for two days it was as if an enchantment had been thrown over dreams, so great a quiet held the house. marget and mysie went about their work hardly speaking at all; mrs. douglas sat alone with her stocking and her books of devotion; the tatler slept for hours together on chairs that he knew well were prohibited; the very fire did not crackle, but lay in a deep glow; the wind was hushed, and moved softly round the white-faced house among the heather.

the enchantment lifted when the pony-cart bringing ann back was seen coming up the hill. mrs. douglas at once began to pile the fire high with logs and coal; the tatler, as if aware of an impending upheaval, awoke, stretched himself, and stalked out of the room, while in the kitchen mysie flew to make hot toast and marget gave a final polish to the already glittering silver.

"hear till her," marget said to mysie, with a broad grin on her face, as ann's voice was heard greeting her mother.

"she was aye like that; aye lauchin', an' aye fu' o' impudence, the cratur! it's like a death in the hoose when she's oot o't. awa' ben wi' the tea, mysie woman; she'll want it afore she tak's off her things."

"well," said mrs. douglas, some time later, "it is good to have you back."

she had got her "reading" over early, the pile of books was put away, and she was ready to listen to ann's news.

"after two days!" said ann, "you remind me of davie when he was once in bed with a bilious turn till lunch-time. the moment he got up he rushed to the window and said, with a gasp of thankfulness, 'it's good to see the green grass again.' you must have enjoyed the rest from my long tongue. i needn't ask if anyone called."

"mr. sharp came to tea with me yesterday."

"did he? good man! you've got a very attentive pastor, motherkin."

"yes," mrs. douglas agreed. "i must say i'm fond of that young man, though he does read his sermons and his theology isn't as sound as i would like. we had such a nice talk, and he told me all about his people. they are evidently not at all well off, and he says they had a great business getting the manse furnished. but everything is paid for. his father and mother are coming to visit him about new year time. we must try in every way we can to make their visit enjoyable. he is so young, and there is something very innocent about him—he reminds me a little of davie."

"and were you favoured with much of marget's conversation?" ann asked.

"oh yes. she came in and out; but marget is very dull when you are away. she used to say, when you were all at etterick and the house was peaceful and the work light, 'it's a queer thing: i like faur better when oor bairns are a' at hame.' well, and was birkshaw nice? tell me all about it."

ann had seated herself on her favourite stool in front of the fire, and she now turned round facing her mother, and nodded happily.

"birkshaw was very nice, and the miss scotts are exactly the kind of hostesses i thought they would be. when i saw my room i was sure of it. some people's spare rooms are just free-coups full of pictures that nobody else will allow in their rooms, chairs that are too hard for anything but a guest to sit on, books that no one can read. and in these spare rooms you generally find a corner of the wardrobe reserved for somebody's parasols, and a fur coat in camphor occupies the only really good drawer. my room at birkshaw was a treasure. there was a delicious old four-post bed, with a little vallance of chintz round the top, and all the rest of the furniture in keeping. a nosegay on the dressing-table, a comfortable couch drawn up to a blazing fire, a table with a pile of most readable-looking books, and absolutely unencumbered drawers. there were only three other people staying in the house—a man and his daughter—barnes was the name—english. mr. barnes was very sprightly, and looked about fifty, and so, oddly enough, did his daughter. either she looked very old for her age or her father looked much too young for his. she was a dull little lady with protruding eyes and unbecoming clothes, and she appeared to me rather to have given up the unequal contest. i have noticed—haven't you?—that very vivacious parents have often depressed offspring, and vice versa. mr. barnes, though english, was a great lover of scotland, and an ardent jacobite. he confused me a good deal by talking about charles iii. i found him very interesting, but i had the feeling that he thought poorly of my intelligence. and, of course," ann finished cheerfully, "i am almost entirely illiterate."

mrs. douglas looked mildly indignant. "ann, when i think of the money spent on your education——"

"oh, you spent money all right, but no one could make me learn when i didn't want to. i don't know whether i was naturally stupid, or whether it was sheer wickedness, but, anyway, it doesn't matter now, except that intelligent people are bored with me sometimes——"

"who was the other person staying at birkshaw? didn't you say there were three?"

"yes, a bachelor nephew of the miss scotts'—mr. philip scott."

"young?"

ann screwed her face. "youngish. forty or thereabouts—forty-five, i should think. oh yes, because he told me he was thirty-eight when the war came. he looked quite young because he was slim, and he wasn't bald; rather a good-looking man."

"did you like him? was he nice?"

ann laughed as if at the remembrance of something pleasant.

"oh yes, i liked him. he was very companionable, and it turned out we had a good many friends in common. the miss scotts are extraordinarily good company. there is no need to make conversation at birkshaw; the talk was so entertaining that we sat an unconscionable time over our meals. and they never worry you to do things. if you prefer an arm-chair by the fire and a book—well and good. you know how i hate visiting, as a rule, but i really did enjoy my two nights away, and i learned a lot about gardening."

"did you wear your new frock?" mrs. douglas asked.

"oh yes. you were quite right to advise me to take it. you never know about people now. some have never got over war-habits and still wear sort of half-and-half things in the evening—rather tired-looking afternoon dresses or jumpers; but the miss scotts came down charming in lace and jewels and beautifully done hair. i do like that. heaviest of tweeds and thick boots in the daytime, but in the evening perfect in every detail—so i was glad i had a pretty fresh frock to do them honour."

ann stretched out her feet to the blazing fire. "but it's fine to be back in this dear room, wearing slippers not quite in their first youth, and a dress that no amount of lounging will hurt. birkshaw doesn't come up to dreams, though it is several centuries older, and at least three times bigger and full of priceless treasures in the way of pictures and furniture and books——"

ann stopped to laugh at her own absurdity, and her mother said, "you're like your father, child. he never saw anything to equal his own house. he didn't know the meaning of envy——"

"ah, but i'm not like that. envy! i'm sometimes chock-full of it——"

the door opened and marget came in. she was primed with an excuse for her appearance, but ann didn't give her time to make it.

"come away, marget, and hear all about birkshaw, and tell me what has been happening since i went away. i've just been saying to mother that i'm very glad to be back."

ann pulled forward a chair, which marget accepted primly.

"i dare say ye are. we 'gree fine, the fower o' us."

"and yet, marget," said ann, "i have just been reading a book by a very clever woman in which she says that women cannot live together with any profit. they fester. that is the ugly expression she uses."

marget gave a disgusted snort. "mebbe thae saft scented weemen, aggravatin' and clawin' at each other like cats, no' weemen wi' self-respect an' wark to do. a' the same, i'm no' sayin' i'll no' be glad when maister jimmie comes hame. i like a man aboot the hoose. it's kin o' hertless work cookin' for weemen; hauf the time they're no' heedin' what they're eatin'."

"ah, marget," said her mistress, "it's not like the days when the boys were all home from school and you couldn't make a pudding big enough."

marget shook her head sadly. "it is not, mem," she said, and then, turning suddenly to ann, she asked, "hoo's the life gettin' on?"

ann jumped up and went to the writing-table. "that reminds me i've no business to be sitting roasting my face at the fire when i haven't written a word for nights."

she found a notebook and pencil and came back to the fireside. "the moncrieffs will be on us before we are half finished. we've got to glasgow, marget. tell me your first impression of that great city."

marget sat forward with one hand on each knee.

"eh, i thocht it was an awfu' place. d'ye mind, mem, thon day you took me awa' into argyle street to see the 'poly'—a place mair like a toun than a shop? i was fair fear't."

mrs. douglas, picking up a stitch, stopped to laugh.

"that was a great day, marget. you suddenly found yourself looking into a long mirror, and you turned to me and said, 'eh, i say—there's a wumman awfu' like ma sister.'"

"didn't you know yourself, marget?" ann asked.

"no' me. i had never seen the whole o' masel' afore, an' how was i to ken i was sic a queer-lookin' body?"

"i know," said ann. "i've had some shocks myself." she turned to her mother. "i always sympathised with trudi in the benefactress when she looked into a mirror and was disgusted to find that she wasn't looking as pretty as she felt. but, marget, what else struck you besides the size of the 'poly' and its mirrors?"

marget was chuckling to herself. "i aye mind how affrontit i was in the 'poly.' i wanted to buy something, but the only thing i could mind i wanted was a yaird o' hat elastic. a young man, like a lord, leaned over the counter and says, 'what can i do for you, madam?'"

here marget became convulsed with laughter, and had to wipe her eyes before going on. "'aw,' says i, 'a yaird o' hat elastic,' an' says he, 'one penny, madam.' i thocht fair shame to see a braw man like that servin' me wi' hat elastic. i telt the mistress i wadna gang back there till i needed a new goon or something wise-like. ay, there was a heap o' queer things in glasgae that we hadna in kirkcaple, but i likit it fine. we a' settled doon rale comfortable, an' a'body that cam' to glasgae frae kirkcaple cam' to oor kirk, so we never felt far frae hame. oh, i likit glasgae rale weel when once i fund ma way aboot."

"it's odd," said ann, "to think of glasgow as the 'scottish oxford' of the seventeenth-century traveller. how pretty it must have been, with gardens going down to the clyde, a college in the high street, an old cathedral on a hill overlooking the city, and with so clear an air that a mountain called 'ben lomond' could be seen by the shopkeepers of king street. alack-a-day! the green places have been laid waste.... mother, do you remember on winter nights as we sat round the fire how we sometimes used to hear men calling 'call-er oy-sters? that is the most vivid recollection that has remained with me of those glasgow days—a november evening with a touch of the fog that frost was apt to bring, a clear fire burning in the nursery grate, books and games scattered about, and through the misty stillness outside the cry, 'call-er oy-sters.' i used to lift a corner of the blind to look out, wondering if i would see some wandering sailorman with a pokeful of oysters on his back—but there was nothing, nothing but the strangely mournful cry."

"glasgae folk," said marget, who had not been listening, but thinking her own thoughts, "are awfu' easy to ken and rale nice, but they're no' so hospitable as they get the name for bein'."

"why, marget," cried mrs. douglas, astonished, "glasgow people are considered the very essence of hospitality."

marget set her mouth obstinately. "weel, mem, it's mebbe as you say, but i've sat whole nichts in their hooses an' they never so much as said to me, 'collie, wull ye lick?' when ye went into a hoose at kirkcaple the first thing they did was to pit on the kettle. glasgae folk made a great fuss aboot ye, but they're no' great at offerin' ye meat."

"this," said ann, sharpening a pencil, "is quite a new light on glasgow people. they are accused of many things, but seldom of inhospitality."

"well, i must say," said mrs. douglas, "that i missed in glasgow the constant interchange of hospitality that we had in kirkcaple. for instance, when your father exchanged with another minister it was always a question of staying the week-end; and, if the minister who came to help at the communion was a friend, his wife (if he had one) was always invited with him. and then we had endless parties, and people dropping in casually all the time, as is the friendly country way. in a big city everything is different. ministers came to preach, but we only saw them for a few minutes in the vestry; they had no time to come out to us for a meal. everything was a rush; we had all so much to do that there was little coming and going between the different ministers' wives. almost our only meeting-place was the house in which the clerical club was held once a month, when papers were read and we had tea."

"i liked when the club was at our house," said ann, "but i thought ministers had very poor taste in jokes: they laughed so much at such very poor ones. i remember one facetious minister saying to me, 'it would be a grand job ours if it weren't for the sabbaths,' and looking startled when i cordially agreed with him. to a child of twelve the writing of sermons does seem a waste of time. but, mother, you knew lots of ministers' wives in glasgow. why, mr. johnston is still a bosom friend of yours. oh, do you remember how you used to tease father by holding up mr. johnston as an example of what every minister should be?"

"i didn't mean it; your father knew that very well, and he didn't care a scrap who was held up to him—but i wish now i hadn't done it. but the johnstons were really the most exemplary couple in every way, almost provoking in their perfection. their church was quite near martyrs, and their house was quite near ours, and we were very good friends; but sometimes i couldn't help being envious a little. in inchkeld and kirkcaple we had had prosperous, well-attended churches, but in glasgow that was changed. our new field, so to speak, was a difficult one. martyrs was in the heart of the town, in a district full of jews and roman catholics, which meant that we had a very small population to draw from, and most of our people came from distant suburbs. when we came to glasgow, martyrs was known as 'the scrapit kirk' because of its white, unpainted seats. no hymn had ever been sung in it; rarely, if ever, a paraphrase. a precentor in a box led the people in the psalms of david. everything was as it had been for the last hundred years. the congregation looked a mere handful in the great church, and i must say i quailed in spirit when i saw the wilderness of empty seats."

"jeanie tod, the nursemaid," said ann, "always let me read not only the letters she received, but the letters she wrote, and in one i read: 'the church is very toom, but mr. douglas will soon fill it.' it was indeed toom, but every sunday we expected quite suddenly it would fill up and we would go in and find a crowd. it did fill up a little, didn't it mother?"

"oh yes, a lot of new people came; but it was never anything like full. mr. johnston, with the very same difficulties to contend with, had his filled to overflowing. he was a splendid organiser, and very wise and prudent; and his wife was just as good in her own way. she was a miracle for cutting out—i was no good at that—and her sewing-classes and mothers' meetings, and indeed everything she attempted, were the best in the district, and she was so pretty and neat that it was a pleasure to look at her. if i held mr. johnston up to your father, i held mrs. johnston up to myself."

"but father worked just as hard as mr. johnston," ann said.

"oh yes, but he hadn't mr. johnston's business capacity. he was the despair of those who look for the reality of things in minute-books and financial statements. a small audience never troubled him. every one was there that the message was meant for, he sometimes told me. for what the world calls success he never craved. i could see that it was fine, but it was rather annoying, too."

ann laughed, and marget said reminiscently, "it was a braw kirk when we got it a' pentit and the seats widened, and a choir and organ and hymns..."

"yes," said mrs. douglas; "gradually the service was brought into line with present-day ideas. i confess i was rather sorry, and your father would have been very pleased to leave it as it was. he infinitely preferred the psalms of david to mere 'human' hymns."

"i should think so," said ann. "imagine singing a chirruppy hymn when one might sing 'o thou, my soul, bless god the lord,' to the tune of 'french.'"

"'deed," said marget, "a buddy never gets tired o' the psalms; they're wonderfu' comfortin', but some o' the hymns are ower bairnly even for bairns. i've a fair ill-will at that yin aboot 'what can little eyes do?' but i like fine to sing 'there is a happy land far, far away.' we aye sung that on sabbath nichts when ye were a' wee."

"there's a lot in association," ann said. "words you have loved as a child have always a glamour over them. i liked the sound of the psalms, but i got dreadfully tied up in the hymns. i always sang:

'can a woman's tender care

cease towards the child she-bear?'

with the picture in my mind of a dear fubsey bear being petted. d'you remember robbie always chose hymns that mentioned satan?"

"ay," marget said seriously. "puir maister robbie had aye an awfu' wark wi' satan, when he was a wee laddie."

ann laughed, and, getting up from the fender-stool, went over to the bureau.

"mother," she said, "i promised to ask mr. scott over to see our funny little house. would luncheon on thursday be a suitable sort of time?"