From ploughshare to pulpit

The ship is reeling like a sick man. She reels, she staggers. When she yaws, it seems as though she would never recover.

But hurrah! the shore is near. And here is a little cove that runs inland a little way between banks of waving bananas and trees gorgeous with creeping flowers.

At last she strikes, she rasps, she is fast upon the sand, and on an even keel.

“The Lord’s Name be praised,” says the captain. And more than one manly voice responds, “Amen!”

The strain upon both Sandie’s mind and Willie’s, particularly during the last hour, had been very great; and now that the reaction had come, strangely enough, Sandie, at all events, felt that he would have given a five-pound note for a five minutes’ cry.

. . . . . .

Our heroes were Crusoes now with a vengeance, but Crusoes after a somewhat strange fashion.

In looking back to all their adventures since they left Sandy Point, they could not but marvel at the wondrous way they had been preserved.

And here they were on board the wrecked derelict, safe and sound for a time, at all events, and with good hopes of soon being picked up.

The first thing the crew had to do was to cut down trees in the woods, to prop the ship up when the tide went farther back.

Meanwhile, taking Tyro with them, and not only a rifle each but a good revolver, Sandie and Willie set out to explore the island. They soon found that it was of no great extent, not more, indeed, than about ten miles long by five or six wide.

This they ascertained by climbing a rather high hill, which had a bold bluff rock right on its peak.

The island altogether was hilly and beautifully wooded, though there were many green and verdant glades in it, and some open glens as well, adown which they found, much to their joy, streamlets of clear water bounding or rippling along, going singing to the sea, in fact.

There was no smoke to be seen anywhere, consequently they came to the conclusion that the island was uninhabited.

This was strange, because there were fish in the streams, there were rock-rabbits on the hills, and cocoa-nut and other trees were laden with fruit. And it is the rule that, wherever on an island or on a coast you find cocoa-nut trees, you find natives.

“What is the mystery, I wonder?” said Willie.

“I cannot tell at all,” replied Sandie. “It appears so strange that so fertile and lovely an island as this should be lonesome and uninhabited.”

“Well, anyhow, Sandie, let us get farther into the interior.”

They wandered on and on, now through the greenery of the lovely woods, pausing often to admire the strange and beautiful flowers, that hung pendant or in garlands from the branches of the loftier trees, or to listen to the sweet low singing of some little bright-winged bird.

On and on they wander.

And now, all at once, a wide grassy glade opens out to their view.

Both Sandie and Willie shrink back appalled at the sight that meets their view.

Here are the ruins of a very large native village, with grass and creepers growing rank over the fallen walls.

Regaining courage, they venture forward, but do not proceed far before Willie trips, and almost falls over something in the grass. With the barrel of his gun he moves aside the weeds, A white ant-cleaned skeleton lies there. Lizards skurry away from it, grey lizards, red lizards, and green.

They shudder as they perceive that the skull has been cloven as if with an axe.

But they do not go much farther ere they come upon many, very many skeletons, and all bear the marks of violence.

And some among them are the skeletons of mere children.

Even in the blackened ruins of the huts lie half-charred bones, which tell their own dismal tale.

But the saddest sight of all is that which they come to at last.

It is that of a large skeleton, with no marks of violence, hanging in chains to a tree. The skull has tumbled to the ground and one of the limbs, but enough remains to show the gruesomeness of the tragedy which at no very recent date must have been enacted in this lovely glade. The poor wretch must have been chained up alive, and left to die in the sunshine, or to be eaten alive by the awful insects, the centipedes, and poisonous beetles that infest a forest such as this by night.

Sandie and Willie both felt sick, and were not sorry when they found themselves far away from that haunted glade.

They managed to shoot over a dozen rock-rabbits, and now with their spoil they betook themselves back to the ship, to report on all they had seen.

“As I thought,” said the old captain. “The Blackbirders have been at work. They have wiped out a portion of the natives who dared to resist, and have made prisoners of the rest; and the poor wretch, hung in chains to die a lingering death, was no doubt the chief.

. . . . . .

The men of the lost Boo-boo-boo soon began to settle down to their new mode of life, lonely and all though it was.

Captain D’Acre thought it would be best to live on board the Peaceful. They would not only be free from malaria, and the troubles of creeping insect life, but in a better position to defend themselves if attacked by some wandering hostile tribe.

There was no saying how soon an attack of this kind might not be made, so they determined to be prepared. They found a kind of willow-withe growing plentifully on the island, and from this they manufactured in a few days enough boarding-netting to go all the way round above the bulwarks. They got all arms up, and loaded them, also plenty of ammunition. They also trimmed all the lamps lest an attack should take place under cover of the night. Moreover, lest a fight might end in a siege, they laid in a goodly store of fresh water.

After this they felt comparatively safe, and inclined to take life very easy indeed.

Many little shooting excursions and rambles were made into the interior.

Fishing parties too were got up, both inland and at sea.

All day long a look-out was stationed on the rocky peak of the highest hill. His duty was to report by an arranged code of signals either the approach of suspicious canoes, or the appearance in the offing of a ship.

In the latter case, it would be the duty of two boats, always kept ready manned for the purpose, to row out to sea and endeavour to communicate with the vessel.

The rock-rabbits, the fresh-water fish, but above all the many delicious varieties of fish caught at sea, formed a most wholesome addition to the larder, so that it is no wonder that Willie remarked more than once, that, instead of existing in the guise of starving Crusoes, they really were living like the British fighting-cock.

The fruit of the island was luscious, rich, and rare, and to crown all, there were rare crabs, and curious but succulent lobsters, and oysters of rarest flavour found clinging to the rocks at low water.

Sandie had come through a good many hardships, and much anxiety of mind, within the last month or so; yet, singular to say, he had waxed hardy, stout, and strong. There was no trace of consumption about him now, unless, as Willie told him, it was the consumption of bananas and oysters. All cough had gone, his voice was once more manly and strong, and his spirits were never higher.

Oh, he often thought of home—that was but natural. He often wondered what his parents and Elsie might be doing, and dear little Maggie May. But when he did think of home, it was always hopefully, always with a happy feeling of certainty that he should return in health and safety to resume his studies at the University.

A whole month passed away, but no ship ever came; another dragged somewhat more wearily by.

Things were beginning to look a trifle serious, for this reason: there was a limit to the length of time the flour and biscuit would last. When these were done, they would be compelled to live on salt meat, with the fish, fruit, and rabbits they might succeed in getting.

So the men were now—in the third month of their Crusoe-ship—put on an allowance of biscuit. It was deemed advisable also to be as sparing in the expenditure of gunpowder as possible, so the rock-rabbits were snared instead of being shot.

But if no ship appeared, it was satisfactory, on the other hand, that no boats laden with savages hove in sight, so the Crusoes tried to live as contentedly as circumstances would permit.

No fishing, or even snaring of rabbits, took place on the Sabbath. This was kept as a day of rest, and in the forenoons the old captain always called all hands aft. Then a prayer would be offered up, several hymns sung, a chapter of the Bible read and explained or commented on to the best of the good old man’s ability, then, after more singing and another prayer, the men would be dismissed.

But D’Acre was a true sailor, and so every Saturday he caused the main-brace to be spliced. Well spliced, too, not in any half-hearted way, so that the men might enjoy themselves, and drink to those so far away—their mothers, wives, and sweethearts.

And almost every Saturday night the mate would go forward with his fiddle, and Sandie, too, would be there to sing a song. But before eight bells every man had turned in who was not on duty.

. . . . . .

Three long months had passed away, and things began to look serious. The biscuits were done now, and even the beef was running short.

But, oh, joy! one forenoon the signalman on the hill-top was seen to indicate the presence of a ship, and pointed with his large fan in her direction.

In five minutes’ time two boats were under way, pulling merrily over the sparkling waters in the direction indicated. Never even at a boat-race surely did men pull more earnestly. It was indeed a race for life.

But now they can see the vessel. A great ocean steamer she is.

They alter course a little, their object being to intercept her. No need to hurry now! Oh, glorious hour! She sees the approaching boats and stops ship.

They are saved! What need to say more? The vessel is an outward-bound steamer for Sydney. She carries a few passengers, but has ample accommodation for the Crusoes.

They are made heartily welcome, and that evening, down in the splendid saloon, our chief heroes have, over and over again, to tell all the outs and ins of their wondrous adventures.

CHAPTER IX

“O MY POOR, DEAR FATHER!” CRIED SANDIE

Sydney has the most beautiful and extensive harbour in the world. I feel in duty bound to make that remark, because everybody else says the same thing, and because I know it will please the Sydneyites, and the Australians in general. You see, I mean to visit Sydney one of these days, and I wish to have a Highland welcome.

“Have you anywhere in particular to stay?” asked the most matronly lady of our young heroes.

“No,” was the candid reply.

“Oh, then I shall carry you off.”

And she did.

A very pleasing time she gave them, too, for over two months. Then somebody else carried them away for another month, and as this was repeated, it may be presumed that during their stay in Sydney their keep did not cost them much.

But the matronly lady got hold of them again, and being a widow with plenty of means, she could do as she pleased. So she made up her mind to show Sandie and Willie something of Australia and Australian life.

Some men inform us that this world is all bad and vile. For my own part, I have not found it so. I still am a believer in human nature. Well, for example, persons like this matronly lady, who had taken so great an interest in our heroes, are not such raræ aves as certain pessimists would have us believe; and they obtain their own happiness by bringing about and enjoying the happiness of others.

Mrs. Maxwell was this dear lady’s name, and her eyes positively sparkled with delight when she witnessed the admiration and wonderment exhibited by Sandie and Willie on first beholding the weird and awful beauty of, for instance, the gum-tree forests.

City views, though very grand and rich, failed to impress them. Had they not seen Edinburgh and Glasgow? But the wild sylvan loveliness of the green silent country, ah! that indeed sent a thrill of pleasure to their hearts.

“As long as I live, Mrs. Maxwell,” Sandie told the lady when at long last he had to bid her adieu, “I shall never forget this visit to Australia, nor all the disinterested kindness you have shown us. Yes, we will write.”

“Good-bye, boys, and God bless you!”

“God bless you, Mrs. Maxwell.”

There was tears in Sandie’s eyes, and I think in Willie’s too.

Yes, their time was up, they had to go. In two days’ time one of Mr. Tomlison’s ships—a bonnie clipper barque and sister vessel to the lost Boo-boo-boo—would leave Sydney harbour, going home round the Cape of Good Hope instead of the Straits of Magellan, or the still more stormy Horn, and not only were Sandie and Willie going by her, but Captain D’Acre and the first mate as well.

It was the month of March, or autumn, when the good barque—Fairy Queen was her name—reached Cape Town and cast anchor in the bay.

“What a lovely spot!” were Willie’s first words to Sandie, when both went on deck next morning.

“It is indeed beautiful!”

It was not, however, the town they were admiring, but the grand romantic mountainous scenery in its rear.

After breakfast they went on shore for a ramble. They soon found a Malay guide, who for a trifle agreed to show them everything.

That word “everything” included all the public buildings, but best of all the Botanical Gardens, which both our heroes agreed were a veritable fairyland. Surely no such palms or flowers as these flourished or bloomed anywhere else in the world!

When they had lingered long here, they came reluctantly away, and their guide then took them to the hills.

And what hills! They were everywhere ablaze with flowers and the rarest of heaths, that at home in Britain can only be kept alive in the hothouse. Gorgeous geraniums were everywhere, and wherever there was a patch of ground uncovered by these or by heaths, it would be closely overgrown by a compact little flower of inexpressible sweetness, and in shape not unlike a cineraria. These were principally crimson and white.

The only drawback to perfect enjoyment during this long hillside ramble was the constant presence of snakes. The little sand-snake wriggled about where least expected—on damp ground a great black snake lay coiled. Sometimes when stooping down to cull flowers where the grass grew greenest, the long thin dark whip-snake would glide out and away from among their very fingers, very much to their horror. But worse than all was the hooded cobra, the most deadly of all Cape snakes, and of these they saw far more than they desired to.

Nevertheless, on the whole, they enjoyed their visit to the capital of the Cape, and got on board at last, laden with botanical specimens, and quite as hungry as there was any need to be.

. . . . . .

The Fairy Queen was once more at sea, and the weather was all that could be desired.

With the exception, therefore, of a visit to the romantic and beautiful island of St. Helena, the so-called sea-girt rock on which Napoleon was imprisoned and died, the voyage was altogether uneventful.

The last letter received from home reached Sandie and Willie just before they left Sydney. At that time all their friends and relations were well.

Alas! though, in this world of sorrow much may happen in two or three months.

The news of the arrival of the Fairy Queen in Aberdeen docks spread like wildfire, and on the very next morning Sandie’s mother and Elsie came off to welcome him home.

They were both dressed in the deepest mourning.

“O my poor, dear father!” cried Sandie in an agony of grief.

And what could his mother do but weep with him.

Yes, M‘Crae, the honest farmer of Kilbuie, had been called away.

What a change!

The farm itself was not kept on by Sandie’s mother. Everything had been sold, and she and Elsie had come to live at a pretty little granite cottage on the outskirts of Aberdeen.

So this, then, would be Sandie’s new home.

But as soon as the first great wave of grief had passed over his soul, leaving it sad and chastened, Sandie determined to live but for his mother and sister alone.

He was now well and strong, and could resume his studies without fear.

But he would not have to tax his brain so much in future. For the study of Divinity presents no such difficulties as do Greek, Latin, and Mathematics.

The cottage in which Mrs. M‘Crae had settled down, though by no means an expensive one, was very pretty. It stood at the Rubislaw end of Union Street, quite on the outskirts, and had a pretty little bit of garden in front, and a long one behind.

Of course both Elsie and her brother missed the fields with their wild-flowers, missed the golden furze and the yellow tasselled broom, missed too the whisper of the wind in the dark waving pine-trees, the croodle of the cushat, the mellow notes of the mavis, and plaintive song of the blackbird; but Sandie told Elsie all these things would come again when he got his church, which was bound to be in the country, and in one of the most romantic parts of the country too. Meanwhile they must live in hope.

You may be sure that Sandie had not been long at home ere he paid a visit to the manse of Belhaven, and his friend Willie went with him. Sandie would not—could not—go near Kilbuie; his grief was far too recent.

He found Mackenzie not one whit altered. Maggie May came forward with a smile and a bonnie blush to welcome Sandie back; but she gave him no kiss. She was altered. She was a child no more.

But she paid him a compliment.

“How you have improved!” she said. “And how red and burned you are!”

That night, while discussing a delightful dinner, Sandie and Willie held Mackenzie and Maggie May spellbound as they related all the adventures of their perilous voyage.

Next day, by way of bringing back sweet memories of Auld Lang Syne, the young folks went fishing and picnicking; and a very happy, pleasant day they spent, bringing home, too, an excellent bag.

They stayed nearly a week at the manse, then, promising faithfully soon to come again, they said “Adieu!” and shortly were back once more in the Granite City.

I must not forget to mention that Sandie brought back with him from sea, not only his dear friend Tyro, but that beautiful young red tabby cat, and that they speedily made themselves perfectly at home at Kilbuie Cottage.

During the summer that ensued, Sandie devoted much of his time to coaching young students for the University. This was a kind of work that was congenial to his tastes, and that really paid fairly well.

But when the winter session commenced, and he entered Divinity Hall, as it is phrased, he threw up teaching. He was determined to do nothing now to endanger his health.

Willie had entered a stockbroker’s office, so the two sincere friends did not see quite so much of each other all the week. But there were always the Saturday afternoons, and the Sundays to boot. Indeed, at such times, if Willie was not at Kilbuie Cottage, it was because Sandie and he both were at the Provost’s beautiful home in King Street.

And so the time passed by quickly and happily enough; this winter flew away, and summer came again.

Then Sandie renewed his coaching.

“Monday is Bank holiday,” said Willie, one Saturday afternoon, as he with Elsie and Sandie sat in the back summer-house, listening to the sweet sad song of a merle perched upon a crimson-flowered May-tree. “Yes, Sandie, Monday is Bank holiday, and do you know what I should dearly like to do?”

“No.”

“Guess.”

“Go to Mackenzie’s?”

“Ah! Sandie, Mackenzie’s is a good deal in your head.”

What made Sandie blush, I wonder, and slightly alter his position?

“No, my friend, I like Mackenzie’s very well indeed, but it is too far away. Now what say you to a dogcart drive up to the Loch of Skene, and dinner at the old-fashioned cosy inn of Straik?”

“Delightful!” said Sandie.

“Will you go?” said Willie, turning suddenly round to Elsie. “Mind,” he added, “we don’t mean to go without you.”

“In which case,” replied Elsie, laughing, “I shall be your humble servant.”

“No, Elsie, our sweet companion, the partner of our joys and sorrows, our bites and nibbles. So it is arranged.”

Monday was a delightful summer’s day, with just enough breeze to cool the air, and cause a ripple on the water.

How delicious it was to stop in the dark woods of Hazelhead, and hear that same breeze sigh and whisper through the lofty pine-trees, and to listen to the wild glad melody of the birds.

“Oh,” cried Sandie, who was ever romantic, “this is heavenly; does it not put you in mind of that grand old Scotch song, ‘The bonnie woods o’ Craigielee’?”

“Everything puts you in mind of a song,” said Willie, “but sing it, Sandie, sing it.”

“Help me, then.”

And sweetly in the morning air, in that dark wood, rose those tuneful voices three.

I dare only give one verse.

The landlady of the little inn knew the young men, and was delighted to see them. She promised, if they would leave the matter to her, to provide a dinner, she felt sure, would not only please them, but the winsome young lady too. And would they have the boy, their old guide? Of course they would. Without him they could not be sure of anything like a bag.

Well, the boy came, and he carried the luncheon that was to be eaten by the burnside, and the bottle of delicious heather-ale.

It was, on the whole, a heavy burden, but this lad’s back seemed just made for heavy burdens, tiny and all though he was.

The trout to-day were very kind, and even before luncheon-time they had succeeded in making a fairly good bag.

After luncheon they completed their “take,” then spent the rest of their time in wandering through the woods and fields, and by the Loch side, collecting wild-flowers. Then back to the inn in good time for dinner.

The tablecloth was spotlessly white, the knives and forks shone like silver, though they weren’t, and through the open window, as they dined, blew the soft west wind, laden with the odour of roses. Roast duck and tender green peas, what could be better, but the whole associations made that dinner, simple though it was, far more delightful than if it had been eaten in the banqueting hall of a palace.

Low over the greenery of the woods the sun was declining when, bidding good-bye to the kindly landlady, they mounted once more and drove off.

But the gloaming star was shining sweet and clear long before they reached once more the bonnie woods of Hazelhead.

CHAPTER X

HOW IT ALL ENDED

But come, I must pull myself up with a round turn, as we sailors say. Moping never did any good in this world, that I am aware of; grief is more ageing than time itself. There is nothing so healthful as cheerfulness and good temper. “A merry heart goes all the day.” Let us laugh, then. There isn’t the slightest fear of getting too fat. I don’t believe in the silly old saying, “Laugh and grow fat.” I’ve been laughing all my life, when I haven’t been whistling or humming a tune, but I’m not fat yet, and what is more, I don’t want to be. But a merry heart strengthens every muscle and organ in the body, and prevents chilblains. A ridiculous thing to say, is it? Oh, perhaps, but it is true. That disagreeable winter complaint belongs to the sad and the phlegmatic morose sort of people. But a merry heart means a well-balanced circulation, and so, if you want to be healthy, you’ve got to cultivate cheerfulness.

All this is digression? Well, I don’t care, I shall do what I like in my last chapter.

. . . . . .

In course of years, Mrs. M‘Crae and Elsie both got to like the little cottage. It was cosy and homely and snug. They had their regular visitors, too, and never cared to add many to them.

When in harbour, both Captain D’Acre and his mate used to be constant visitors, and the mate never failed to bring his fiddle. Then a regular musical evening was sure to follow, much to Mrs. M‘Crae’s delight, for she was passionately fond of melody.

Summer after summer, Sandie continued coaching his pupils, remunerating to both teacher and students, and winter after winter he plodded back and fore to the Divinity Hall. He was a pet student with all the professors, because he was a very promising one. Whatever study he took in hand, he went into thoroughly, and was not content until he had mastered it. That is the sort of man Sandie was.

But the winters and the summers too wore away at last,—Sandie’s divinity studies were over. He had passed every examination with honour, and was now the Rev. Alexander M‘Crae, M.A.

What joy!

All his toils were over—so he thought; he would soon get a church—so he believed; and he would take his mother away to his beautiful home in the cool green country, far away from the madding crowd, from the bustle and din, from the grime and the gride of city life. As hope told him this flattering tale, he could not help repeating to himself those charming lines of Horace, beginning

which may be paraphrased: “Happy is the man who, far from the busy haunts of life, far from care and worry, ploughs with his own oxen the paternal acres.”

But Sandie’s life while at the Divinity Hall had not been all bliss unalloyed. There was one drawback to his happiness. Let me explain it, if I can. Sandie, then, was constitutionally shy.

Now shyness is about the worst fault a public orator or preacher can have, though I must not omit to mention that the cleverest men are usually the shyest.

In the privacy of his own study, which was right away up at the top of Kilbuie Cottage, an attic, in fact, Sandie, when all alone, could declaim triumphantly, and many a rousing extempore sermon he here preached. Again, he could preach a sermon anywhere, and with confidence, if he had written it out beforehand, and might have the manuscript on the pulpit desk in front of him. But well he knew that many old people in country parishes had a decided objection to written sermons. They liked their ministers to walk into the pulpit, to take a text, and trust to the Spirit of God to give them language and words.

Now, after all, extempore preaching is merely a matter of habit and experience.

Strangely enough, assistance came to Sandie from quite an unexpected quarter.

It was while he was in his third year, that one Thursday evening he was told by Elsie, who could hardly keep from smiling, that a lady and gentleman wanted to see him on a matter of business.

“Where are they, Elsie?”

“In the drawing-room, Sandie.”

“Say, I’ll be down in a moment.”

He dashed his fingers through his hair, smoothed down his dark brown beard, pulled up his collar, cleared his throat, and descended.

When he opened the drawing-room door, he was certainly somewhat surprised and taken aback at the youth and diminutive stature of the lady and gentleman. The boy was about eight, the girl barely ten.

But she opened negotiations with a promptitude that did her credit.

“Oh, if you please, Mr. M‘Crae, long, long ago when father first comed to this country from the Norf, he builded a school, and every Sunday night now there is preachin’ in the school, ’cause the people likes it, an’ every Fursday night little wee Williamie Gordon here, my bludder, and myse’f comes in to get a minister. But, oh, if you please, sir, we can’t get one to-night, and oh, would you come?”

“And where is the school, my dear?”

“Oh, if you please, it is four miles from here at Bellfield. And you has through the dark Hazelhead woods to go, where sometimes the robbers kills folks. Williamie Gordon and I isn’t afraid, ’cause we is too small to bother killing, and we have nothing to rob. But you wouldn’t be afraid, ’cause you’s a big fine man, and could kill them back again.”

Sandie laughed at the droll conceit. But he promised he would come in spite of the robbers. Then he rung the bell, and five minutes after that the two children were doing justice to a hearty supper.

Then the wee toddlers started back on their long and dreary journey, arriving home safe and sound.

After they had gone, Sandie went straight up-stairs, chose a text, and never lifted his head from over his desk until he had written a good long sermon.

With this in his pocket—as he thought—he started on the Sunday afternoon for Bellfield school. His child friends were there to give him a hearty welcome, and an invitation to supper after the sermon.

Every one was struck with the young man’s appearance and manner. He gave out a psalm and conducted the singing. He prayed long and fervently. Then he opened the Book, and after giving out his text, placed his hand in his pocket to produce his manuscript.

It was gone!

His heart seemed to leap clean out of him; his head swam, and he almost fell. Then he bent his brow reverently over the Bible and prayed for strength.

Slowly and in short constrained sentences he began to speak, but he gathered strength as he went on, he waxed eloquent, impassioned; he could scarcely believe it was he himself who was talking.

And never, I ween, was sermon listened to with more marked and solemn attention.

“Thank God,” said Sandie to himself when at last he closed the Book.

Sandie preached at this school every fortnight after this, but neither here nor anywhere else did he ever again use a manuscript.

A letter came from Sandie’s friend Mackenzie a few weeks after he had been ordained minister.

The clergyman of Drumlade, the very parish in which Sandie was born, and in which stood the farm of Kilbuie, was very old and wanted a helper. He (Mackenzie) had proposed Sandie. Would he come?

This was glorious news!

Sandie became such a favourite with the parishioners, that, six months afterwards, when the poor old minister died, he received a universal and unanimous call to take the office.

And so it came to pass that ere long our hero became minister of the fine old parish of Drumlade.

The church itself was a large one, and stood on an eminence overlooking a curve of the winding Don, and surrounded by its God’s acre of green, green graves.

At a distance of about an eighth of a mile, and nestling near the river-side, in a bosky dell, stood the fine old manse, with its rich old walled gardens, its grass lawns and rose terraces, on one of which stood an ancient dial-stone.

There was a wilderness of trees all about, bird-haunted trees. Surely not a feathered songster that ever trilled a note in the far North that did not sing in those copses and groves, while high aloft, in the swaying pine-trees, lived hawk and crow and magpie.

All the place, in the sweet summer-time, was a poem, a romance, a dream.

Of course Kilbuie Cottage was now given up, and Sandie’s mother and Elsie came to reside at the manse, and sit Sunday after Sunday in the manse pew, near to the pulpit.

Sandie’s living was a good one, and there was, in addition to the stipend, a large and rich farm of glebeland, which soon became the young minister’s chief delight.

. . . . . .

I must tell you something else, as long as I think of it. Jamie Duncan had a rich uncle, who was good enough to shuffle off this mortal coil for the benefit of Jamie. He left him quite a haul of money.

Then Jamie took Kilbuie farm and stocked it, and elevated Geordie Black—the quondam orra man—to the proud position of first horseman, and lived happy ever afterwards, so far as I know.

I did hear lately that Geordie Black had married Tibbie, but it may be mere rumour.

. . . . . .

One beautiful summer’s day Willie called at the manse. He had come to stay for a whole fortnight.

And he meant to enjoy himself, so he said. Yes, Willie meant to enjoy himself, and he did. But, going into her room one day, Sandie found his mother sitting on the sofa weeping bitterly.

Somewhat alarmed, he seated himself beside her, and put an arm around her waist in the old tender fashion.

“Mother, mother, what is the matter? You frighten me!”

“Oh,” she sobbed, “he—your friend Willie—is going to deprive me of—of my child.”

More tears and sobbing.

“I am—going to lose my daughter.”

“Mother, mother,” pleaded Sandie, caressing her, “you must not give way like this. It is nature—nay, more, marriage is Heaven’s ordination.”

She got quieter after a time, and even smiled through her tears.

“But,” she said, after a thoughtful pause, “I shall almost break my heart to be deprived of my daughter.”

“Oh! no, you won’t, mother dear. Because, listen! I am going to bring you home another daughter.”

Sandie got straight up now from his mother’s side and walked out.

Presently he returned, leading by the hand—why, whom do you think?

Bonnie blushing Maggie May.

“Mother, your daughter that is to be!”

Sandie’s mother opened her arms, and next moment Maggie May was nestling on her breast.

And this is how it all ended, reader mine.

And surely we could hardly have wished it otherwise. Could we?

THE END.


Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
Edinburgh and London

Books for Young Readers.


By GORDON STABLES, R.N.

Just Published.

THE CRUISE OF THE ROVER CARAVAN. With Illustrations by Chas. Whymper. Extra crown 8vo. 5s.

FROM PLOUGHSHARE TO PULPIT. A Tale of the Battle of Life. With Illustrations. Extra crown 8vo, gilt edges. 5s.

“This delightful story.”—British Weekly.

“Dr. Gordon Stables is as fresh, as entertaining, and as tactfully didactic as ever, and we can heartily recommend ‘From Ploughshare to Pulpit’ to all boys.”—Spectator.

“The story is lightly told and capitally illustrated, and sure to please a boy.”—Scotsman.

By Mrs. GEORGE CORBETT.

THE ADVENTURES OF A YOUNG STOWAWAY. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.

By SARAH TYTLER.

TUDOR QUEENS AND PRINCESSES. Illustrated. Gilt edges, bevelled boards. Extra crown 8vo. 5s.

By DARLEY DALE.