited Skyrle. It began first in the 
 mills, and then it spread to the schools, and 
 soon there was scarce a house where one 
 wasn't lying sick or dead. Meeting the folk 
 in the streets, you would have thought from 
 the white faces and the black gowns that 
 Skyrle was a town of the dead that summer. 
 The doctors had their hands full, and our 
 doctor in particular was among the sick 
 
Spindles and Oars 243 
 
 night and day. It was to him Miss Isobel 
 went begging that she might help with his 
 patients. And she took the sick into her 
 house, and many a bairn she nursed back 
 to health. 
 
 But this did not content her ; and wherever 
 there was a case needing special care she 
 would offer herself, till at the last the doctors 
 counted her as one of themselves, and would 
 put her in charge of the worst of the patients. 
 I blame the doctors for this, for it wasn't 
 likely a lassie could bear up like strong men. 
 But, however, she kept up with the best of 
 them till the sickness had well-nigh left the 
 town. 
 
 Her face had been almost the only cheery 
 face to be seen on the streets that time ; but 
 towards August she grew whiter and whiter, 
 and at last was forced to give up. The sick- 
 ness had taken her, and she lay nigh to death 
 in the house where she had rescued so many 
 from the disease. 
 
 On the Sabbath after she was laid down, a 
 great sadness was over the town; but especi- 
 ally in the hearts of the kirk members, who 
 best knew and most loved her. William 
 Rafe, with some of the choir, went to sing 
 
244 Spindles and Oars 
 
 for her after the kirk was out; but she 
 couldn't notice them, and he went home with 
 his heart bursting with the distress he couldn't 
 tell to anybody. 
 
 His mother heard him climb the stair and 
 go to his room in the attic, but she didn't 
 cry him in to her. Her heart was sore inside 
 her, and she was fighting a great battle with 
 love and pride and jealousy. She couldn't 
 bear to see the trouble of her lad, and to 
 know that she had no part for his comfort ; 
 and it irked her to see that William didn't 
 turn to her for sympathy. Besides, her con- 
 science was not easy, for it told her that deep 
 down in her heart, syne ever Miss Isobel had 
 sickened, had been the wish that the lassie 
 would die and end the discord between herself 
 and her son. She hadn't dared pray in the 
 kirk with the members uniting for the lassie's 
 life, but had been feared because her ill wish 
 had been granted her. And as she thought 
 of it now, she would have given up her 
 position and her house, if only that might 
 make the lassie recover. 
 
 She sat very straight in her chair— a noble- 
 looking old body with her fine strong face 
 and her white mutch, and black silk gown 
 
Spindles and Oars 245 
 
 with the white kerchief crossed on her bosom. 
 Ay, a noble-like old lady she seemed; but in 
 all Skyrle that night there wasn't a more 
 miserable woman than Widdy Rafe. She had 
 sought her own will, and she had gotten it ; 
 but all the sweetness had been taken from 
 it. The lassie was like to die, and her son 
 would be her son all his life. She had willed 
 to keep him hers ; but she knew that she 
 had lost him, and more than if he had married 
 with the lassie. 
 
 There's nothing kills love sooner than strife. 
 The widdy had striven for her own way till 
 she had been like to hate the son she had 
 wronged. And although William showed his 
 mother a son's respect, he couldn't but feel 
 that she had thwarted his life to no good end. 
 Syne the New Year, when he had first-footed 
 Miss Isobel, he had prayed his mother to give 
 her consent to the marriage: but he could 
 easier move the Table Rock than the old body, 
 and he had been forced to bide without 
 speaking to the lassie. And the silence she 
 had made him keep had closed his mouth to 
 her that was his mother. She had let loose 
 an ill bird, and it had come home to roost on 
 her own head. 
 
246 Spindles and Oars 
 
 By-and-by her face waked up from its 
 thoughts, and she set herself to listen to a 
 strange sound in the house. Ay, surely it 
 came from the attic-room. 
 
 The widdy rose trembling from her chair, 
 but her limbs were fine and steady when 
 she passed to her son's room. She lifted the 
 sneck and would have gone into the room but 
 for the sight she saw. 
 
 William was set by the table with his face 
 on his hands, and all the cry that went from 
 him was the deep groaning of a man's 
 anguish. 
 
 He did not move to speak to his mother, 
 likely he didn't hear her, but it cut to her 
 heart that he should not notice her. Her 
 old face was all of a quiver, and she moved 
 back and softly went down the stairs and 
 to her chamber. 
 
 The struggle of a soul with itself is not a 
 sight for human eyes to gaze on. Widdy 
 Rafe had never been so strong a woman as 
 in that hour that she spent in battle against 
 herself, but I cannot lift the veil from that 
 scene. 
 
 When it was over, she reached down her 
 bonnet and her shawl, and put on her gloves, 
 
Spindles and Oars 247 
 
 and with never a word to William she went 
 from the house in the gloaming of the Sab- 
 bath. It was drawing on to the night, and 
 as she walked through the streets the 
 shadows were all round her, hiding her from 
 the folk that would have marvelled at her 
 white face and strong, determined manner. 
 So she came to the wee house nigh the 
 Abbey, and found the door open, and went in 
 with ne'er a creature to stop her. 
 
 The doggie Skye came forward with his 
 ears and tail hanging, and went before her 
 up to the chamber where Miss Isobel was 
 lying. 
 
 Kirsty and Elspeth Mackay and Jean 
 Wishart were in the room, and Jean looked 
 up and motioned silence, but none spoke to 
 the widdy. With steady feet she stepped to 
 the lassie's side and bowed to reach her 
 hand. 
 
 Then Kirsty rose and touched the widdy 
 softly. 'Na, na, dinna fash her,' said she. 
 'She's i' the vera airticle o' deith, puir lambie. 
 She hasna spoken for hooers. She's wearin' 
 awa' as peacefu' as a bairn. You maun lat 
 her gae i' peace.' 
 
 Widdy Rafe turned herself round and set 
 
2 48 Spindles and Oars 
 
 Kirsty aside; then she drew herself up very 
 straight, and spake as if she addressed the 
 lassie lying before her. 
 
 'Lassie,' said she, 'I hae dune you a great 
 wrang, and wad fain hae your pardon. It's 
 maybe too late for that the noo; but I wad 
 say f the sicht o' a present that I'm no' meet 
 tae be a kirk member. I hae been prood 
 an' wilfu' — I hae regarded enmity i' my heart, 
 an' I hae cherished ill thochts tae the innocent 
 lamb that did me nae wrang. I hae stood i' 
 the way o' her happiness, an' I hae come 
 atween her an' my lad. I hae e'en wushed 
 for her deith; an' for a' these things I wad 
 humble mysel', and may the A'michty forgive. 
 Amen.' 
 
 The words were so unexpected, and it 
 was such an awful sight to see the proud 
 old body brought low, that Elspeth and Jean 
 turned away. But Kirsty put her apron over 
 her head and sobbed aloud. In the moment 
 that followed after, it was like a voice from 
 the dead to hear Miss Isobel cry with a frail 
 and trembling speech, 
 
 'Is that Mrs Rafe? I want her to kiss 
 me. And I must send my love to William.' 
 
 Even now the widdy cannot tell how her 
 
Spindles and Oars 249 
 
 limbs bore her home. But, however, she 
 was all of a tremble when she stood be- 
 side William again, and her poor old hands 
 tottered sadly when she laid them on his 
 head. 
 
 'Laddie,' said she, 'I bring you great news. 
 The lassie is tae live. She bade me give 
 you her luve. An', William, you maun gae 
 tae her, an' tak your mither's luve tae her 
 dochter.' 
 
 It is not the fashion in Skyrle to make 
 much of Christmas time; but on Christmas 
 Eve that year the Totum Kirkie was lighted 
 late while the members made it bonnie 
 with flowers to please her who had always 
 gathered the blossoms about her. I'm not 
 saying the decorations were so grand as at 
 the English chapel up the hill; but sure I 
 am that the braw posies there didn't mean 
 more than each leaf and each berry that was 
 put for Miss Isobel's marriage. It was a 
 bonnie kirk when all was finished, and David 
 had gotten the place swept and ready for 
 the marriage that was to be early the 
 Christmas morn. 
 
250 Spindles and Oars 
 
 The stained glass window was framed with 
 Christmas roses ; and above the pulpit Geordie 
 Mackay had hung a laurel wreath. 
 
 'Maybe the lassie's thochts will turn to her 
 father's death i' the pulpit,' said he, 'an' the 
 croon will lead her higher tae his victory.' 
 
 And a bonnie sight it was when Miss 
 Isobel— looking like a white rose after her 
 illness— came up the aisle and stood before 
 the minister where she and Jean had stood 
 to have Nancy Mulholland's bairn named; 
 and William took his place beside her, too 
 proud and happy to be bashful at his posi- 
 tion. Geordie Mackay was best man, and 
 Kirsty would put herself beside Miss Isobel, 
 though the most of the lassie's grand friends 
 were there to see her wedded. 
 
 All things were done in the English fashion 
 which makes a sore discipline of being 
 wedded ; and there were many there that 
 pitied William Rafe for the catechism he 
 went through that day. But when the min- 
 ister looked up from his book, saying: 'Who 
 giveth this woman to be married to this 
 man?' there was silence a while in the kirk, 
 for none had counted on the question being 
 asked. 
 
Spindles and Oars 251 
 
 It was like to have made an awkward 
 thing of the marriage: but in the silence 
 Widdy Rafe took a step forward and lifted 
 her head in her old manner: 'I dae that,' 
 said she. 
 
 THE END 
 
J. Miller & Son, Printers, Edinburgh