There, of a summer’s evening, John and his wife might have been seen mending their nets or preparing the bait for lobster creels or deep-sea lines. John used to say that there never was any woman whatever who could render bait so tempting to the eye or nose of fish or lobster as his Eppie could, and there must have been a good deal of truth in what he said, for often when fishermen drew in their lines, or drew up their creels empty, John’s draught of fishes would be but a little short of miraculous. In the winter-time, at spring tides the sea used often to despise the boundaries set to it, inundate the bit of green sward, wash the clay from the foundations of the hut, and dash in angry spray over the chimney itself. This east-end chimney had accordingly a very dilapidated appearance, being plastered up with boards, old tarpaulin, and ropes of straw, which, however, were constantly coming to grief, so that John’s constant employment, whenever he had nothing else to do, was to sit cross-legged upon the roof and repair it. The other chimney was quite a respectable affair in comparison.

The front of the little building, however, was quite a picture of neatness and cleanliness. The causeway in front of it was always swept and tidy, for Eppie made it a law that neither murlin nor creel should lie about her door. She had a small hut for all such gear, and there they were placed when not in use.

In the front side of John’s house were a door and two small windows, from which statement the reader may easily infer that the accommodation consisted only of two rooms, “a butt and a ben.” And the amount of whitewash expended every month on both the outside walls and the inside must have been something very considerable indeed.

From sea, John’s house was therefore by day a very good mark to the helmsman, and on a clear night was as good as many a lighthouse.

Small though the building was, John’s best room, now given up to Sandie, was as snug and well furnished as any fisherman’s need be. The bed at one end, with its snowy counterpane and white calico curtains, would have made you drowsy to look at. Then there was a chest of drawers, an old-fashioned grandfather’s clock, and a real mahogany table with chairs, besides a little bookcase filled with the most motley collection of books ever seen, and a large sea-chest well stocked, nay, even crammed, with everything appertaining to male or female wearing apparel.

And all these articles of use and luxury John and his wife had gathered by their own untiring industry. But this room, you may be sure, was only dwelt in upon high days and holidays, such as John’s birthday, or “my ain,” Eppie would say, “which comes but once a year, ye ken.”

The portals of this sacred chamber were likewise thrown open wide on Halloween and Fasterseen, called in England Shrove Tuesday, and until the advent of one or other of those festive occasions, let us leave it. The best room was called butt the house. It was ben the house, however, where you found John and Eppie when really at home. This was the apartment next the sea, and in addition to its front window, it could also boast of a little six-paned gable window, with a very broad sill. Alongside this window stood John’s easy-chair, a vast chintz-covered edifice, which one would imagine had been built on the premises. And on the window sill, within easy reach, lay a large Family Bible, a copy of the Shorter Catechism, Burns’ Poems, and a Life of Sir William Wallace.

On stormy nights, when John’s boat was far out in the bay, rocked in the cradle of the deep, Eppie used to burn a bright light in the wee window, to keep up the spirits of her little man, and guide him safe to shore.

The window was, moreover, fitted with a strong shutter, which was shipped when the tides were high or the weather threatening.

A low fire of peats and pinewood burned upon the hearth, and in winter evenings, the stormier the night and the higher the waves, the bigger was the fire that Eppie built, seating herself near it, with a bright and cheery face to knit her stocking, while John, in his easy-chair opposite, entertained her with wonderful stories from that seemingly inexhaustible book, the Life of Wallace.

John, too, had other accomplishments besides that of reading, one of which, and not the least clever either, was his ability to stamp a reel or a strathspey on an old fiddle, that hung in its green baize bag on the wall behind his chair; how he loved that old instrument too! It was the only thing in the world that Eppie had ever had reason to be jealous of. John called his violin by the not over-euphonious name of “Janet.”

“Isn’t she natural?” he would exclaim gleefully after playing a tune. “Isn’t she na-a-tural?” and he would pat it on the back, and laughing, kiss it, then hold it to his breast as if it were a favourite child.

Yet John never cared to perform for his own special delectation, but rather for the happiness of others. Although himself childless, very seldom indeed was John’s fireside not surrounded of an evening by little curly heads and bright jubilant faces, listening mute and wondering to the weird old-fashioned tales he had such a gift in relating. How, too, would these little faces light up with smiles when, after a long story, John would rise, and standing on a chair, take down the mysterious green bag, and, after a series of tinkle-tankle-tum-tum, as he tuned up, and which made expectancy itself a pleasure, launch forth into a lively tune.

Then at once a reel would be formed on the floor, and never did feet of fairies trip it more lightly, in moonlit glade, than did these laughing children over the fisherman’s floor.

Thus did John spend his evenings at home, when the sea was too stormy to permit of his going after his usual avocations. On clear nights, however, the little boat bobbed up and down against the starry horizon, and Eppie burned her little oil lamp in the gable window, albeit the moon might be shining as bright as day.

There were times, however, when that bright little beacon lamp was sorely needed, nights when the lonely fisherman was overtaken by sudden storms, when clouds and darkness lowered around him, sea and sky met in wildest fury; then did that light in the window steel his arm and nerve his heart, telling as it did of the cosy wee cottage—his home, where his good wife sat anxiously awaiting his return, though often and often, strong-minded though she was, with womanly tears falling from her eyes.

But for all the dangers John had come through—and what fisherman on that wild coast does not?—he had so far never yet met with any accident worth mentioning, or out of the usual run common to his class. Many a strong boat belonging to his neighbours had perished, and many a stalwart fellow had left a widow and fatherless bairns to mourn, but nothing had ever happened to John more distressing than the occasional loss of his lines, or destruction of his gear by awkward and obstreperous bottle-nosed whales, too eager in pursuit of the silvery herrings to consider the little fisherman’s interest. Not a small misfortune, either, to a poor man like him, to have a dozen of these unwieldy brutes run their blunt noses through his nets, rending asunder nearly all his worldly wealth, and carrying away the pieces on their great greasy tails, to goodness knows where.

. . . . . .

Still a few days would elapse before the launching of John’s great boat, and the commencement of herring-fishing in earnest. Very busy days they were for John and Eppie, making and mending nets, and completing all preparations for the silver harvest.

First bursar at the University though he was, the making of a fishing net was far beyond Sandie’s skill, but as his wages had already commenced, he was determined he should not be idle. One lesson in the management of the lobster creels was enough, so he took them in charge. This left John free to go on with more important work.

So every evening Sandie broke up crabs, and baited the creels with the pieces. Then one by one he would carry them to the little boat, then launching the craft upon the salt sea, leap on board and seize the oars.

Sandie was by no means an awkward boatman. In handling an oar his constant practice on the Don had made him quite an adept. And so, as the sun was slowly sinking towards the green hills in the far west, and hardly a ripple on the swelling sea, Sandie would row his boat far away out to a rocky point of the coast, several miles from John’s cottage. The cliffs here were for the most part steep and precipitous, and afforded no landing for boat or skiff, while the water all around was very deep. Yellow scented furze and stunted pine-trees grew on the cliff-tops—these trees, more inland, deepening into a dark and gloomy wood. Seagulls were for ever wheeling and screaming around this bold promontory, and it was said that at one time even the golden-headed eagle had had an eerie on the most inaccessible shelf of the rock.

But it was not birds Sandie was after, but crabs and lobsters; and here the best on all the coast were to be found in abundance.

Having sunk his creel, Sandie would pull farther away from the rocks, then taking out a book on mathematics, and hauling in his oars, he would become wrapt in Elysium, till twilight deepened into night, and even his young eyes could see no more.

By this time, too, Eppie’s lamp would be shining clear and beacon-like across the heaving sea, as if inviting him home to supper.

Then he would “out-oars,” and pull rapidly shorewards, when he always found little John waiting to beach the boat.

Now, I would not like to say that evening worship is the universal custom in fisher villages in Scotland, but I know it is in a great many of the cottages of these contented and industrious people, and it certainly was so in John’s. John himself read a chapter, and said a prayer, and a psalm was also sung to the sad and mournful music of some such old tune as Martyrdom, Ballerma, or London New. Soon after this, every one was sound asleep. Sandie used to open his window wide before lying down, that he might breathe the balmy sea-breeze, and listen to the musical monotone of the waves as they broke lazily on the golden sand.

His first act of a morning was to dress negligently and hurry down to the seaside, where, behind some dark rocks, he could enjoy a bath in a deep pool, that the sun’s rays had not as yet reached.

. . . . . .

All was right at last!

The herring had come to the coast in myriads. No one could remember a more promising year.

Then, one evening, John’s crew were all assembled, and the great boat was launched. With Eppie’s hearty blessing and prayers for success ringing in his ears, John scrambled on board, and took his seat by the tiller; sail was set, the night-wind blew from off the land, and ere long the sturdy fishing-boat was bobbing and curtseying to each advancing wave, far out beyond the waters of the bay.

There were very many more boats there besides John’s, quite a fleet indeed, but in the friendly way common to fisher-folks, they had spread themselves well out in a kind of skirmishing order, so that the one would not interfere with the other’s take or chance.

The paying out of the nets seemed to Sandie and the Skyemen, who acted as his mates, like mere child’s play.

But some time afterwards, when these nets came to be hauled in again, nobody found it such easy work. It made even Sandie’s arms ache.

“I think, John,” said Sandie, “we are going to have a good haul this time.”

“And thank the Lord for a’ His goodness,” responded little John piously.

“Haul away, men,” he cried, as the Skyemen stopped for a moment to blow on their hands.

“Haul away it is,” was the answering call, and up came the net.

“A miraculous draught!” cried John joyfully, as he saw the silver mass moving in the boat’s well or bottom. “Why, Sandie M‘Crae, I believe it’s a’ your luck.”

Again and again were the nets launched, again and again were they hauled up well filled.

And now supper was placed upon the boards. And a right hearty supper all hands made too, although there was nothing stronger to drink than excellent coffee and milk served out in mugs.

But a fire had been lit over some stones, and in a huge frying-pan herrings were cooked. Neither the salt, the pepper, the bread nor the butter had been forgotten, and that meal, eaten on the bosom of the rolling deep, long past the midnight hour, was one of the most enjoyable Sandie could remember ever having partaken of.

At the “skreigh” of day, or, in plain English, at dawn, John’s boat, well laden, sailed slowly tack and half tack, for the wind was still off the shore, towards the land.

And a happy woman was Eppie when she saw the haul which, as she phrased it, “the Lord had sent them.”

After an excellent breakfast Sandie went to bed, and dreamt he was wandering, fishing-rod in hand, along the banks of the winding Don, with Maggie May by his side, and Tyro, the dog, an interesting spectator of the sport.

CHAPTER XI

SINKS BEFORE THE VERY EYES OF THOSE ON SHORE

The sea was not always calm, however. Our hero told himself that he liked it best in its wayward moods. But there was more than one night when the wind blew so high, and the waves raged with such violence, that it would have been madness to have ventured out. Again, sometimes after they had launched and sailed away, under the most favouring auspices, shortly after midnight a gale would suddenly arise. Then would they have to draw in their nets as speedily as possible, and make at once for the distant harbour, feeling happy and lucky to get inside.

Sandie had a letter from Willie about every second day, and very cheerful epistles they were, just like Willie himself.

But these letters helped greatly to keep up Sandie’s spirits.

Then he had his mathematical books. Oh, yes, he had plenty of time to study, and good use he made of it too.

It seemed to him, moreover, that instead of hard manual labour injuring his constitution, he was waxing stronger every day. His limbs were as stiff as gate-posts, his biceps was as hard as the mainstay of an Aberdeen clipper. He found himself singing, too, at all odd times, and somehow the songs he sang always bore some relation to his present calling; as, for example—

Or that other tuneful fisher’s song called—

It was on the Monday evening preceding what was long known in the little village of Blackhive as Black Tuesday, and the fishing was well-nigh at its close. Some boats indeed had been taken off the stations, and had borne up for the South. They would fish for a week or two perhaps near the Forth, then sail still farther south to the shores of Norfolk, making Yarmouth itself their headquarters.

Storms are not unfrequent on the shores of England at this time of year, and it is the marvel of the Southern fishermen how those hardy denizens of far northern latitudes can dare all the dangers of the deep in their open boats, which, by the way, in build, and probably also in rig, are not unlike the warships of the Vikings of old. It would really seem that in some instances those fishermen are the lineal descendants of the fearless Norsemen, who were, probably, the first to wage real warfare on the bosom of the mighty ocean.

But on this particular Monday evening, John Menzies was just as merry as ever Sandie had seen him.

“The Lord,” he said, “liked a merry heart when it was sinless, and the Lord had been very good to him, and had blessed him in his basket and in his store, in his murlin and in his creel.”

To-night he had no less than half-a-dozen towsy polls and bright round faces to play to, for there would be no expedition to sea this evening.

The wind blew half a gale, and the breakers roared and fumed and foamed upon the beach, houses high, certainly as high as John’s little cottage, for ever and anon the green seas broke over the chimney, and, as the little fisherman expressed it, tirled the thatch.

It was cold enough, too, to make a fire a comfort, if only but to look at.

Mirth is catching, and even Sandie had sung several of his very best songs, while Eppie at the other side of the fire sat birling her knitting, her honest sonsy face quite wreathed in smiles.

After each song of Sandie’s, John went off into a rattling reel, and next moment the merry bairnies, laughing like sea-birds, were footing it on the light fantastic toe from end to end of the floor.

By-and-bye two or three of the herring-lassies opened the door and stood shyly there, until invited ben by Eppie and by John.

Their day’s work was all over, and they were dressed both neatly and cleanly, with bonnily braided hair, and tartan shawls around their shoulders.

Very humble lassies these were, hailing mostly from the far west, but how many a lady in high life might have envied their beautiful complexions and their pearly teeth, or the gentle smile that played around their ruby lips.

. . . . . .

When Sandie retired to bed that night, the wind still howled and raged around the fisherman’s cottage, and the breakers broke in thunder on the beach.

When Sandie awoke next morning, the wind was hushed, the waves had gone down, and the sun was just rising over the eastern horizon and changing all the sea to blood.

As he hastened away to his pool to enjoy his bath, he found all along the shore a huge embankment of brown seaweed of every sort, that the sea had flung up in its wrath. This was mingled with dead fish of many kinds, especially dog-fish and herrings. Crabs too there were in abundance, and here and there sodden salt-encrusted spars of wood. Could these spars have told their story, a sad one indeed it would have been—a story of tempest and shipwreck, of widows’ tears and orphans’ cries.

Although the eastern sky was pretty clear, heavy clouds hung low on the horizon in every other direction, and the waves that now broke more lazily on the golden sands had a sullen boom in them that somehow, to Sandie’s ears, was far from reassuring.

However, all preparations were made that afternoon for another night at sea.

It seemed, as the day drew near a close, that the wind meant to veer round to the north-west entirely, and though it might blow fresh for a time, no one imagined it would be so high as to interfere in any great degree with the catch.

What was the matter with John to-night, I wonder? I am sure I cannot tell, but although he had already twice bidden his Eppie good-bye, he must run back once more, just as all hands were on board and sail was being hoisted, to say good-night again.

. . . . . .

Away went John’s great boat, fleet and swift upon the wings of that nor’-western breeze. And away went fifty other boats as well, spreading out as they gave the land a wide berth, so as not to hamper each other.

As John’s boat opened out the rocky promontory, the wind blew higher and higher.

“I think,” said John to his mate, “we better take in a reef. What think ye, men?”

“To be surely,” said a Skyeman, “and it is myself that would close-reef her entirely evermore.”

“Weel, men, close-reefin’ be it.”

And in a short time the thing was accomplished.

Under the influence of so strong a breeze the boat soon reached the fishing-ground. Just as a round moon rose slowly up from the sea, fighting every foot of its way through stormy clouds that raced across the sky, the net was paid out.

Despite the disturbed nature of the sea, fortune appeared to favour them, and a good haul was their reward.

This was succeeded by other good hauls, but by this time—it was now past midnight—the weather seemed so threatening, and the wind so stormy, it was deemed advisable to make their last haul, and bear up for the harbour. As it was, they would have to sail pretty close to the wind to make it, but John knew the qualities of his sturdy little vessel and had no fear.

Already they could see in the glimmering moonlight many of the other boats hurrying past them shorewards, and no doubt dreading the oncoming of some fearful tempest.

While they were preparing to put about, Sandie suddenly clutched John by the arm and tremblingly pointed shorewards.

It seemed as if the moon had dropped from the sky, so suddenly had she been eclipsed by a pall of ink-black clouds, but beneath on the sea, and getting larger and larger every moment, was a long white line evidently approaching with tremendous speed. Flash after flash of lightning appeared to course along it, and a continued roar as of muttering thunder fell on the ears of the frightened fishermen.

The boat had been half round and well into the wind’s eye, but John at once altered the helm, and ere the squall struck her she was once more dead before the wind.

The white wall was a mountain wave, a hurricane wave, borne along before the gale with all the force of Niagara. It struck the boat right aft, and pooped and swamped her, at the same time that the wind caught her and sent her onwards with fearful speed through the broiling, seething waves.

All hands had to hold on for dear life. The only wonder is that the mast did not go by the board, when, without doubt, the brave boat would have broached to and foundered with all hands. She seemed now, however, to settle to it, but there was nothing for it but to stand on before the tempest, even should they be driven far across the North Sea to Denmark itself.

After scudding before the wind for some hours of darkness and tempest, all hands working hard to keep her bailed out, the force of the storm seemed to have been broken, and once again the hopeful moon was seen struggling among the clouds, now and then shining for a few moments in a rift of blue, her sweet rays silvering the crests of the broken waves.

The wind at the same time drew more round to the north, even with a little eastering in it, so John determined now to put about, and make in the direction of the Scottish coast.

He kept her well up, however, being wishful to haul as far to the north as possible. It would thus be more easy to drop down upon the harbour of Blackhive, which he trusted he should be able to reach by daylight.

Had the wind continued to go down, there is no doubt the boat would have made the harbour without further mishap. But the wind was fractious, to say the least of it. It hardly seemed to know its own mind for half-an-hour on a stretch.

Just, however, as daylight, grey and uncertain, was beginning to struggle over the sea, and a strange saturnine light glared over the mountain waves that ridged the eastern horizon, down to leeward, to the infinite joy of those mariner-fishermen a long greyish-blue bank became visible, which they knew was land.

As daylight broadened, and the sun got up, it became more distinct, and they were soon able to make out the white-washed cottage walls of the village itself.

Tears of joy streamed down honest John’s face. His lips moved in prayer, but it appeared that the singing of a verse or two of one of the metrical psalms of David alone could meet the requirements of the case. The little man’s voice, however, was very hoarse and croaky as he commenced—

On and on flew the bonnie boat. She appeared to be instinct with vigour and life; she appeared to know she was nearing the harbour in safety.

And now they are close enough in-shore to see the beach densely crowded with distracted men and women, over whom ever and anon a huge wave would send a perfect cataract of snow-white spray.

Careful now, John,—careful. Keep the sheet in command, mates, all ready to let go. The mouth of that harbour is but a narrow, but the good boat will do it. Yes, she——Great heavens! what is that? A sudden puff of wind, a monstrous wave, the brave boat’s head is carried round. She swings for a moment on her stern, and next moment is dashed with fearful violence against the pier-head.

Steady she stays for just two seconds, then backward she reels like a stricken deer, swerves from side to side, then plunges astern, and sinks before the very eyes of those on shore.

CHAPTER XII

A STRANGE TERROR CREEPS OVER SANDIE’S HEART

And just at that moment sounds of wailing and of woe fall upon his ear from the other room. Some one is weeping and moaning in sadness and sorrow. A strange terror creeps over Sandie’s heart, a kind of nameless fear. He sits up and listens intently. Some one is talking too. It is Eppie. But her voice is strangely altered.

“My ain wee man! my ain wee man!” she is crying. “O dool (grief) on the day I e’er let you leave me! O John, John, John, you’ll never speak to your Eppie again! O my heart will break, my heart will break!”

Then once more she broke off into a fit of sobbing and crying.

A cold hand seemed to clutch at Sandie’s heart. He knew only too well what it all meant. John Menzies, the blithesome and merry little fisherman, was gone. It was but the lifeless body he had succeeded in bringing on shore—the soul had fled.

Sandie rose now, although he felt a little giddy. He slowly dressed himself in dry clothes, that had thoughtfully been placed handy for him.

“Poor Eppie!” Sandie said half aloud, “even in her own great grief she did not forget me.” The very kindness of the woman’s act brought the tears to his eyes.

He opened his door at last and went softly into the kitchen.

Eppie was swaying back and fore beside the corpse, which lay on the bed; swaying backwards and forwards, her wet apron to her face and in an agony of grief.

She did not perceive Sandie, nor hear his footstep, until he touched her lightly on the shoulder.

Then she looked up, startled.

“Can I be of any use or comfort to you, dear Mrs. Menzies?”

“Oh! na, na, na,” she wailed. “There is naething on earth can comfort me mair, now my ain wee man is ta’en (taken) awa’. Like unto Rachael am I, this day, like Rachael weeping for her children, and will not be comforted, because they are not.”

“What use is it,” thought Sandie, “to air my platitudes before such grief as this?”

And yet he tried.

“Dear Mrs. Menzies,” he said, “we have all to die.”

“Ay, ay, my bonnie bairn, an’ my day will no be lang. I dinna want to live. I dinna want to live.”

“All may be for the best, Mrs. Menzies. Better perhaps that poor John should have died as he did, quickly and speedily, and, I am sure, painlessly, than if he had lingered in suffering for weeks or months in bed.”

Eppie, it was evident, was not listening.

“And the poor wee body,” she said, speaking more to herself than Sandie, “must come toddlin’ back last nicht after the boat was afloat. ‘O Eppie!’ he said, ‘I maun say good-nicht again.’ Eh, sirs, sirs! little did I think that would be the last time I should haud (hold) him in my arms alive. Oh, wurra! wurra! wurra!”

Sandie’s attempt at giving mental comfort having failed, he addressed himself to the purely physical.

He went and made up the fire, and got the kettle to boil. He even fried some fish and boiled eggs. Then he made strong tea, and laid the breakfast.

“Come, Mrs. Menzies, and eat a little, and drink a cup of tea; it will do you good.”

“Na, na, my bairn; every mouthfu’ would choke me, when he is no here to share it.”

“Mrs. Menzies, you must sit down here and take something, for two reasons—the first is, that you have a deal to do, a deal before you, duties that you will not be able to perform without some bodily strength. Secondly, because I am weak and not over-well, and I can neither eat nor drink unless you do.”

It showed the kindness of this poor woman’s nature, that the last argument was quite convincing, and without a word, she got up and seated herself at the table, and tried to eat and drink, though all the time her tears were silently coursing down her cheeks.

She did not speak much, and Sandie, respecting her grief, made no attempt to force her to do so.

Sandie felt pleased when the door opened, and “a neighbouring woman” came quietly in, to keep Eppie company.

He himself, knowing now that the widow would be well looked after—for those poor fisher-folks are marvellously kind to each other—left the house, and went on down towards the pier. Oh, the sadness of that scene. Oh, the grief and the misery of it. The people, male and female, young and old, formed one dense crowd. The men were silent and sad, the women were weeping and wailing, but the poor children, many of them were simply frantic with grief, and leapt and jumped and danced upon the stones, not knowing what they were doing.

And it went to Sandie’s inmost heart to hear them wail, “O my daddie! O my daddie! I’ll never never see my daddie mair.”

A kindly, old white-haired man met Sandie and shook him by the hand.

“Ye did your duty nobly, lad,” he said, “and the Lord will reward you.”

“But oh,” he continued, “it was an awfu’ nicht. Black Tuesday, Black Tuesday, and by that name it will go down to posterity.”

“I hardly like to ask,” said Sandie, “how many boats have been lost.”

“The loss is appallin’, young sir. Boat after boat was seen to founder, some o’ them within sicht o’ land, some o’ them near the harbour mouth. Fifty-and-five bonnie boats in all set sail the’streen (last night), three-and-twenty have gone down wi’ every soul on board. A black Tuesday—a terrible Tuesday! And,” he added, with a pathos that was touching, “I hae lost a bonnie son!”

His eyes were turned for just a moment meekly heavenwards.

“Heaven help me,” he said; “Thy will be done, but oh! it is hard, hard. It is our duty to submit to His will. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away, blessed be His name.”

Every now and then all that day swollen corpses came floating in, and were speedily dragged on shore, and identified amid such wild manifestations of grief as Sandie had never seen or heard before, and prayed Heaven he never might see or hear again.

. . . . . .

Two days passed by—two woesome weary days.

Then the dead were buried. All save John. It seemed that Eppie could not bear to part with the mortal remains of the little man she had loved so well in life.

But the wee bit coffin was screwed down at last, and next day it would be consigned to its long home in the mould.

Willie had come down, and both he and Sandie were living at the cosy little inn, whose landlady, though kind and good-natured, was such a gossip.

That night Sandie had just paid his last visit to poor John’s cottage, and said good-night to Eppie. Willie and he had gone for a walk along the shore.

It was about eleven o’clock, and a most beautiful night. A gentle breeze was blowing from the west. The gladsome moon made a great triangular silvery wake upon the waters, and the wavelets laughed and lisped as they broke upon the soft golden sands.

“Look! look!” cried Willie, clutching Sandie’s arm and pointing almost fearfully seawards.

It was certainly something to marvel at. First one broad-sailed boat, then another, and then a third glided slowly into the silvery wake of the moon, looking as black as death against the shimmer of the moonlit sea.

“Sandie!” gasped Willie, “do our eyes deceive us? Or are they phantom boats?”

“No, no,” cried Sandie, recovering his self-possession, “they are part of the fleet that, being driven out to sea, have succeeded in weathering the gale. Come, let us bring the joyful tidings to those honest fisher-folks.”

In less than fifteen minutes almost every soul in the village was down at the pier-head, on each side of which a roaring fire had been lit, that the skippers of the boats might make no mistake in steering in.

On and on, nearer and nearer, slowly came the great black boats.

The anxiety in the crowd was painful to witness. There were many there over whose drowned relatives the grave had that day closed. Neither hope nor anxiety could trouble them. But there were many others who had yet received no certain account of the fate of their friends. In their hearts burned the anxiety, the hope, the doubt. This boat coming slowly in might contain a missing husband or father for them.

Well, those boats landed at last, and joyful recognition was the result, while grief once more took the place of hope in those who had now suffered disappointment.

. . . . . .

It was but a short walk to the graveyard that surrounded the wee steepleless church of Blackhive. Had it been miles, Eppie would have trudged it all the same, behind the little coffin—it was but a size larger than a boy’s—of her wee man.

Meanwhile the chiming of the bell sounded mournful in the extreme. Everybody noticed how altered Eppie was, and how strange she looked.

Her hair, which was grey before, appeared to have turned white under the influence of her terrible affliction. She was sadly bent, too, and needed the support of a stick to aid her in tottering along.

Around the grave, spades in hand, and with heads bare, stood the friends and chief mourners, for in Scotland it is their duty to fill in the clods, to add the earth to earth, the dust to dust.

The coffin is lowered, the ropes are pulled up. The mourners, among whom are Sandie M‘Crae, wait for a moment, each silently breathing a prayer.

Then they look towards Eppie.

She has to throw in the first handful of earth, and she knows it.

But there is a mist before her eyes that is not caused by tears, and a cold feeling at her heart that grief alone cannot account for; she stoops—she lifts a handful of earth. Now she staggers forward to the open grave and drops it in. She turns as if to go. But in turn reels for a moment, then sinks upon the long green sward.

The mourners hurry forward to raise her. Among them is the young village doctor.

Poor Eppie is laid on her back on the grass, a half-sunken baby’s grave forming a kind of pillow. Then the doctor bends over her and takes her wrist. He lifts an eyelid and speedily recloses it. Then he slowly rises.

“Dead?” says an old white-haired man. His name is Grant, and he is the same who advanced and spoke to Sandie on the pier.

“Dead?”

“Ay, dead, Mr. Grant. Her sorrows are all over, and it is perhaps as well.”

There were a few moments of silence. It is a terrible thing to stand thus in the presence of Death.

Then old Grant cleared his throat to speak.

“My friends,” he said sadly and solemnly, “it is but meet that this worthy couple should sleep together in one grave. ’Twere better, I think, they should be buried on the same day. Let us raise once more the little coffin, and convey it to the watch-house yonder. Peradventure, there are those among you who will watch by it day and night, till the poor corpse now lying yonder can bear it company. They loved each other in life, in death let them not be divided.”

So this was done.

Sandie and Willie constituted themselves two of the principal watchers. The grave was enlarged, and upon a Monday morning, only a week since both Eppie and John had been alive and happy together, their remains were lowered in solemn silence into the same grave.

This time it was Sandie who threw in the first handful of holy earth.

And then back from the little green graveyard, feeling somewhat lonesome and sad, went Willie and Sandie.

END OF BOOK II.

BOOK III

FAR, FAR AT SEA

CHAPTER I

“NAE POSSIBLE!” SAID TIBBIE

Willie had declared himself determined to assist at harvest work. He could bind the sheaves if he could do nothing else, and he could carry and stook them, that is, set them up together, that they might get dry and more thoroughly ripe in the sunshine.

He had provided himself with a wonderful canvas apron, that quite enveloped all his person in front, from chin to ankles.

“I daresay,” said Willie, as he saw Jeannie—Mrs. Duncan, we ought now to call her—smiling, “I daresay I look a bit of a guy, but I don’t mind, because it will save my clothes. Do you see, Mrs. Jeannie?”

“I see,” said Jeannie, “you’re a thrifty lad.”

. . . . . .

In another week harvest had begun. Jamie Duncan drove the reaping-machine. The new second horseman and Sandie wielded a scythe each.

And it was near and around them that all the blitheness and the fun radiated. A reaping-machine is a very good invention, it must be admitted, but at the same time it must be granted that there is no poetry, no romance about it.

But listen to the musical swish swish of the curved and flashing scythe, wielded by the brown bare arms of the sturdy reaper. Note how the golden grain lies in its long straight swaths, till made into sheaves by the merry girl gatherers, who are coming closely up behind. Note, too, the friendly rivalry of the two scythemen, who work close at each other’s heels, pausing at last, panting and perspiring, when the “bout” is finished, and chatting and laughing and joking as they walk slowly to the other end of the field, there to sharpen scythes, to swallow a draught of table-beer, butter-milk or whey, and begin again once more.

A strong sturdy lass of about seventeen, with a complexion like strawberries smothered in cream, acted as gatherer to the new second horseman, while Jeannie herself followed Sandie. Then behind these came Geordie Black the orra man, and Willie himself, with his immense apron, doing duty as binders and stookers.

A word of digression, indulgent reader, which you may skip if you are so minded; but I have often remarked the great difference that exists between the reapers in an English and those in a Scotch harvest-field. In England you will never, scarcely, hear a joke, certainly never a song; the men and women look soddened, stupid, fat-headed, and that is precisely how they feel. And it is all owing to the frequent applications they make to the jars of beer, without which they would refuse to work. In Scottish harvest-fields it is entirely different. Nothing stronger than butter-milk, whey, or “sma’ ale” is taken, and the result is, that they are merry, lightsome, witty, and you may hear them laughing, joking, and singing long before you come near the field.

Pardon the digression, though I can’t say I feel sorry I have made it.

And Sandie, with his friend Willie, was the life of the cornfields.

Dear me! how their tongues did rattle on, to be sure; and dear me! how young Tibbie Morrison, she with the pretty complexion, did laugh. Why, it came to pass after a little time that Willie had only to look at her to set her off again; and when she laughed Geordie Black’s laugh was ready chorus.

Geordie was no beauty to look at, but he had a good heart of his own, nevertheless. That is, I should say, he had had, until—well, it is always best to speak the truth—until it was lost and won by bonnie Tibbie Morrison.

Jeannie herself remarked more than once, that all the time Geordie was working he couldn’t take his eyes off Tibbie.

But I think that Geordie must have been hardly hit, and I will tell you why. Going into the stable on the evening of the second day, Sandie was surprised to find Geordie sitting with his back to the dusty cobwebby window, and a slate in his hand.

He was so thoroughly absorbed, that he neither saw our hero nor heard his footsteps.

So Sandie made bold to peep over Geordie’s shoulder, and, to his intense surprise, he found he was writing verses. That they possessed but little literary merit, the following specimen will prove:—