An Orkney Maid. Barr Amelia E.

the hour of the wise, so I will go upstairs and lay out some proper clothing and do thou get thy father to dress himself, as Conall Ragnor ought to do.”

      “That may not be easy to manage.”

      “Few things are beyond thy say-so.” Then she lifted her work-bag and left the room.

      During this conversation Conall Ragnor had been slowly making his way home, after leaving his warehouse when the work of the day was done. Generally he liked his walk through the town to his homestead, which was just outside the town limits. It was often pleasant and flattering. The women came to their doors to watch him, or to speak to him, and their admiration and friendliness was welcome. For many years he had been used to it, but he had not in the least outgrown the thrill of satisfaction it gave him. And often he wondered if his wife noticed the good opinion that the ladies of Kirkwall had for her husband.

      “Of course she does,” he commented, “but a great wonder it would be if my Rahal should speak of it. In that hour she would be out of the commodity of pride, or she would have forgotten herself entirely.”

      This day he had received many good-natured greetings–Jenny Torrie had told him that the Sea Gull was just coming into harbour, and so heavy with cargo that the sea was worrying at her gunwale; then Mary Inkster–from the other side of the street–added, “Both hands–seen and unseen–are full, Captain, I’ll warrant that!”

      “Don’t thee warrant beyond thy knowledge, Mary,” answered Ragnor, with a laugh. “The Sea Gull may have hands; she has no tongue.”

      “All that touches the Sea Gull is a thing by itself,” cried pretty Astar Graff, whose husband was one of the Sea Gull’s crew.

      “So, then, Astar, she takes her own at point and edge. That is her way, and her right,” replied Ragnor.

      Thus up the narrow street, from one side or the other, Conall Ragnor was greeted. Good wishes and good advice, with now and then a careful innuendo, were freely given and cheerfully taken; and certainly the recipient of so much friendly notice was well pleased with its freedom and good will. He came into his own house with the smiling amiability of a man who has had all the wrinkles of the day’s business smoothed and soothed out of him.

      Looking round the room, he was rather glad his wife was not there. She was generally cool about such attentions, and secretly offended by their familiarity. For she was not only a reader and a thinker, she was also a great observer, and she had seen and considered the slow but sure coming of that spirit of progress, which would break up their isolation and, with it, the social privileges of her class. However, she kept all her fears on this subject in her heart. Not even to Thora would she talk of them lest she might be an inciter of thoughts that would raise up a class who would degrade her own: “Few people can be trusted with a dangerous thought, and who can tell where spoken words go to.” And this idea, she knit, or stitched, into every garment her fingers fashioned.

      So, then, it was quite in keeping with her character to pass by Conall’s little social enthusiasms with a chilling indifference, and if any wonder or complaint was made of this attitude, to reply:

      “When men and women of thine own worth and station bow down to thee, Conall, then thou will find Rahal Ragnor among them; but I do not mingle my words with those of the men and women who sort goose feathers, and pack eggs and gut fish for the salting. Thy wife, Conall, looks up, and not down.”

      Well, then, as Rahal knew that the safe return of Boris with the Sea Gull would possibly be an occasion for these friendly familiarities, she wisely took herself out of the way of hearing anything about it. And it is a great achievement when we learn the limit of our power to please. Conall Ragnor had not quite mastered the lesson in twenty-six years. Very often, yet, he had a half-alive hope that these small triumphs of his daily life might at length awaken in his wife’s breast a sympathetic pleasure. Today it was allied with the return of Boris and his ship, and he thought this event might atone for whatever was repugnant.

      And yet, after all, when he saw no one but Thora present, he had a sense of relief. He told her all that had been said and done, and added such incidents of Boris and the ship as he thought would please her. She laughed and chatted with him, and listened with unabated pleasure to the very end, indeed, until he said: “Now, then, I must stop talking. I dare say there are many things to look after, for Boris told me he would be home for dinner at six o’clock. Till that hour I will take a little nap on the sofa.”

      “But first, my Father, thou wilt go and dress. Everything is ready for thee, and mother is dressed, and as for Thora, is she not pretty tonight?”

      “Thou art the fairest of all women here, if I know anything about beauty. Wolf Baikie will be asking the first dance with thee.”

      “That dance is thine. Mother has given thee to me for that dance.”

      “To me? That is very agreeable. I am proud to be thy father.”

      “Then go and dress thyself. I am particular about my partners.”

      “Dress! What is wrong with my dress?”

      “Everything! Not an article in it is worthy of thee and the occasion.”

      “I tell thee, all is as it should be. I am not minded to change it in any way.”

      “Yes; to please Thora, thou wilt make some changes. Do, my Father. I love thee so! I am so proud of thy figure, and thou can show even Wolf Baikie how he ought to dance.”

      “Well, then, just for thee–I will wash and put on fresh linen.”

      “And comb thy beautiful hair. If thou but wet it, then it curls so that any girl would envy thee. And all the women would say that it was from thee, Thora got her bright, brown, curly hair.”

      “To comb my hair? That is but a trifle. I will do it to please thee.”

      “And thou wilt wet it, to make it curl?”

      “That I will do also–to please thee.”

      “Then, as we are to dance together, thou wilt put on thy fine white socks, and thy Spanish leather shoes–the pair that have the bright buckles on the instep. Yes, thou wilt do me that great favour.”

      “Thou art going too far; I will not do that.”

      “Not for thy daughter Thora?” and she laid her cheek against his cheek, and whispered with a kiss, “Yes, thou wilt wear the buckled shoes for Thora. They will look so pretty in the dance: and Wolf Baikie cannot toss his head at thy boots, as he did at Aunt Brodie’s Christmas dinner.”

      “Did he do that thing?”

      “I saw him, and I would not dance with him because of it.”

      “Thou did right. Thy Aunt Barbara–”

      “Is my aunt, and thy eldest sister. All she does is square and upright; what she says, it were well for the rest of the town to take heed to. It would please Aunt if thou showed Wolf Baikie thou had dancing shoes and also knew right well how to step in them.”

      “Well, then, thou shalt have thy way. I will wash, I will comb my hair, I will put on clean linen and white socks and my buckled shoes. That is all I will do! I will not change my suit–no, I will not!”

      “Father!”

      “Well, then, what call for ‘Father’ now?”

      “I want thee to wear thy kirk suit.”

      “I will not! No, I will not! The flannel suit is good enough for any man.”

      “Yes, if it were clean and sweet, and had no fish scales on it, and no fish smell in it. And even here–at the very end of the world–thy friend, the good Bishop, wears black broadcloth and all gentlemen copy him. If Thora was thy sweetheart, instead of thy own dear daughter, she would not dance with thee in anything but thy best suit.”

      “It seems to me, my own dear daughter, that very common people wear kirk toggery. When I go to the hotels in Edinburgh, or Aberdeen, or Inverness, I find all the men who wait on other men are in kirk clothes; and if I go to a theatre, the men who wait on the