"mother," said ann one evening, "do you realise that we are not getting on at all well with your life? marget has developed this passion for coming in and recalling absurd things—last night she wasted the whole evening with the tale of her grandfather's encounter with a bull; racy, i admit, but not relevant, and the night before she set me recalling mad escapades of our childhood, and i didn't write a word. where we are, i don't know, but there are only three of us born—mark and me and robbie. jim has got to be worked in somewhere—and rosamund. we were all at etterick recovering from whooping-cough when jim was born, so i don't remember much about him, but rosamund's coming was a wonderful event. she was my birthday present when i was eight."

"in some ways jim was the nicest of the babies," mrs. douglas said. "he was so pretty and sweet-tempered—quite a show child. whenever we said, 'sing, jim,' he dropped on to the floor and began 'lord, a little band and lowly,' and he was no age at all."

ann laughed a sceptical laugh. "he ceased at an early age his efforts to entertain; he has no use for company now. i suppose it might be a reaction from his precocious childhood. but he still has the good nature."

"indeed he has," said jim's mother fervently. "the fife people had a saying 'born for a blessing,' and jim has been that. rosamund"—she paused for a moment, then continued—"rosamund was the most lovely child i ever saw. no, it wasn't because i was her mother, unprejudiced people said the same. i think, perhaps, it was the happiest time in my life, those weeks after rosamund came. not that i hadn't always been happy, but the years before had been rather a mêlée. now i had found my feet, more or less, and church work and housekeeping and baby rearing no longer appalled me. it was in march she was born. we had got all the spring cleaning done well beforehand, and the deacons' court had papered and painted the stairs and lobbies, and we had afforded ourselves new stair and landing carpets, and the house was as fresh as it's possible for a house to be. i lay there with my baby, so utterly contented, listening to the voices of you and the boys playing in the garden in the spring sunlight, with pleasant thoughts going through my mind about my healthy, happy children and a smooth running church, and thanking god for the best man that ever woman had. and all the kind people came flocking to see the new baby. mrs. dewar came with a dainty frock made by herself and an armful of books and magazines. these are george's choosing,' she said, 'and he says you will enjoy them all. i think myself they look rather dull, so i've brought you one of annie swan's—she's capital for a confinement.' and mrs. peat sat by the fire with rosamund on her knee and said, 'eh, my dear, she's a beauty,' and blessed her. and you children came running in with celandines from the den, and grubby treasures which you tried to thrust into the baby's tiny hand—i often look back on those days. it seems to me that my cup of happiness must have been lipping over. rosamund grew like a flower. there was always something special about her, and we felt it from the first. it wasn't only her beauty, it was something fine, aloof. you remember her, ann?"

"yes, i remember her, mother. she was always different, even at the beginning she wasn't red and puckered and squirming like most babies, but faintly pink like a rose. father worshipped her. of course, you know that you made far more of her than of any of the rest of us, and we were glad and willing that it should be so. we were never rough with her. she never lived the tumbled puppy-like life that i lived as a child."

mrs. douglas nodded. presently she said:

"you had a happy childhood, ann?"

"hadn't we just? no children ever had a happier; we were so free. when i see children dragging along dreary daily walks with nurses, i do pity them. we hated being taken walks by ellie robbie, and generally ran away. we used to meet the johnstons with their ellen, and then we big ones dashed off together on business of our own, leaving the poor nurses tethered to the prams. we were marauders of the worst type. having always a great hunger for sweets and being always destitute of money, we had to devise schemes for getting them. in nether street there stood a little sweetie shop owned by one archibald forbes, a good-natured man who had once (in an evil moment for himself) given us a few sweeties for nothing. with the awful pertinacity of children we went back continually in the hope that he might do it again! (what you and father would have thought if you had seen us, i know not!) sometimes he ordered us away, but, when in a more forthcoming mood, he would make us say recitations to him, and then reward us. he must have been a very patient man, mr. archibald forbes, for i can see him, his spectacles on the end of his nose, and his bushy eyebrows pulled down, standing behind his counter, listening without a movement to mark relentlessly getting through 'the scene was changed'—you know that thing about mary queen of scots?"

"indeed i do. if mark was asked to recite when mrs. goskirk was present, and she heard him begin, 'the scene was changed,' she gave a resigned sigh and took up her knitting; and there was another about henry of navarre that was almost as bad. the things you did were short and harmless."

"oh, quite," said ann. "there was one about a little girl called fanny, a child for whom we had a deep distaste. she had a dream about being in heaven, i remember:

'i thought to see papa's estate

but oh! 'twas far too small, mamma;

the whole wide world was not so big

as william's cricket ball, mamma.'

and she finished:

'your pretty fanny woke, mamma,

and lo! 'twas but a dream.'

we thought the said fanny was an insufferably sidey child, first of all for mentioning 'papa's estate,' then for saying 'and lo!' and, worst of all, for alluding to herself as 'pretty fanny'—that was beyond pardon. talking about money, someone once gave me a sixpence, which i took, contrary to rule—we weren't allowed to take money. feeling guilty, i ran into a little shop in the watery wynd, a fish shop that sold fruit, and demanded sixpenny-worth of pears. ellie robbie was hard behind, so, with great presence of mind, i said, 'give me one just now and i'll get the rest another time.' that sixpennyworth of pears was a regular widow's cruse to me. for weeks i called nearly every day at that shop to demand a pear due to me, until they said if i came again they would tell my father! we can't have had any decent pride about us, for i don't think we minded being snubbed. when we ran away from ellie robbie the harbour was generally our destination—a fascinating place where norwegian sailors strolled about in a friendly way and could sometimes be persuaded to let us go on board their ships, where they gave us hot coffee out of gaily painted bowls. the harbour was the only romantic thing in kirkcaple. time meant nothing to us in those days, and, so far as we were concerned, the king still sat in dunfermline town calling for a 'skeely skipper' to sail his ship to 'norroway ower the faem'; and many an hour we stood looking out to sea and watching for the gallant ship 'that never mair cam' hame.' next to the harbour we loved the coal-pit, and felt that we were indeed greatly blessed to have one so near the house. there was no romance about a coal-pit (except the romance that brings in the nine-fifteen); but there were glorious opportunities for getting thoroughly dirty. we had many friends among the miners, and they gave us rides on trolleys, and helped us to make seesaws, and admitted us into lovely little outhouses containing, among other treasures, the yellow grease that trains are greased with. and there was the hyacinth den only a stone's-throw from our own door, and the bleach-field beyond, and beyond that again the wild wood. and our own manse garden was not to be despised, for did it not look into a field owned by the huttons—a clan as wild and lawless as our own, and many a battle took place between us. they had a friend known to us as 'wild scott of the huttons,' a truly great and tireless fighter, and if he happened to be visiting them we never knew when a head would pop up over the wall where the big pear tree grew, and challenge us to mortal combat. did you hear that mark came across a man in france, tremendously decorated and of high rank, who turned out to be our old enemy 'wild scott of the huttons'? besides the permanent feud with the huttons, we had many small vendettas with boys from the town, who stoned mark on sundays because they didn't like his clothes."

mrs. douglas laid down her stocking, and said in a bewildered tone:

"i never could understand why you were so pugnacious. you were a dreadfully bad example to the other children in the place. they say that ministers' children are generally worse than other people's—on the principle, i suppose, that 'shoemakers' bairns are aye ill shod,' but i never saw children more naturally bad than you were—well, not bad, perhaps, but wild and mischievous to a degree. your father sometimes said that no one could doubt the theory of original sin after seeing our family. alison sometimes comes to me in her wheedling way and says, 'gran, do tell me about your bad children,' and i have to tell her of the time when you celebrated the queen's birthday at the coal-pit by setting fire to a lot of valuable wood and nearly burned the whole place, and the day when we lost you and found you all in the panny pond—literally 'in' it you were, for you had made a raft and sunk with it into the soft, black mud."

"yes," said ann, "i was always sorry after that for 'the girl who trod on a loaf,' for i knew the dreadfulness of sinking down, down."

"i think my dear robbie was the worst of you all. you others showed faint signs of improvement, but he never deviated into good behaviour. he was what is known in priorsford as 'a notorious ill callant,' and in fife as 'an awfu' steerin' bairn.' when i went away for a day or two i had always to take him with me, for i knew if i left him at home it would be sheer 'battleation,' and yet he had the tenderest heart among you, and rosamund said, 'robbie's the one who has never once been cross to me.' i remember the first time i took him to church. he disliked the look of the woman who sat in front, a prim lady, and he suddenly tilted her bonnet over her eyes. then he shouted to a well-behaved child in the next seat, 'bad boy make a face at me,' and before i could stop him, hurled his shoe at him; and he announced at the top of his voice, 'mark and ann's away to etterick, but i don't care a wee, wee button,' and had then to be removed. 'wheep him,' mrs. beaton used to counsel; but mrs. peat always said 'robbie's a fine laddie.'"

ann nodded. "so he was, always. though he was so turbulent and noisy he was so uncunning you couldn't but think nobly of the soul. mark and i thought of the mischievous things to do, and robbie threw himself into them so whole-heartedly that generally he was the one caught and blamed. the rest of us were better at wriggling out of things. father was never hard on us unless we cheated or told lies. he wasn't even angry when the policeman complained of us—do you remember the one, an elder in our church, who said in despair to his wife, 'i'll hae to jail thae bairns and leave the kirk'? one of the few times i ever saw father really angry was when he was holding a class for young communicants, and we crept into the cubby-hole under the stairs, where the meter was, and turned off the gas. father emerged from the study like a lion, and caught poor jim, who had loitered. the rest of us had gained the attics and were in hiding. it must have been a great day for the young communicants."

"ann! it was a shocking thing to do; it would have roused the mildest-mannered man."

"father was very good-natured," said ann, kneeling on the rug to put a log on the fire; "but it was never safe to presume too much on his mildness. he was subject to sudden and incomprehensible rages. one day i innocently remarked that somebody had a 'polly' arm. i didn't know that i meant a paralysed arm; i was only repeating what i had heard others say, but father grabbed me suddenly and said, 'you wretched child! where do you pick up those abominable expressions? go to the nursery.' i went weeping, feeling bitterly the injustice with which i had been treated. but for every once that father made us cry, a hundred times he filled our mouths with laughter. all our best games were invented by him. whenever he put his head round the nursery door, we knew we were going to have good times. there was a glorious game about india, in which the nursery became a trackless jungle, and father was an elephant with a pair of bellows for a trunk. sometimes on a sunday night, as a great treat, we were allowed to play bible games. then we would march round and round the nursery table, blowing lustily on trumpets to cause the walls of jericho to fall, or robbie as jeremiah would be let down by mark and me into the pit (which was the back of the old sofa), with 'clouts under his armpits'; or, again, he and mark lay prostrate on the sofa (now the flat roof of an eastern house), while i, as rahab, covered them with flax. i have the nicest recollections of winter evenings in the study, with the red curtains drawn, and you sitting mending, when we lay on the hearth-rug, and father read to us of bruce, and wallace, and that lonely, lovely lady, mary of scotland; but my most cherished memory is of a december day in glasgow. it was a yellow fog that seemed to press down on us and choke us. you were out when we came in from our walk, the fire wasn't good, and everything seemed unspeakably dreary. we were quarrelling among ourselves and feeling altogether wretched, when the door opened and father looked in on us. 'alone, folkies?' he said. 'where's your mother?' we told him you were out and that we had nothing to do, and that everything was beastly. he laughed and went away, and came back presently with a book. it was the queen's wake, and for the first time we heard of 'bonnie kilmeny' who went away to fairyland. we forgot the fog, we forgot our grievances; we were carried away with kilmeny. then father got a ballad-book, and that was even better, for the clash of armies was ever music in our ears. we sprawled over him in our excitement as he read how 'in the gryming of a new-fa'en snaw' jamie telfer of the fair dodhead carried the 'fraye' to branksome ha'. our tea was brought in, but the pile of bread-and-butter was hardly diminished, for father read on, sometimes laughing aloud in his delight at what he read, sometimes stopping for a moment to drink some tea, but his eyes never leaving the printed page. how could we eat when we were hearing for the first time of johnnie armstrong going out to meet his king in all good faith, only to find that death was to be his portion? we howled like angry wolves when father read:

'to seek het water beneath cauld ice,

surely it is a great folie—

i have asked grace at a graceless face,

but there is nane for my men and me.'

when you came in, we only looked at you vaguely, and said, 'go on, father, go on,' and he explained, these benighted children have never heard the border ballad', nell,' and then you sat down and listened too.... d'you remember people in glasgow, who owned big restaurants all over the place—webster, i think, was the name, and there was a fat only son who sometimes came in to play with us? i don't know what mr. webster was like in his home life, but that fat boy said to me very feelingly, 'yours is a jolly kind of father to have.' it was generous of him, for only that morning he had taunted me with the fact that my father played a penny whistle, and i, deeply affronted, had replied with a tasteful reference to the restaurants, 'well, anyway, he doesn't sell tuppenny pies like your father does.'"

"oh, that penny whistle!" said mrs. douglas, with a laugh and a sigh. "he made wonderful music on it. there was always something of the pied piper about your father. down in the district the children used to come up and pull at his coat and look up in his face; they had no fear of him; and whenever he entered the hall on band of hope nights the place was in an uproar with yells for a story. he would get up on the little platform and, leaning over the table, he would tell them 'jock and his mother,' or 'the bannock that went to see the world,' or 'maya'—fine stories, but not a moral to one of them."

"that was the best of father's stories: they never had morals," said ann. "the real secret of his charm was that at heart he was as much a child as any of them. once i was down in the district with him, and we saw a very dirty little boy sitting on a doorstep. he greeted father with a wide grin, and beckoned to him with a grimy forefinger. father went obediently, and very slowly and mysteriously the little fellow drew from his ragged pocket a handful of marbles (very chipped and dirty ones) and said, 'thae's whit ye ca' bool,' and father, bending over the small figure, replied, 'so they are, sonny, so they are!'

"yes, the fat boy was right: he was a jolly kind of father to have!"