"But dinna be cross wi' the laddie. Gie him a fair hearing."

"If he is sorry for a' he has done----"

"He willna be sorry. Ye must e'en forgie him, sorry or not--Ye ken what the Domine said to me--when I spoke--o' forgiving Neil--when he--was sorry?"

"The Domine said you were to remember, that while we were yet sinners G.o.d loved us, and Christ died for us."

"Ay, while we--were--yet--sinners! that leaves room for Neil--and everybody else, Christine--Christine--I am weary, bairns--I will go to sleep now--gude night!"

Death had now become a matter of consent to Margot. She surrendered herself to her Maker, and bade her children "goodnight!"

Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet and now astir,

until G.o.d's hand beckoned her into His school of affliction. Now in the House not made with Hands she understands the meaning of it all.

The next week was a particularly hard one to Christine. In the long seclusion of her mother's illness, and in the fascination which study now had for her, the primitive burial rites of Culraine were an almost unbearable trial. Every woman who had ever known Margot came to bid her a last earthly farewell. Some cried, some volubly praised her, some were sadly silent, but all were alike startled by the mighty change that affliction and death had made in the once powerful, handsome, tremendously vitalized woman, who had ruled them all by the sheer force of her powerful will and her wonderful vitality. Pale and cold, her raven hair white as snow, her large strong hands, shrunk to skin and bone, clasped on her breast, and at rest forever--they could hardly believe that this image of absolute helplessness was all that was left of Margot Ruleson.

For three days the house was always full, and Christine was troubled and questioned on every hand. But for three days long a little brown bird sat on a holly tree by her window, and sang something that comforted her. And the sweet, strong song was for her alone. n.o.body else noticed it. She wondered if they even saw the little messenger.

On the afternoon of the third day, the Domine, standing at the head of the coffin, spoke to the men and women who filled the house. His eyes were dim with tears, but his voice had the strong, resonant ring of a Faith that knew it was well with the dead that die in the Lord. It was mainly to the living he spoke, asking them solemnly, "What does the Lord require of you? Only this service--that you do justly, and love mercy, and walk humbly with your G.o.d."

Then Margot's sons, Norman and Eneas, lifted the light coffin. The Domine walked in front of it, and all the men present followed them to the open grave, in the old kirk yard. In Scotland women do not go to the grave. Christine locked herself in her room, and the women mourners gradually returned to their homes.

That night she was quite alone, and she could give free outlet to her love, and grief, and hope. She felt her mother in every room. She could not believe she had gone far away. At times, walking about the desolate house, she called her mother with pa.s.sionate weeping again, in the soft low voice that she had used when soothing her pain and weariness. At length even her superb vitality gave way, and she fell upon her bed in a comforting, restorative sleep.

Morning found her ready and able to face the new life. She rose with the dawn, ate her breakfast, and then lifted the hardest duty before her. This was to brush and carefully fold away Margot's last simple clothing. Margot herself had cared for her one silk dress, her bits of lace, and the beads and rings and combs of the days of her health and vanity. Christine had seen her face wet with tears as she locked them in the trunk, and had kissed those tears away with promises of renewed life. But there was no one with her to kiss away the tears she shed over the simple gowns of Margot's last hard days. As she was doing this loving duty, she thought of the angels folding up neatly the simple linen garments in which Christ had been buried. With such thoughts in her heart, oh how lovingly she stroked the plain cotton gowns, and the one black merino skirt, that had made up Margot's last wardrobe. Her tears dropped over them, and she turned the key with a little cry so heart-broken that no doubt her angel wept with her.

"Oh Mither, Mither!" she cried, "how little had ye for a' the days o'

your hard, sorrowfu', painfu', fifty-five years--for a' your loveless girlhood--for a' your wifely watchings and fearings for feyther on the stormy seas--for a' your mitherhood's pains and cares--for the lang, cruel years you were walking i' the Valley o' the Shadow o' Death--for a' the years o' your hard, daily wark, loving and tending your six sons and mysel', feeding, dressing, and makin' us learn our catechism and our Bible verses--curing fish, and selling fish, makin' nets, and mending nets, cooking and knitting and sewing. Surely the good Master saw it all, and will gie you His 'well done,' and the wage ye hae earned."

The bits of crochet work that her mother's trembling fingers had made--her last work one little table mat unfinished--had a strange sacredness, and a far more touching claim. She took these to her own room. "They hold Mither's last thoughts. They seem a part o' her. I'll never lose sight o' them while I draw breath o' life. Never!" And she kissed and folded them up, with the dried rose leaves from Margot's garden.

Then she stayed her tears, and looked round the disordered house.

Everything was out of its proper place. That circ.u.mstance alone made her miserable, for Christine was what her neighbors called a "pernickity" housekeeper. She must have a place for everything, and everything in its place. Until she had her home in this precise condition, she resolved to take no other trouble into consideration.

And simple and even derogatory as it appears to be, nothing is more certainly efficacious in soothing grief, than hard physical labor. It took her two days to put the cottage in its usual spotless condition, and during those two days, she gave herself no moment in which to think of any trouble before her.

She knew well that there must be trouble. Her mother's burial money, put away twenty-nine years previously, had proved quite insufficient for modern ideals and modern prices. She was nearly out of money and there would be debts to meet, and every debt would be to her like a wolf baying round the house. That was one trouble. Cluny was another.

She knew he would now urge an immediate marriage, and that his plea would have an appearance of extreme justice. She also knew that he would be supported by Norman, whose wife had long set her heart on occupying the Ruleson cottage. That was a second trouble. The third was Neil. He had been immediately notified of his mother's death, and he had taken no notice of the event. The other boys not present, were all at sea, but where was Neil?

These things she would not yet permit her mind to consider.--In fact, the tossed-up, uncleanly house, dulled her faculties. She could not think clearly, until all was spotless and orderly. Then she could meet trouble clear-headed and free-handed. However, on the third evening after her mother's burial, every corner of the house satisfied her.

Even her dusters and cleaning-cloths had been washed and gone to their special corner of the kitchen drawer; and she had felt, that afternoon, that she could comfortably arrange her paper and pencils on the table of her own room.

She was eager to write. Her heart and brain burned with the thoughts and feelings she longed to express. "Tomorrow," she said to herself--"Tomorrow, I shall go on with my book." Three months previously she had begun a story to be called "A Daughter of the Sea,"

but lately she had been obliged to lay it aside. She found "the bits o' poetry," were all she could manage in the short intervals of time that were her own.

My readers may reflect here, on the truth that there is no special education for a writer. The man or woman who has anything to say to the world, brings the ability to declare it with him. Then all the accidents and events of life stimulate the power which dwells in the heart and brain, and the happy gift speaks for itself. Christine had been making up poetry ever since she could remember, and while yet a child had been the favorite story-teller in all the social gatherings at Culraine. And it is not unlikely that a good story-teller may turn out to be a good story-writer.

About one-third of her first novel, "A Daughter of the Sea," was completed, and now, with a happy resolution, she sat down to finish it. She did not have the material to seek, she had only to recollect and write down. The day pa.s.sed with incredible swiftness, and early in the evening Norman opened the door, and saw her sitting by the fire.

Her hands were clasped above her head, and there was the shadow of a smile on her still face.

"O Norman!" she cried, "how glad I am to see you! n.o.body has been here since----"

"I know, dear. Folks hae thought it was the kinder thing to stop away, and let you get the house in order."

"Maybe it was. Come in, and see it, now that everything is in its place."

So Norman went through all the large, pleasant rooms with her, and he could not help a sigh, as he contrasted them with his own untidy and not over-cleanly house. Then they returned to the ordinary living-room, and when they were seated, Norman lit his pipe, and they talked lovingly of the mother who had gone away, and left her earthly home full of sweet memories. They spoke in soft, tender voices. Christine wept a little, and smiled a little, as she told of her mother's last days, and Norman's mouth twitched, and his big brown eyes were heavy with unshed tears.

After this delay, Norman put away his pipe, and bending forward with his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands, he said, "Christine, I hae brought you a message. I hated to bring it, but thought it would come more kindly from my lips, than in any ither way."

"Weel, Norman, what is it? Who sent you wi' it?"

"My wife sent me. She says she will be obligated to you, if you'll move out o' the Ruleson cottage, as soon as possible. She is wanting to get moved and settled ere the spring fishing begins. These words are hers, not mine, Christine. I think however it is right you should know exactly what you hae to meet. What answer do you send her?"

"You may tell her, Norman, that I will ne'er move out o' the Ruleson cottage. It is mine as long as I live, and I intend to hold, and to live in it."

"Jessy has persuaded hersel' and a good many o' the women in the village, that you ought to marry Cluny as soon as he comes back to Glasgow, and go and live in that city, so as to make a kind o' a home there, for the lad. There was a crowd o' them talking that way, when I came up frae the boat this afternoon, and old Judith was just scattering them wi' her fearsome words."

"Norman, I shall not marry until a year is full o'er from Mither's death. Mither had the same fear in her heart, and I promised her on the Sacred Word, which was lying between us at the time, that I wouldna curtail her full year o' remembrance, no, not one minute! That is a promise made to the dead. I would not break it, for a' the living men in Scotland."

"They were talking of Cluny's rights, and----"

"Cluny hes no rights but those my love gives him. I will not marry for a year, at least. I will not live in Glasgow. I will bide in my ain hame. It suits me fine. I can do a' the writing I want to do in its white, still rooms. I can see wee Jamie here every day. I am out o'

clash and claver o' the village folk. I can watch the sea and the ships, and feel the winds, and the sunshine, and do my wark, and eat my morsel in parfect peace. Na, na, the auld hame suits me fine! Tell your wife Christine Ruleson will live and die in it."

Norman did not move or speak, and Christine asked anxiously, "Do you wish me to leave Culraine, and go to Glasgow, Norman?"

"No, I do not! Your wish is mine, and if Mither were here today, I know she would scorn any proposal that brought Jessy here. She never liked Jessy."

"Her liking or disliking did not influence her will about the house.

She loved every stone in this cottage, and above all she loved her garden, and her flowers. Tell me, Norman, if Jessy came here, how long would the house be in decent order? And where would Mither's bonnie flower-garden be, by the end o' the spring weather? For Mither's sake I'll tak' care o' the things she loved. They werna many, and they werna worth much, but they were all she had, for her hard working life, and her sair suffering. And she relied on you, Norman. She said in her last hours, 'If things are contrary, Christine, and you can't manage them, ca' on Norman, and nane else. Norman will stand by his sister, if a' the warld was against her.'"

"Ay, will he! Blood is thicker than water. We had the same Feyther and Mither. Nane better ever lived," and he stretched out his hand, and Christine clasped it, and then he kissed her, and went away.

Jessy was waiting for him. "Ye hae been a mortal lang time, Norman,"

she said. "I hae been that narvous and unsettled i' my mind, I couldna even get a bite ready for ye."

"Weel ye be to settle yoursel' now, Jessy; for my sister has her mind fixed on the way she has set hersel', and naebody will be able to move her. Naebody!"

"Is she getting her wedding things ready?"

"She is going to wear blacks for the full year."

"There's nae occasion for her to cast them. She can put on a white gown for the ceremony. I suppose they will hae the Domine come to the house and marry them."

"You are going ayont a' probabilities, Jessy. Christine willna marry for a full year. I am not sure she will ever marry."

"She be to marry! Of course she'll marry! She canna mak' a leeving oot a' a few bits o' poetry! She be to marry! All women hae to marry.

Where is she going to bide?"