Christine: A Fife Fisher Girl. Barr Amelia E.

cloth. In the oven the meat and pudding were cooking, and there was a not unpleasant sancta-serious air about the people, and the room. You might have fancied that even the fishing nets hanging against the wall knew it was Saturday night, and no fishing on hand.

      Christine was not there. And as it was only on Saturday and Sunday nights that James Ruleson could be the priest of his family, these occasions were precious to him, and he was troubled if any of his family were absent. Half an hour before Christine returned home, he was worrying lest she forget the household rite, and when she came in he asked her, for the future, to bide at home on Saturday and Sabbath nights, saying he “didna feel all right,” unless she was present.

      “I was doing your will, Feyther, anent Faith Balcarry.”

      “Then you were doing right. How is the puir lassie?”

      “There’s little to be done for her. She hasna a hope left, and when I spoke to her anent heaven, she said she knew nobody there, and the thought o’ the loneliness she would feel frightened her.”

      “You see, James,” said Margot, “puir Faith never saw her father or mother, and if all accounts be true, no great loss, and I dinna believe the lassie ever knew anyone in this warld she would want to see in heaven. Nae wonder she is sae sad and lonely.”

      “There is the great multitude of saints there.”

      “Gudeman, it is our ain folk we will be seeking, and speiring after, in heaven. Without them, we shall be as lonely as puir Faith, who knows no one either in this world, or the next, that she’s caring to see. I wouldn’t wonder, James, if heaven might not feel lonely to those who win there, but find no one they know to welcome them.”

      “We are told we shall be satisfied, Margot.”

      “I’m sure I hope sae! Come now, and we will hae a gude dinner and eat it cheerfully.”

      After dinner there was a pleasant evening during which fishers and fishers’ wives came in, and chatted of the sea, and the boats, and the herring fishing just at hand; but at ten o’clock the big Bible, bound round with brass, covered with green baize, and undivested of the Books of the Apocrypha, was laid before the master. As he was trying to find the place he wanted, Margot stepped behind him, and looked over his shoulder:

      “Gudeman,” she said softly, “you needna be harmering through thae chapters o’ proper names, in the Book o’ Chronicles. The trouble is overganging the profit. Read us one o’ King David’s psalms or canticles, then we’ll go to our sleep wi’ a song in our hearts.”

      “Your will be it, Margot. Hae you any choice?”

      “I was reading the seventy-first this afternoon, and I could gladly hear it o’er again.”

      And O how blessed is that sleep into which we fall, hearing through the darkness and silence, the happy soul recalling itself – “In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust – Thou art my hope, O Lord God – my trust from my youth – I will hope continually – and praise Thee – more and more – my soul which Thou hast – redeemed! Which Thou hast redeemed!” With that wonderful thought falling off into deep, sweet sleep – it might be into that mysteriously conscious sleep, informed by prophesying dreams, which is the walking of God through sleep.

      CHAPTER II

      CHRISTINE AND THE DOMINE

      I remember the black wharves and the boats,

      And the sea tides tossing free;

      And the fishermen with bearded lips,

      And the beauty and mystery of the ships,

      And the magic of the sea.

      The Domine is a good man. If you only meet him on the street, and he speaks to you, you go for the rest of the day with your head up.

      One day leads to another, and even in the little, hidden-away village of Culraine, no two days were exactly alike. Everyone was indeed preparing for the great fishing season, and looking anxiously for its arrival, but if all were looking for the same event, it had for its outcome in every heart a different end, or desire. Thus, James Ruleson hoped its earnings would complete the sum required to build a cottage for his daughter’s marriage portion, and Margot wanted the money, though not for the same object. Norman had a big doctor’s bill to pay, and Eneas thought of a two weeks’ holiday, and a trip to Edinburgh and Glasgow; while Neil was anxious about an increase in his allowance. He had his plea all ready – he wanted a new student’s gown of scarlet flannel, and some law books, which, he said, everyone knew were double the price of any other books. It was his last session, and he did hope that he would be let finish it creditably.

      He talked to Christine constantly on the subject, and she promised to stand up for the increase. “Though you ken, Neil,” she added, “that you hae had full thirty pounds a session, and that is a lot for feyther to tak’ out o’ the sea; forbye Mither was aye sending you a box full o’ eggs and bacon, and fish and oatmeal, ne’er forgetting the cake that men-folk all seem sae extra fond o’. And you yoursel’ were often speaking o’ the lads who paid their fees and found their living out o’ thirty pounds a session. Isn’t that sae?”

      “I do not deny the fact, but let me tell you how they manage it. They have a breakfast of porridge and milk, and then they are away for four hours’ Greek and Latin. Then they have two pennyworths of haddock and a few potatoes for dinner, and back to the college again, for more dead languages, and mathematics. They come back to their bit room in some poor, cold house, and if they can manage it, have a cup of tea and some oat cake, and they spend their evenings learning their lessons for the next day, by the light of a tallow candle.”

      “They are brave, good lads, and I dinna wonder they win all, an’ mair, than what they worked for. The lads o’ Maraschal College are fine scholars, and the vera pith o’ men. The hard wark and the frugality are good for them, and, Neil, we are expecting you to be head and front among them.”

      “Then I must have the books to help me there.”

      “That stands to reason; and if you’ll gie me your auld gown, I’ll buy some flannel, and mak’ you a new one, just like it.”

      “The college has its own tailor, Christine. I believe the gowns are difficult to make. And what is more, I shall be obligated to have a new kirk suit. You see I go out with Ballister a good deal – very best families and all that – and I must have the clothes conforming to the company. Ballister might – nae doubt would – lend me the money – but – ”

      “What are you talking anent? Borrowing is sorrowing, aye and shaming, likewise. I’m fairly astonished at you naming such a thing! If you are put to a shift like that, Christine can let you hae the price o’ a suit o’ clothing.”

      “O Christine, if you would do that, it would be a great favor, and a great help to me. I’ll pay you back, out of the first money I make. The price o’ the books I shall have to coax from Mother.”

      “You’ll hae no obligation to trouble Mother. Ask your feyther for the books you want. He would be the vera last to grudge them to you. Speak to him straight, and bold, and you’ll get the siller wi’ a smile and a good word.”

      “If you would ask him for me.”

      “I will not!”

      “Yes, you will, Christine. I have reasons for not doing so.”

      “You hae just one reason – simple cowardice. O Man! If you are a coward anent asking a new suit o’ clothes for yoursel’, what kind o’ a lawyer will you mak’ for ither folk?”

      “You know how Father is about giving money.”

      “Ay, Feyther earns his money wi’ his life in his hands. He wants to be sure the thing sought is good and necessary. Feyther’s right. Now my money was maistly gi’en me, I can mair easily risk it.”

      “There is no risk in my promise to pay.”

      “You havna any sure contract wi’ Good Fortune, Neil, and it will be good and bad wi’ you, as it is wi’ ither folk.”

      “I