"... when rosamund was six months old we left kirkcaple. it was a great uprooting. you don't live thirteen years in a place in close touch with the people without becoming deeply attached both to the place and people—and in the last year of our stay at kirkcaple we had a wonderful experience. there was a great awakening of interest in spiritual things—a revival—and we saw many enter into life...."

mrs. douglas stopped abruptly and regarded her daughter.

"ann," she said, "why do you begin to look abashed and miserable if i mention the word revival? does conversion seem to you an improper subject?"

ann screwed her face uncomfortably. "oh, i don't know, but i confess i do dislike to hear people talking glibly about that sort of thing. it somehow seems rather indecent. you didn't realise, you and father, how miserable it was for us children going to so many evangelistic meetings. we liked shouting sankey's hymns, and the addresses were all right, but oh! those 'after-meetings,' when we sat sick with fright, watching earnest young men working their way down the church to speak personally to us. how could we say we were on the road to heaven? and we were too honest—at least the boys were too honest—simply to say yes, when asked if we were saved. i shall never think it right or proper that any casual person should leap on one and ask questions about one's soul. i should object to anyone, other than a doctor or intimate friend, asking me questions about my bodily health, and why should i be less select about my immortal soul? and it seemed to us so dreadful that they should count the converts. i remember with what abhorrence we once heard mrs. macfarlane tell how she and her husband had both talked to a young man about his soul. 'and when we had shown him the light'—you remember the sort of simper she gave—'and he had gone on his way rejoicing, i said to mr. macfarlane, "george dear, is it your soul or mine?"' in other words, 'my bird, sir.' i suppose she was out for stars in her crown, but i would rather have none than cadge for them like that."

"oh, ann," cried her mother, "you don't know what you are saying. it hurts me to hear you talk in that flippant way about——"

"mother, you needn't make a mournful face at me." ann's face was flushed, and she looked very much in earnest. "you've simply no idea how difficult it is for a minister's family to be anything but mere formalists. you see, we hear so much about it all. from our infancy we are familiar with all the shibboleths, until they almost cease to have any meaning. i used to think as a child that it was most unfairly easy for the heathen. i pictured myself hearing for the very first time the story of jesus christ, and i thought with what gratitude and love i would have fallen on my knees to thank him.... as it was, we knew the message so well that our attention was chiefly directed to the messengers, and you must admit, mother, we had some very queer ones. you can't have forgotten the big, red-haired evangelist, as rough as the heather, who told us a story of a pump being 'off the fang,' and finished remarkably with 'ah, my friends, god's pump's never off the fang.' i think it was the same man who said we were just like faggots, 'fit for the burning.' oh, but do you remember the man in glasgow who illustrated the shortness of life with a story about 'gran'papaw' who ..."

"ann!"

mrs. douglas had finished her daily reading and sat with the pile of devotional books on her knee, eyeing her daughter with a mixture of disapproval and unwilling amusement. "ann, you turn everything into ridicule."

ann protested. "there's no ridicule about it. it is a very good serious tale. 'gran'papaw he gae two...'"

again her mother interrupted her.

"i'm sure your father would be sorry to hear you laughing at evangelists. he revelled in evangelistic work."

ann gave a squeal of rage. "mother! d'you know what sort of picture of father you would give to anyone who didn't know him? someone with a smug face and a soapy manner, and a way of shaking hands as if he had a poached egg in the palm. could there be anything less like my father? there was nothing unctuous about him, nothing of the professional religionist. he was like a raeburn portrait to look at...

'a face filled with a fine old-fashioned grace,

fresh-coloured, frank——'

and he never thought that because he was virtuous there should be no more cakes and ale. he was a minister simply because the great fact of his life was christ, and he desired above everything to bring men to him. i never read of mr. standfast but i think of father, for he, too, loved to hear his lord spoken of, and coveted to set his feet in his master's footprints...."

ann stopped and looked in a shamefaced way at her mother.

"and now i'm preaching! it's in my blood—well, you were beginning to tell me about the revival in kirkcaple when i started to blaspheme. please go on."

"well, you may laugh at evangelists..."

"who's laughing?" cried ann.

her mother went on calmly. "but i assure you that was a wonderful time in kirkcaple. night after night the church was crowded, and girls and young men went as blithely to those meetings as ever they went to a dance. you may talk as you like of 'emotionalism' and 'the excitement of the moment,' but remember, this all happened nearly thirty years ago, and the young people who decided for christ then are the chief support of the church to-day. i am very certain they have never regretted staying to the after-meeting and throwing in their lot with christ. how easy the church work was that winter! the wednesday prayer-meeting overflowing from the hall into the church, money forthcoming for everything—you may know conversion is real when it touches the pocket. we had a series of special meetings more or less all through that winter, and, of course, all the speakers stayed with us. marget never grumbled at the extra work. one night, at a meeting where testimonies were asked for, to my utter amazement she got up and stammered out a few words. long afterwards, in glasgow, when she lost her temper about something, she said, 'eh, i say, i'll need to be speakin' in the kirk again.' she had evidently found it beneficial. we had all sorts of ministers and evangelists staying with us, some delightful, others rather difficult. one week-end the great dr. bentley came to preach, a very godly but a very austere man. your father was preaching somewhere, and i had to bear the brunt of him alone. immediately he had had tea he suggested that we should have a little bible-reading and prayer. it was a dreadful ordeal for me, for he kept asking me what passage i should like read, and my mind went blank and i couldn't think of any! finally i managed to slip out of the room, leaving him to rest, and not noticing that robbie was playing quietly behind the sofa. shortly after that we heard an uproar in the study, dr. bentley's voice in trumpet notes and yells of rage from robbie. with ellie robbie at my heels, i rushed to the rescue.... dr. bentley met me with the words: 'i have had dealings with your son.' it turned out that, seeing the old man sitting alone, robbie had gone to the bookcase, pulled out as large a volume as he could manage, and carried it to him. dr. bentley told him to put the book back on the shelf and bring no more. robbie brought another and another, and dr. bentley whipped him. full of fury at the results of his well-meant efforts to entertain him, robbie kicked dr. bentley—kicked the great dr. bentley—and was carried out of the room in ellie robbie's arms quite unrepentant, shouting as he went, 'abominable gentleman!'"

ann laughed with much enjoyment. "it isn't one of the duties of a guest to beat his host's children, but he met his match in robbie. you must have had a dreadful week-end, poor mother!"

"oh, dreadful! everything went wrong. dr. bentley told me that he didn't like a fire in his bedroom, but that he liked a fire in his bed. this, he explained very solemnly, meant two hot-water cans and six pairs of blankets. marget put in one hot-water can (a 'pig' one) and had gone to fill an india-rubber one, when ellie robbie, wishful to help, and unaware of one 'pig' in the bed, slapped in another. they met, and each halved neatly in two. the bed was a sea, and we were looking despairingly at it when dr. bentley appeared in the doorway and announced that he would like to retire for the night! ... some time afterwards dr. bentley was again in the neighbourhood and called, but found no one at home. marget, telling us about his visit, said, 'it was thon auld man, i dinna mind his name; the yin the mistress is fear't for.'"

"with reason, i think," said ann. "what an orgy of meetings you must have had that winter!"

"yes, but i can't remember that there were any bad effects, or that we sank into indifference when the stimulus of the meetings was removed. rather we went on resolved to do better than we had ever done, for the lord had done great things for us.... then came the call to glasgow, and it was very difficult to decide what was for the best. we didn't love cities, and we had no friends in the west; on the other hand, we had to think about the education of you children. your father was going on for forty, and he felt, if he ever meant to take a call, now was the time. you children were delighted. any change seems a change for the better to a child; you never gave a thought to the big, sunny garden you were leaving, or the den, or the familiar friendly house, or the kind people. the day your father and i went to glasgow to look for a house you all stood on the doorstep and shouted after us, 'be sure and get one near a coal-pit.'"

"yes," ann said; "the thought of a flitting enchanted us, and we began at once to pack. where was it robbie had inflammation of the lungs? before we went to glasgow, wasn't it?"

"the year before—in spring. he had got hot playing football and stood in the east wind. he was very ill, poor darling, and for long he needed great care. i got to know my wild boy in a different way in those days and nights of weakness."

ann left her writing-table and sat on the fender-stool. she pushed the logs together and made them blaze, and, reaching over to the big basket that stood by the fireplace, she threw on log after log until the whole room was filled with the dancing light.

"now, that's something like a fire," she said. "a dull fire makes one feel so despairing.... robbie was so very proud of having had an illness; he always called it 'my inflammation,' and when he broke his arm his conceit knew no bounds. i'm afraid i broke it for him by falling off the seesaw on to the top of him. we didn't know what had happened, but we saw that his arm looked very queer, and mark and i brought him home and helped him to take off his boots, and were quite unusually attentive to him. he didn't say a word about it hurting until he heard that it was broken, when he began to yell at once, and said, 'will i die?—will i die?' reassured on that point, he was very pleased about his broken arm."

"two days later," said robbie's mother, "he escaped from the nursery and was found on the rafters of an unfinished house (how he managed to climb with his arm in splints, i know not) singing 'i'm the king of the castle.'"

ann laughed softly. "he never let us forget his achievements, dear lamb. if we quarrelled about the possession of anything, robbie was sure to say, 'give it to me, for i've had the inflammation.' mark made a poem about him, which ran:

'and if in any battle i come to any harm,

why, i've had the inflammation, i've had a broken arm.'

it must have been no light task to remove us all from kirkcaple to glasgow."

mrs. douglas shook her head. "a terrible undertaking. but we were young and strong. mrs. peat came up one day and found me crying as i packed. 'eh, my dear,' she said, 'you're vexed to go, and i'm glad to see you're vexed to leave us all, but you're taking all your own with you. you don't know what it means to leave a grave....' everybody made farewell parties for us, and we departed in a shower of presents and good wishes. that was nearly thirty years ago, and only the other day i met one of our kirkcaple people in edinburgh, and she said to me, with tears in her eyes, 'hardly a day passes in our house without a mention of your name, and never a sabbath comes but we say, "if only we could hear mr. douglas' voice again!" who says the ministry is not a repaying job?' well, we got to glasgow—i think you children all went to etterick, didn't you?"

"only the boys," said ann. "i went straight to glasgow with you and baby rosamund. it was a great experience for me. i boasted about it for long. i was allowed to attend the induction soirée, and heard you and father praised by everyone. it was my first experience of glasgow humour, and very funny i thought it. i remember one old elder who spoke told us of what a fine speech he had made the night before in his bed. 'my,' he said, beaming round on the company, 'what grand speeches ye can make in yer bed!' but it turned out he had forgotten it on the platform. i thought the glasgow accent fascinating, and i liked to be told that i was a 'good wee miss.' i began to like glasgow people that night, and i've gone on liking them better and better ever since."