Chapter II: Part 2

One day the Rev. Mr Patullo, with his wife and son, called in, to welcome her on her return. "You see," said the minister, "I could not want you, Mysie. You are my best specimen of a cheerful practical Christian. You are as good as a sermon."

"My certie," said Mrs Patullo, "far more interesting than the most of sermons."

"Though rather _floury_," added Tom, pointing to her hands.

But the best proof that Mysie's good-natured equanimity was restored, was her treatment of her faithless lover, Bob Dallas. His scandalous treatment of her had brought him into disgrace. Many of his friends had cut his acquaintance. Even his betrothed, Bessie Gayley, ashamed of herself and ashamed of him, had refused in the end to marry him. He was now completely humiliated, and when he met Mysie in the street soon after her return, he could not look her in the face. But Mysie was too good-natured and sensible to keep up any ill-feeling towards this weak creature. So, the next time that she saw him she said, "Good morning"; and by and by she got into the habit of stopping to have a chat with him. At the same time, she took care to keep his familiarity within proper bounds. When, encouraged by her frankness and deluded by his own conceit, he imagined that she was still in love with him, and actually had the infatuation to refer to past times, she caught him up at once.

"Mr Dallas! remember we are friends, nothing more. And as a friend let me give you this advice: Don't think of marrying in this country. One wife would not be enough for you. Go out to the Salt Lake City, and there, as soon as you are tired of one spouse, you will be able to take another. Or perhaps, you as well as myself are doomed to remain single. I am too ugly to be married; you are too good-looking. It would be selfish in anyone to monopolise a man who gives so much pleasure to all the girls in the place."

At the end of many years, Bob Dallas and Mysie Gow were respectively an old bachelor and an old maid.

Bob winced keenly under the marring finger of Time, and, by means of wig, paint, powder, and a jaunty manner, tried to hide its ravages and to make the people believe that he was still young. He did not convince the people; but it is said that, sometimes at least, he managed to convince himself. On one occasion, while talking about his infant nephew, he said, "he's a fine little fellow," and running his fingers through his luxuriant artificial locks, he added, "with a head of hair as thick and as black as my own." Consequently he was seen at every gay gathering, bearing himself like an Adonis, and paying assiduous attention to the young ladies; and when they, fooling him to the top of his bent, gathered round him and bandied compliments with him, he put on a youthful air and silently congratulated himself that he was still "Bob Dallas, the Invincible."

"An auld donnert eediot," said the indignant Mrs Chatteris, the town-clerk's widow, "deckin' himsel up like an antic for the lasses to giggle at."

"You're too hard upon him," said her son Joe. "He's more useful than that. He's an old battered figurehead, used by the girls as a butt for practising their arrows on."

Mysie, on the other hand, received the first touches of age in the most cheerful spirit, and wore her grey hair like a becoming ornament, and made her wrinkles shine with good humour; and, as her years grew fewer, she tried more and more to fill them, with grateful feelings towards her Maker and kind words and deeds towards her fellow-creatures.

GOD'S OWN SCHOLAR.

Many years ago a new class of preachers started suddenly up in the country. They were called the sensational school, and were not unlike a certain section of the clergy in the present day. Their motto seemed to be: "Catch the public, by dignified means if you can, but by all means catch the public." Their rules for doing this were these: "Choose as the subject of your sermon some prevalent vice; denounce it in the plainest and strongest language; threaten those who practise it, or even encourage it, with all the misery of this world and all the eternal woes of the next; draw your illustrations hot from ordinary life; if they are vulgar or grotesque, and excite a titter, never mind; one great end is gained if by any means they arouse the interest of the audience."

The most promising member of this school was the Rev. Jeremiah MacGuffog, the new parish minister at Sandyriggs. He took the most solemn view of his office. He was placed there, he felt, as an ambassador of the Most High to denounce the iniquities that were lifting their heads on every side. It was no time for smooth words. Like the martyred prophets and reformers of old, he must boldly face the transgressors, tell them of their sins in the most direct language, and warn them of the terrible doom that awaits them.

While he was a student in Glasgow, he had often heard that the most productive root of immorality in the rural districts was the Bothy System. Everyone seemed to condemn it, and not one word had been said in its defence. It was clearly his duty, therefore, to strike it down without delay. Accordingly, one Sunday not long after his settlement, he wound up his afternoon sermon with a most merciless attack upon the farmers.

"The farmers," he said, "are a most respectable class of men, and I am deeply grieved to be compelled to say anything to wound their feelings; but I am here to tell them that they are responsible for what I call _the running sore_, which is draining the life-blood of morality and religion in the rural districts. I refer to the Bothy System. You, my brethren, are really treating your fellow-men like your cattle. You lodge them in a dirty and uncomfortable outhouse, and leave them there to corrupt each other. Did I say that you treated them _like_ your cattle? I should have said _worse_ than your cattle. For you do not prepare food for them, you do not tie them up, you do not lock them in and prevent them from roaming abroad at night and falling into mischief. I am sorry that I am obliged to use strong language, but in the faithful discharge of my duty I am called upon to say that these bothies are nurseries of the infernal pit, and that you who keep them up are, though you may not know it, really serving the devil."

It would be impossible to describe the volcano of feeling which this onslaught roused within the souls of the farming population. They could scarcely keep their seats till the service was over; then, when they went out of church and took their way homewards in the grey winter dusk, the turmoil within them was almost too strong for expression; and for a time they could only vent it in such explosive epithets, as "nurseries o' the infernal pit!" "servants o' the deevil!" "ill-tongued cratur!" "empty-headed puppy!" "set him up!" "my certie!" But by the time they reached the foot of the Long Dykes, where the road divided into three, a group of them, both men and women, stood still to compare notes.

"Sic a desecration o' the poopit!" said Mrs Dowie of Seggie Den; "instead o' preachin' the gospel, misca'in honest folk."

"Eh, woman!" exclaimed Mrs Caw of Blawearie, "ye may say that. Him to turn up his nose at bothies, that was brocht up, they tell me, in a one-roomed hoose in the wynds o' Glesky. My word, it doesna set a soo to wear a saddle."

"Low-born smaik," said Mrs Proud of the Hill, "to scandaleese his betters!"

"I dinna ken," said Tam Bluff of Cuddiesknowes, "what they teach them at college, but it's evidently no' mainners."

"Settin' servants against their maisters," said Stables, the horse doctor, a Tory of the old school.

"What could ye expect," asked Ure, the innkeeper at Blawearie Yetts, "from a teetotaller? Did ye hear hoo he blackguarded onybody that had onything to dae wi' makin' or sellin' an honest drap o' drink. Haith! it's my opinion that when the Maister comes to the warld a second time, they'll steek in His face the door o' His ain kirk, because He ance turned water into wine."

Then Manson of the Hole, who had been standing by, red with rage, now began to splutter forth his resentment. He was a cantankerous old bachelor, greedy, miserly, and wealthy. If any bothy in the neighbourhood deserved to be tabooed, it was his. That was the reason for his feeling the most aggrieved. "By the Lord Hairy," he said, "I'll astonish the dirty cratur. I'll hae a ring in his nose before he's a week aulder. I'll ceet him before the Presbytery, and if that wunna dae, before the Synod and the General Assembly; and if I canna get Justice there, I'll gang to the Law. Don't ye think I'm richt, Gilbert Strang?"

The man who was thus addressed, and who now came up, was evidently somewhat inferior in station to the rest of the group. In fact, at first sight he looked shabby. His hat was weather-stained, his clothes were threadbare and even darned in some places, and his boots were rough and clumsy. But his well-developed figure, his clean-cut and healthy features, and his big blue eyes, gave him, in spite of his mean apparel, a look of superiority. Nay, the neat patches on his coat seemed, in some odd way, to be badges of respectability. He was the son of a small laird; but his father had recently died, a heartbroken bankrupt; the property had been sold; he had been left the sole support of his widowed mother, and had been obliged to hire himself out as an ordinary ploughman; and it was understood that he was now pinching himself to save money, in order, if possible, to redeem the little family inheritance.

Gilbert Strang, in fact, was one of those hardy human plants that can grow and flourish mentally and morally in any soil. He had been but a few years under the village teacher. The school in which he had learnt most was the world, where the lessons are undoubtedly very difficult, but, if once mastered, are most salutary. In the few books which he had, in the weekly sermons to which he listened, in the ever-varying shows of earth and sky, and in the rustic gatherings and merrymakings, he got abundant food both for mind and heart. Then, during the long quiet days when he was guiding the plough in the meadow, he found a favourite opportunity for thinking over what he had seen and read, and for forming his notions of men and things. In this way, he had made up his mind on most of the subjects that crop up in rural life, and was able to express his views, not only in the broad vernacular, but also, when occasion called, in good English. Altogether, he was a fair specimen of a man of Nature's own training, or what pious people used to call "one of God Almighty's own scholars."

"Don't you think I wad be richt, Gilbert Strang, to ceet him before the Presbytery, and if I canna get redress there to try the Law?"

"Ye wad be just playin' into his haunds, Mr Manson."

"In what way, Gilbert?"

"Ye wad mak him staund oot before the public as a martyr, and that's what a' thae kind want to be. What I would advise wad be, to gie him rope."

"What dae ye mean, Gilbert?"

"He kens the bothies only by hearsay; and he has spoken a lot o' nonsense aboot them. Let him alane. He'll gang deeper and deeper into the mess. Then he'll find himsel in a habble and be obleeged to apologeese."

"Apologeese!" cried Manson, "catch a minister apologeese! Dod man! they're never wrang. At the time o' the Reformation, they jist shifted the doctrine o' infallibility from the Pope's shouthers on to their ain; and now, instead o' ane, we hae thousands o' Popes."

"That may be," replied Strang, "only ca' canny. Look before ye loup. Mind the proverb, 'Haste maks waste.'"

"Dod that's true," replied Manson. "But eh man! I wad gie a gude roond sum to see the gabbie body obleeged to tak back and swallow a' the nonsense he's been talkin'."

"Weel!" said Gilbert, "ye'll soon see it."

Two days after this conversation on the road, winter weather had come, in all its severity. It was seven o'clock at night. Outside the farm-house of Pitlour, the cold round moon looked down upon snow-clad roofs and stacks, icicles hanging from the eaves, the pump in the barnyard sheathed in straw, and the ploughs hard bound in the meadow by the frost. But inside in the bothy, which was attached to the house, all was bright and warm. A fire made of wood and coals blazed in the chimney; an old-fashioned oil lamp called a cruisie, hung from the mantelpiece; and the combined light of these two fell upon three well-fed, well-conditioned, rustic faces. On one side of the chimney was Gilbert Strang, deeply interested in the weekly newspaper; on the other side was his fellow-ploughman, Sandy Downie, laboriously scraping out of his fiddle the tune of "Auld Lang Syne"; and in front of the blaze was Jim Lochty, the cattle boy, with a copy of Burns in his hand, crooning over the words of a familiar song. In the background, two bedsteads made of rough wood, but with white pillows and sheets, looked snug and comfortable. The occupants were interrupted by a knock at the door, and who should walk in but the Rev. Jeremiah MacGuffog. He apologised for what might be called "a surprise visit." But he said he held the opinion that the minister was the friend of everyone in the parish, and that he should be able to drop in upon his parishioners unceremoniously at any time, and take them as he found them. Strang said that they were glad to see him, and asked him to take a seat.

Sitting down and scanning the place carefully, the minister said: "You heard from my sermon on Sabbath that I am deeply interested in the bothy question; and I want to be thoroughly acquainted with it."

Strang smiled and said to himself: "Jeddart Justice. He condemned and executed us on Sunday, and now he is going to try us."

"I must confess," said the minister, "that I am surprised to see your place look so tidy and comfortable. You heard, I suppose, that I was coming."

"No," said Strang. "The good wife, Mrs Wedderspoon, looks upon this as part of her own house, and is just as particular about it as she is about the rooms where her two sons sleep. No place could be cleaner or more comfortable."

"But your food?" asked the minister. "Is it not rather coarse?"

"Well, sir!" replied Strang, "it would be coarse to the like of you. But for hard working, healthy, country folk, out in the open air, could anything be better than well-boiled porridge and sweet milk for breakfast and supper, and kail and meat and potatoes for dinner? And looking at us, you would say that our food agrees with us."

"Then," said the minister, after a thoughtful pause, "I am sorry to see that you have no means of improving your mind. You seem to have no books."

"Oh yes," said Strang, opening the door of a cupboard, "we have a few. Look! here are Brown's 'Dictionary of the Bible,' 'Shakespeare,' some of Sir Walter Scott's works; and Jim has 'Burns' in his hand. Anyone who masters all these is better educated than most people."

"I'm surprised," remarked the minister gravely, "that you read 'Burns.' He has some very objectionable passages."

"He's a mixture of good and bad," replied Strang, "just like every other author. If we read no author that is not absolutely pure, we shall read none at all. He's a poor creature that can't pick out the good and throw away the bad."

"I suppose," remarked the minister, "that there is a good deal of whisky consumed here sometimes?"

"For months," said Strang, "we never taste it."

"When you see," said the minister, "so many of your fellow-creatures abuse it, why not set them a good example and abstain from it altogether?"

"Well, sir," replied Strang, "I've thought of that, and I have also thought that if I were to abstain from everything that is abused, I would soon, like the Irishman's horse, come to the last straw and die of starvation."

"Of course," said the minister, "you have none of the salutary influences of a home?"

"Oh yes, sir," answered Strang, "we go down to the kitchen every night, and have a crack and snuff with the goodman, a gossip with the goodwife, and a game at 'catch the ten' with the sons, and finish up with family worship. To all intents and purposes we are members of the family."

"I am told," said the minister, "that there is a good deal of loose talk in bothies, and that one bad man often corrupts the whole lot."

"I fear, sir," replied Strang, "that that's the fault, not of bothies, but of human nature itself. In almost every company objectionable persons will be found. They are to be met with in the most select society, and even, I am told, in the rooms of divinity students. You'll correct me if I am wrong. There was Mr Joram's son of Kilbaigie, a divinity student, rusticated last year for being tipsy and uproarious at a gathering in his own lodgings."

Then after a little, Mr MacGuffog said--"this bothy of yours seems to be an exception. Is it not?"

"No," said Strang, "all in this neighbourhood are very much alike."

"Then I'm afraid," said the minister, looking very uncomfortable, "I've done the farmers injustice."

"Indeed you have, sir," replied Strang earnestly, "and they feel it very keenly. The country folk are talking of leaving your church in a body. 'Nurseries of hell' and 'servants of the devil' are uncommonly strong terms."

"But such terms," said the minister, "if I am rightly informed, must apply to the system as it exists elsewhere."

"Not so far as I am aware," said Strang. "Besides, your remarks referred to this neighbourhood."

Then after a long pause the minister said in a tone of great embarrassment, "What am I to do?"

"Well, sir," replied Strang, "I think you know better than I do. But what seems to me the only straight-forward plan is this: if you have been wrong, confess it frankly. If you have done injustice to the people, apologise."

"Well," said the minister, "I shall first visit the other bothies in the parish, and I shall be guided by what I see there." Then after a pause he said--"But how do you account for the great outcry that has been raised against bothies?"

"Partly in this way, sir," said Strang. "There are some ministers (you will excuse me for saying it) that are like our sporting lairds. They must have the excitement of the chase. If they start a heresy case, that's their highest game and gives them their best sport. But not always lighting upon that, they have no difficulty in finding what they consider some social evil. Then they give the view halloo, and are after it in full cry through thick and thin."

"Ah!" said the minister, rising, "you are hard upon us poor clergy; but there may be a little truth in what you say. Good night." And away he went.

Next Sunday morning there was a great gathering of country folk at the church. They were discussing the rumour, that the minister was going to apologise. Some believed it, while others thought that it was too good to be true. Among the latter was old Manson.

"Apologeese," he sneered, "no, no. A black coat never surrenders. When he has been steekit in by the bethal, he can say what he likes, and no' ane daur utter a cheep. Na, na, the poopit has been ower lang the seat o' an oracle. It's no' gaun to become the stule o' repentance."

But old Manson was wrong. Towards the end of the sermon, which was on the text, "Bear ye one another's burdens," the minister came to a dead pause. There was a terrible stillness all over the church. Every ear was on the alert to catch what was coming, and nervous people held down their heads. Then the minister, looking ghastly pale, and speaking with slow deliberation, said:

"Brethren, my great desire is to find out what your burdens are, and to help you to bear them; but last Sabbath I must admit that I failed. I had always heard that the Bothy System was one of the curses of this country; and I had never heard a word said in its defence. Very naturally, in calling upon the people of this neighbourhood to put away the evil thing from among them, I used very strong language. Brethren, I have since discovered that, as far as this parish is concerned, I was wrong; and I now apologise to the farming people in particular and the congregation in general. May this be a warning to us all--to you as well as me--not to be too hasty in forming judgments regarding our fellow-creatures."

Here was an event altogether unprecedented! No one had ever heard of a minister confessing from the pulpit that he had made a mistake. It was the result of the purest Christian candour; but had it proceeded from policy it would have been a master-stroke. With one sentence the minister turned the hearts of the people from the fiercest indignation right round to an enthusiastic love. The women-folk especially were loud in his praises.

"Oh!" they exclaimed, "wasn't it like a real Christian to own that he was wrang; and didn't he look rale bonny when he was daein' it?" And they all agreed that it was Gilbert Strang, who by his wonderful cleverness had opened the minister's eyes, and made him see that it was his duty to confess.

On the Monday afterwards, Gilbert was ploughing the Five-Acre Lea. To one fond of rustic associations it was a pleasant picture; the pair of horses sleek and well-fed, bending their heads over their strong chests, lifting their legs leisurely and together, and pulling the plough slowly through the stiff loam; the knife-like coulter evenly cutting a narrow strip of the green turf; the shining share turning it over and forming another long ridge of fresh earth; the man holding steadily the plough-tails and looking contented and happy; and over all, the sombre sky of a winter afternoon gradually darkening towards the dusk. As he was turning the plough at the headrig, he heard himself hailed in a cheery voice. He looked round, and there was Manson of the Hole, with his face in a broad grin of delight.

Shaking the ploughman's hand, and then slapping him vehemently on the shoulder, he roared out, "Eh, man, ye're an awfu' billy. This is an age o' novelties, and ye've brocht aboot ane o' the greatest o' them a'. A minister standin' in the poopit and confessin' to his folk that he had been wrang! Wha ever heard the like? It's an event in the history o' the kirk. And the man that had the head and the tongue to manage a' this--here he is, wastin' himsel on wark that the stupidest clod-happer could dae. By the Lord Hairy! it's no' richt! You should hae been a minister yersel, settin' them a lesson o' straightforwardness; and as sure as I am a livin' sinner they require it. Man! I'll tell ye what I'll dae. I'm no' a rich man, but I'll lend ye twa hunder pounds to gang to the college; and ye can pay it back whenever it suits ye. Ye needna hurry."

Strang was taken aback; and for about a minute was silent, fascinated evidently by the prospect which had thus suddenly been called up before him. At last he said:

"Mr Manson! dae ye really mean that? It's awfu' generous; and I'm half inclined to tak yer offer. But no, the kirk is no' my trade; the harness wadna sit easy. Nor yet the schule; my nerves wadna stand a' the tear and wear that's required to stir up a' kinds o' young brains. Besides, I canna gie up an open air country life. It has nearly a' the advantages I care aboot. We get the great natural medicines--fresh air, sunlight, pure water, perfect quiet, and sound sleep. We hae the best food; for what could be mair nourishin' than milk, eggs, and oatmeal, all fresh and unadulterated? And we hae the best opportunities (if we only hae the gumption to tak them) of improvin' oor minds, for we live in the workshop o' nature, and see the coontless wonders which she is producin' a' the year roond."

"But dae ye no' think it richt," asked Manson, "to raise yersel as sae mony hae dune, to a higher position in society?"

"Weel," replied Strang slowly, "I'm no' jist sure aboot that. It seems to me a kind o' selfishness. Should we no' think o' raisin' others? We owe a duty to oorsels, nae doot, but also to those wha hae produced us and brocht us up. That's the true way in which the masses are to be raised--not by being patronised by their superiors, but by being led onwards and upwards by men of their own class. Not that I think I could ever lead them; but I could assist them that are really able to lead them."

"Weel," said Manson, going away, "my offer is still afore ye, whenever ye like to tak it."

Year after year passed away, and Gilbert Strang continued most religiously to save every penny that he could. When his hoardings amounted to a handsome sum, he looked for some way of laying them out at interest. Now, there was in Mr MacGuffog's congregation a Mr Melville, a lawyer and banker of unquestionable respectability, a prominent elder in the kirk, and the brother of a celebrated D.D. To many of the church members he had become the guide, philosopher, and friend. Besides giving them his advice, he took charge of their spare cash and got an investment for it. To this gentleman Strang had no hesitation in committing his hard-earned money, with the injunction, that the interest when it fell due was to be added to the principal, and the aggregate sum in this way allowed to accumulate. At the end of five years, his affairs had prospered so well that he saw a prospect of buying back his inheritance. He would borrow a sum from Manson, giving him in return a bond upon the property; and that sum added to his savings would make up the purchase money. He had got Manson's hearty consent, he had instructed Mr Melville to realise his investments, and he had written to his mother to tell her the joyful tidings, and to say that he would be over at her house on Saturday evening to discuss the whole matter.

It was a beautiful day at the end of June, and Strang was busy among the haymakers in the Bog. The occasion was important; and all the inmates of the farm--master and servants, old and young, men and women, and even the dogs--were engaged. Amidst a perpetual ripple of gossip, joke, and laughter, they merrily turned over the tanned grass, put it up in cocks (or, as it was called in that district, _coles_), and carefully raking the cleared space, made the field look tidy and fresh. The sight of the abundant and well-conditioned crop; the delightful scent that arose from it; the twitter of the swallows that wheeled around; and above all the glorious weather, exhilarated every soul. And when the cart, driven by Jim Lochty and containing the dinner, appeared at the gate of the field, they laughed aloud in their joy; for what can be more delightful to a hungry human creature than the prospect of being seated on a heap of fragrant hay with a large _bap_ in one hand and a tankard of nut-brown ale in the other. But what was the matter with Jim? He was all excitement. He had evidently something startling to tell; and, like your ordinary bearer of sensational news, even when it is bad, he had a sort of grim pleasure in delivering it. Before he came up he cried out:--

"Gilbert Strang, yer banker, Mr Melville, has cut his throat and has left a letter to say that he has made awa wi' a' the folks' siller."

Strang was stunned, and for some time could do nothing but stare at Jim, wondering if he were telling the truth.

At last he said: "I don't believe it. Mr Melville o' a' folk! Somebody has been hoaxing ye."

"Na," said Jim, "it's perfectly true. It was the polisman that tellt me; and he had seen him quite stiff and had read the letter. A' the folk were talkin' aboot it. Look! there's Mr Proud o' the Hill passin'. Gang and speir at him."

Mr Proud had stopped his gig and was beckoning to Strang; and when Strang went over to him, it was only to hear a confirmation of the terrible report. But that was not all. Misfortune seems to take a savage delight not only in knocking her victim down, but in trampling upon him after he is down. Mr Proud had another sad calamity to tell, namely, that Mr Manson had been found that morning dead in bed.

Here was the end of all Strang's labour. This double loss dispelled at once the dream which had lighted up all his future--the hope of regaining the inheritance of his ancestors, that white two-storeyed house, with the sunny garden in front, and the snug farm buildings behind, on whose walls the history of the family seemed to be written, and where the associations of his own happy boyhood, like the bright and fresh dewdrops of a summer morning, hung upon every bush and tree. A cloud of despondency fell upon him; and, seen through it, the sunny landscape and the merry faces of the haymakers seemed incongruous and almost unbearable.

His spirit, however, was too robust to be long weighed down. Towards evening he threw off his load, and asked himself if he had, on the whole, any good reason for complaining? He had, indeed, lost the opportunity of realising a happiness which was chiefly made up of sentiment; but, on the other hand, what blessings were still spared to him? Health, strength, congenial employment, wholesome food, sound sleep, fresh air, the glories of the universe, appreciative friends, and a kind Providence. He who could mope and mourn in the face of all these advantages was not a man at all, but a cowardly cur.

Then the thought of his mother arose in his mind. How would she bear it? Beneath the double blow of her husband's bankruptcy and death, the poor body's courage had given way. Thoroughly demoralised, she considered herself a victim, and expected restitution, not only from her friends and the public at large, but even from Providence. She had, therefore, staked her whole happiness upon the recovery of the pleasant steading and fields at Sunnybrae. And now that the recovery was impossible, most bitter would be her disappointment, and endless would be her grumbling against society at large and even against Providence.

Strang's mother lived at Cauldale, a solitary place four miles north of Pitlour. It stood far apart from other dwellings, on the side of an uncultivated hill. It had once been a row of thatched cottages; but with the exception of the one at the east end, they had been allowed to fall into decay, and now stood roofless and empty. The hearths which had once been lit up by warm household fires, and the still warmer smiles of family affection, were now covered with rubbish and overgrown with weeds. In the one which was still habitable, Mrs Strang had been allowed by the Laird to take up her abode; and by the aid of her son and some kind friends she had managed to get the means of making a scanty living. A cow grazing on the braes, a pig fed on the refuse of the garden, a row of bee-hives and a flock of poultry, gave her a supply of milk, butter, cheese, pork, honey, and eggs--part of which she devoted to her own use, but the most of which she carried into the nearest town and sold for hard cash. She even utilised the crops that grew beyond the range of cultivation. In early summer she culled the young nettles to make _kail_. In autumn she gathered the brambleberries to make jam for her afternoon tea; and a bed of wormwood growing on the hillside in front of her house supplied her with all the medicine she ever took.

On the Saturday evening when she expected her son's visit, she was seated with her knitting on a chair in front of her cottage. She was in high spirits, and anticipated with great pleasure the discussing with Gilbert all the details of taking possession of Sunnybrae. Soon she saw him in the distance coming striding through the pasture land. Still working at her stocking, she went down the face of the hill to meet him. But when he drew near, instead of that jubilant smile which she had expected to see on his face, there was a look of depression.

"Gilbert," she exclaimed, "what's wrang? Something has happened. Ye canna hide it from yer mither. Tell me at ance."

He told her; and with a cry of lamentation she dropped on the ground and sat there, wringing her hands and bemoaning her fate: "what hae I dune, what hae I dune, to be afflickit in this way--blow after blow--blow after blow--and after slavin' and starvin' and savin'. But that man (what's his name?) canna hae swallowed the siller. He maun hae spent it on some folk. They should be socht oot and made to pay it back."

Strang thought it best not to answer his mother, but to allow her to give vent to her feelings. Then raising her gently up, taking her by the arm, and telling her that she must come and give him a cup of tea, as he was ready to faint, he led her into her cottage. It was a poor place, but the care which had been taken to make it comfortable in honour of his coming touched his heart. A clear fire was burning behind the two iron bars that served for a grate. The cracked hearthstone and rough earthen floor had been swept and whitened. The most was made of the scanty bits of furniture, the wreck of her former household; and everything was clean and in its proper place. A snowy cloth covered the frail round table; the marriage china was arranged in order; his favourite brambleberry jam was in a glass dish; his favourite buttered toast simmered before the fire; and the only armchair in the house was placed for him in his favourite chimney-corner.

Wiping her eyes occasionally, and moaning "Oh dear," she poured out a cup of tea for him; but refused to take any herself, and sat rocking herself to and fro. Then came another outburst, "Why did ye ever trust that man? I'm sure I tellt ye weel aboot 'im."

"Mother, mother," he said in a deprecating tone, "hoo can ye say so? Ye never did."

"That I did," she moaned out. "But ye never listen to what I say. Nae wonder ye forget."

Strang saw that reasoning would do no good; and so he sat silent while she continued to give vent to her feelings. And to his great relief, a knock came to the door, and a gentleman, well-dressed and well-mannered, entered.

"Mr Strang, I presume," he said. "I must beg your pardon for intruding. I called at Pitlour, and they sent me on here."

Catching fresh alarm, and seeing in this visit a continuation of the coil of troubles in which they had got involved, the mother cried out, "Oh sir! what are ye gaun to dae wi' 'im?"

The gentleman, with a kindly smile, said, "There's nothing to cause alarm; quite the reverse. I am Mr Kemp, Mr Manson's lawyer."

And then in a calm manner, as if it was the sort of thing that occurred every day, he told that Mr Manson had left his money and other belongings to Gilbert Strang.

Mrs Strang burst into a rapture of delight: "Eh, dae ye hear that! It's an answer to my prayers. I aye said that Providence wad mak up to us what He had made us suffer."

But Strang himself was strangely silent. At length he said, "I don't see how I can take it, sir."

"No' tak it!" screamed his mother. "Are ye mad?"

"No, mother!" said Strang, quietly, "this money should have been given to Mr Manson's relatives."

"He has got no relatives," said Mr Kemp, "and he expressly says that he leaves it to you as the man whom he most respects, and who will "guide the money best"; and if you don't take it, why, it must go to the Queen; and in the ocean of her wealth it will be a mere drop, and will do good to nobody."

"Dae ye hear that!" said the mother. "The Queen indeed; set her up! She's got ower muckle already. She would tak everything."

"Then," said Gilbert, "if I maun tak it, I canna spend it on mysel. I'll pay my father's debts, and wipe off the family disgrace."

"Gilbert Strang!" said his mother, "are ye mad? Sir! ye'll no' allow him to dae this. The money wasna left for this."

"Mother," he said, quietly, "my father's memory is ane o' oor dearest possessions. There's a blot on it, the blot o' bankruptcy. I want to rub that aff, so that you and me may hae nae cause to blush when his name is mentioned."

Utterly foiled, the poor woman collapsed, saying in a tone of resignation, "Weel, weel, gang yer ain gait, and leave me here to slave, and starve, and dee. Ye'll maybe wipe yer faither's debts aff yer conscience, but ye'll sune hae yer mither's death in their place."

Gilbert now rose to go back with Mr Kemp. His mother refused to shake hands with him; but he clapped her on the back, and said, "Courage, mother! there may be some siller left, after payin' a' the debts, to buy Sunnybrae yet."

When they were outside, Mr Kemp said, "if you carry out this Quixotic plan of yours, you'll have nothing left."

"I can't help that," returned Strang; "I must do what's right."

Strang lost no time in carrying out his resolve. Ere a few weeks had passed, his father's creditors, very much to their astonishment, were paid the full amount of what was owing them, along with interest. On the next Sunday morning, as he put on his old and faithful Sunday clothes, he felt a satisfaction which he had never experienced before. The stain on his father's memory--a memory otherwise bright--was removed, and he almost felt that his deceased parent was near, smiling approval of what had been done.

His appearance among the loungers at the church door created quite a stir. Every eye was upon him. The farmers and their wives pressed forward to shake him cordially by the hand. They said nothing, for their limited vocabulary contained no form of words suitable for such an extraordinary occasion; but their looks expressed their feelings. Though they would not very likely, if placed in his circumstances, have done what he had done; yet they could not help admiring him. As he stood before them in his well-worn attire, he looked like a hero of the antique type; and the patches on his coat appeared more than ever like badges of honour.

Meanwhile his mother, on the lonely slopes of Cauldale, moped and grumbled. She felt herself a poor, forlorn wretch, deserted not only by her son but by Providence also; and she took a morbid pleasure in thinking that no one had ever been so ill used as she. But one afternoon, as she sat at her solitary "four-hours," her son burst in, with every feature beaming. She was then quite prepared for the good news that he brought. The creditors were so delighted with his unexpected conduct, that they had met and agreed to return to him half the money. With that, and the remainder of Manson's legacy, he had bought back Sunnybrae.

"So by next Martinmas," he said, "ye'll be in yer ain auld house, mither."

Bright glowed the ben-end, or parlour, of Sunnybrae on the evening of the 12th November. Bright, also, were the occupants, Gilbert Strang and his mother. They had come in on the forenoon of the 11th, and had been hard at work "pittin' things to richts." Mrs Strang had complained bitterly about the state in which everything had been left; but she had at last arranged things so that they could now sit down with some degree of comfort.

"Looking round," she said, "on a' the auld things in their auld places, I feel as if I had been dreamin' aboot livin' in a strange country, and that I had waukened up to find mysel at hame. There is only ae great want,--the presence o' yer faither. But I canna help thinkin' that he is here in spirit, and shares in our joy. And oh, Gilbert! glad he maun be that a' his debts are paid, and that naebody can say that they hae lost onything by him. You were richt, and I was wrang."

THE GENTLEMAN TRAMP.

John Fairgrieve, better known as Hillend, the name of his farm, had been born with a strong appetite for knowledge. Had his education been attended to in his youth, he would very likely have been a great reader. But as he had never got into the way of using books with facility, he was driven to seek his mental food in the actual world around him; and this he did with the greatest assiduity. In plain language, he was a notorious newsmonger, a collector of all the "clashes" of the neighbourhood. In bright summer weather, before the hay harvest came on, and when "there was naething pushin'," it was his delight to stand at his farm gate, under the large plane tree, with his snuff-box in his hand, and exchange news with all the passers-by. It did not matter who they were. The farmer in his gig, the ploughman on his cart, the baker driving his van, the beggarwife with her brats and her wallets, were all obliged to "stand and deliver." In fact, Hillend was a sort of informal turnpike man, levying mental toll on the king's highway.

Very like him in this inveterate love for tittle-tattle were his two sisters, Lizzie and Grizzie, who kept house for him. They were seldom seen separate. They hunted in couples. And their prey was generally some country laddie that came into the farmyard for milk or butter. They took complete possession of the unlucky urchin. He had no more chance of escape than a gooseberry which has fallen before two greedy hens. The one examined him, and then the other cross-examined him, or (to use the old Scotch phraseology) the one speired and the other back-speired, until the poor child was turned inside out, or, as Geordie Faw, the cattleman, expressed it, "fairly flypeit."

It was eight o'clock on a wild October night. Outside, in the farmyard, were darkness and a fierce gale that rattled at the windows and howled at the chimney tops, and swirled round the stacks and into every hole and corner. Inside, in the farm kitchen, were light and warmth and bright dishes on the walls, and still brighter faces grouped round the blazing fire. With the exception of Collie the dog and Mottie the cat, all were busy in their own different ways. Miss Lizzie was at the churn, and Miss Grizzie at the spinning-wheel. Willie Foster and Pate Mackie, the two ploughmen, were playing at draughts, or, as they called it, "the dam-brod." Geordie Faw was cobbling his shoes. The itinerant tailor, John Glen, seated cross-legged on a chair, was mending the farmer's coat. And Hillend himself, what was he doing? Occupying the place of honour at the left side of the fire, and, with the usual snuff-box in his hand, he was keeping up the conversation, or, in other words, "ca'in the crack." As the corn and the potatoes were safely gathered in, he was in capital spirits, and bent upon making both himself and the others happy.

You would have thought that there was very little entertainment to be got in that quiet homely scene; but you would have been mistaken. First of all, there was Glen, the tailor, with a tongue as sharp and slick as his own shears, and with odds and ends of scandal as many and varied as his own clippings. Then in came Sandy Livingstone, fresh from a visit to the smithy, and bursting with all the "clavers" of the parish--who was dead, who was going to be married, who had _failed_, who had been fou last July fair, who had been up before the Session, how Grangemire Mary had got her leave, and Geordie Clephane had lost his watch at Kirkcaldy market. And while they were still enjoying these tit-bits, and rolling them like sweet morsels under their tongue, who should appear but a mysterious stranger, foot-sore and tired with travel. All grew quiet to look at him. This was no ordinary tramp.

His clothes were fashionably cut, though threadbare and soiled; and his features and hands were thin and delicate, though tanned by the weather. The company were prepared to hear that he had once seen better days; but they broke into a murmur of astonishment when he told them that he had been an Oxford man and a man about town, and that he had tramped all the way from London. "An Oxford swell!" "A London man!" "Tramped all the way!" Hillend's face glowed with the anticipation of hearing a wonderful story, and in his excitement he took four or five _snuffs_ consecutively. Miss Lizzie and Miss Grizzie stopped their work, rose to their feet, drew near to the stranger, devouring him with their eyes, and eager to "speir and back-speir." They, indeed, set him down to a supper of bread and cheese and milk; but they began at the same time to question him about himself and his adventures. However, he said that if they would kindly wait till he had refreshed and strengthened himself with the meal they had placed before him, he would give them a full and true account of his strange career. They were therefore obliged, meanwhile, to satisfy their curiosity by watching him while he stowed away the viands with wonderful celerity. At length his ravenous appetite was appeased; and, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve, and begging pardon for doing so, and giving as an excuse that he hadn't a pocket-handkerchief, he began the story of his adventures. In after days it was often repeated, first by himself and then by others, so that I am able to give it for the most part in his own words.

"My father was rich, but I am almost ashamed to confess that he did not make his money in a very nice way. He was, you see, a pawnbroker in the High Street of Edinburgh. When I was a boy I used often to be in the shop on a Saturday night, and, upon my soul, I used to pity the poor quivering wretches that came in, raising money on their furniture, their very bed, and even the family Bible. I have seen a poor woman, half-stripped herself, take off the clothes from a puny child in her arms, and pawn them. All kinds of scenes went on, haggling and arguing, and cursing and swearing. The words of one customer, especially, I can never forget. He was a broken-down author, puffy and shaky. He was angry because he had not got enough upon his silver watch.

"'You cursed old Jew,' he said to my father, 'I'll tell you what you are. You're a wrecker. You wait for those who are cast ashore by the waves of misfortune, and rob them of the remnants of their property.'

"'No, no,' said my father, 'I accommodate them with money to keep them alive, and in return take only the things they can spare.'

"My father himself did not like the trade, for he gave it up, and went to live in a villa at Eskbank. He continued, however, to lend money in private; but it was on a large scale. Young gentlemen, regular swells, used to call at the house and be closeted with him, and had difficulty in coming to an agreement. I heard one say as he was leaving, 'one hundred per cent. is tremendous.' 'So is the risk,' was all my father's answer.

"My mother was of an easy-going disposition, had no head for figures, and left the management of all money matters to her husband. Her whole care was devoted to me, her only child. I was the apple of her eye. Dear old mother! how I wish that I had appreciated her more!

"As we sat at the fire on a winter evening, she would say, 'Ben! my lad, we must give you the best education. I would like to see you a gentleman before I die.'

"'Nonsense!' my father would say, 'I'll not waste any money upon Latin and Greek, and rubbish of that kind. The training I got will be good enough for him.'

"However, to our great astonishment, he came round to mother's view. You see, he intended that I should carry on the money-lending business, and he thought that if I were sent to a high-class school, I would form a wide connection among young aristocratic spendthrifts, which would be of great service to me. So the question came to be discussed, 'to what school should I be sent?' and to settle this question our next door neighbour assisted us.

"This man was Captain Beaumont, but was popularly called 'the Earl.' He was, as he told everybody, 'a real gentleman that had taken a thousand years to be produced, not a shoddy one that can be turned out nowadays in a few weeks.' He was tall, grey, and scraggy, with a backbone as stiff as a walking-stick, and with a head that was uncommonly small, but that was 'large enough,' as our minister remarked, 'for all the ideas he had got to put into it.' His house was, like himself, cheerless but pretentious. He called it Dunmore, which, you must know, was the name of the castle where his ancestors had lived, heaven knows how long ago. He had a doited old serving-man, who was dressed in the family livery, and waited at table, and served the thin broth and scraggy mutton on the family silver. There was also above the dining-room mantelpiece his genealogical tree, with many branches and leaves, and each leaf had on it the name of one of his forefathers, and on the topmost leaf was written his own name, 'Reginald Algernon Beaumont, the present earl.'

"For some time the Earl was very haughty towards us, throwing us a word occasionally, just as he would throw it to a neighbour's dog. But by and by he made an excuse for calling on us; and in a few weeks he came in regularly every night to have a game of draughts at our fireside. 'His hungry nose,' my father said, 'had scented the havannas and the Glenlivet.' In the first part of the evening he was silent and grumpy, as if he looked down upon our society, and was half angry with himself for being in it. But when the whisky and cigars were placed on the table, he brightened up and grew pleasant and sociable, and would talk for hours about his ancestors, and would tell that he was the lineal descendant of Reginald de Beaumont, who came into Scotland in the reign of David the First, and that he was, therefore, the Earl of Abernethy; and then he would blackguard the House of Lords for not acknowledging his title, and would call them 'Brummagem peers, mostly made out of lucky lawyers, brewers, and cotton-spinners.' On one of these occasions, my mother took courage to talk about me, saying that she wished to make me a gentleman, and asked his advice as to what should be done. He was startled, and, screwing up his nose, said:--