the december day had run its short and stormy course and the sun was going down in anger, with streaks of crimson and orange, and great purple clouds. only over the top of the far hills was one long line of placid pale primrose, like some calm landlocked bay amid seas of tumbling waters.

mrs. douglas, crossing the room to get a paper from the table, paused at the wide window and looked out. desolate the landscape looked, the stretch of moorland, and the sodden fields, and the empty highroad running like a ribbon between hills now dark with rain.

she sighed as she looked.

ann was writing at the bureau, had been writing since luncheon, absorbed, never lifting her head, but now she blotted vigorously the last sheet, put the pen back in the tray, shut the lid of the ink-bottle, and announced:

"now, then, mother, that's your life written!"

mrs. douglas looked at the finished pile of manuscript and sighed again.

ann got up and went over to the window. "you are sighing like a furnace, mother. what's the matter? does it depress you to think that i've finished my labours? oh, look at the sunset! it bodes ill for the moncrieffs ever getting over the door, poor lambs! look at that quiet, shining bit over the farawa, how far removed it looks from tempests! d'you know what that sky reminds me of, mother? the story of your life that i've just finished. the clouds and the angry red colour are all you passed through, and that quiet, serene streak is where you are now, the clear shining after rain. it may be dull, but you must admit it is peaceful."

"oh, we are peaceful enough just now, but think of jim in south africa, and charlotte and mark in india—who knows what news we may have of them any day? i just live in dread of what may happen next."

"but, mother, you've always lived in dread. mark used to say that the telegraph boys drew lots among themselves as to who should bring the telegrams to our house. you used to rush out with the unopened envelope and implore the boy to tell you if it were bad news, and when you did open it your frightened eyes read things that never were on the paper. if we happened to be all at home when you were confronted with a wire you didn't care a bit—utterly callous. it was only your husband and your children you cared about—ah, well, you had the richest, fullest, happiest life for more than thirty years, and that's not so small a thing to boast of."

"oh, ann, i'm not ungrateful, only——"

"only you're like davie when we told him to go away and count his blessings. 'i've done it,' he came back to tell us, 'and i've six things to be thankful for and nine to be unthankful for.'"

mrs. douglas laughed as she went back to her chair by the fire and took up her knitting. "no, i've nothing to be unthankful for, only i think so much of me died with your father and robbie and davie that i seem to be half with you and half with them where they are gone."

ann nodded. "that may be so, but you are more alive than most of us even now. i don't know anybody who takes so much interest in life, who has such a capacity for enjoyment, who burdens herself with other people's burdens as that same mrs. douglas who says she is only half-alive and longs to depart—and here is mysie with the tea."

mysie lit the lamp under the kettle and arranged the tea-things. she drew the curtains across the windows, shutting out the last gleam of the stormy sunset, and turned on the lights, then she stood by the door and, blushing, asked if she might go out for the evening, as she had an engagement.

"now where"—cried mrs. douglas as the door closed behind the little maid—"where in the world can mysie have an engagement in this out-of-the-world place on this dark, stormy night?"

ann smiled. "she's so pretty, mother, so soft and round and young, and have you forgotten:

'for though the nicht be ne'er sae dark,

an' i be ne'er sae weary o,

i'll meet ye by the lea-rig,

ma ain kind dearie o.'

i haven't a doubt but that pretty mysie has got a 'lawd.' and what for no? i do hope marget isn't too discouraging to the child."

ann sat on the fender-stool with her cup and saucer, and a pot of jam on the rug beside her, and a plate with a crumpet on her lap, and ate busily.

"life is still full of pleasant things, mums, pretty girls and crumpets, and strawberry jam, and fender-stools, and blazing fires, and little moaning mothers who laugh even while they cry. your pessimism is like the bubbles on a glass of champagne—oh, i know you have been a teetotaller all your days, but that doesn't harm my metaphor."

"ann, you amaze me. how you can rattle on as if you hadn't a care in the world—you who have lost so much!"

ann looked at her mother in silence for a minute, then she looked into the dancing flames. "as you say, it is amazing—i who have lost so much. and when you think of it, i haven't much to laugh at. i've got the sort of looks that go very fast, so i'll soon be old and ugly—but what about it"?

"'i may never live to be old,' says she,

'for nobody knows their day....'

and i've got work to do, and i've still got brothers, and i've got charlotte and the children, and i've more friends than i sometimes know what to do with. it's an odd thing, but i do believe, mother, that i'm happier now than when i was twenty and had all the world before me. youth isn't really a very happy time. you want and want and you don't know what you want. as you get older you realise that you have no right to bliss, and must make the best of what you have got. then you begin to enjoy things in a different way. out of almost everything that happens there is some pleasure to be got if you look for it, and people are so funny and human and pitiful you can't be dull. middle age brings its compensations, and, anyway, whether it does or not it is a most miserable business to be obsessed by one's own woes. the only thing to do is to stand a bit away from oneself and say, 'you miserable atom, what are you whining about? do you suppose the eternal scheme of things is going to be altered because you don't like it?'"

mrs. douglas laughed rather ruefully. "you're a terribly bracing person, ann; but i'm bound to confess that you practise what you preach."

"but i've really no right to preach at all!" ann said. "i always forget one thing, the most important of all. i've always been perfectly well, so i've no right to sit in judgment on people who struggle all their lives against ill-health. it is no credit to me—i who hardly know what it means to have a headache—to be equable and gay. when i think of some people we know, fighting all the time against such uneven odds, asking only for a chance to work and be happy in working, and knocked down time and again, yet always undefeated, i could go and bury my head ashamed. don't ever listen to me, mother, when i preach to you; squash me at once."

"well, i'll try to—but, ann, there is one thing that worries me. remember, i will not have you sacrifice your life to me."

"no fear of that," said ann airily. "there's nothing of the martyr about me."

"that mr. philip scott——" mrs. douglas hesitated.

"oh, him!" said ann, "or, to be more grammatical, oh, he! i had a letter from him this morning—did i forget to show it you? he says he is to be at birkshaw for christmas."

ann stopped.

"well, ann?"

"well, mother?"

"don't be provoking, ann. is mr. scott anything to you?"

ann turned serene grey eyes to her mother. "nothing," she said, "except a pleasant friend. that's all he wants to be, i'm sure."

"but, ann, don't you think..."

"i never think, mother..."

ann caught the tatler in her arms and sank with it into the depths of an arm-chair.

"there's something exceedingly nice about being a spinster. here's marget. i shall ask her what she thinks. marget, you don't regret being a spinster, do you?"

marget came farther into the room and peered suspiciously at ann in the arm-chair with the cat in her arm.

"ye're no' gaun to pit it doon in writin' are ye? weel, that's a' richt. to tell the truth i hadna muckle encouragement to be onything else. i wasna juist a'thegither negleckit, but i never had a richt offer. but lookin' roond i've often been thankfu' i wasna trachled wi' a man. ye see, livin' a' ma life wi' kin o' better folk i wad ha' taken ill wi' a man sittin' in his stockin' feet and spittin' into the fire. genteel service spoils ye; but, of course, a'body's no sae particlar.... mysie, the monkey, hes gotten a lawd."

"what did i say," ann cried. "who is he, marget?"

"his name's jim stoddart, a dacent lawd and no sae gawky as maist o' them. he was an officer's servant in the war, and learned mainners."

"but, marget," said mrs. douglas, "we're so far away from people here—how did mysie meet him?"

"tuts, mem, let a lassie alane for that. if there's a 'come hither' in the e'e the lawd 'll turn up, though he has to tramp miles o' heather and hard road. i never kent hoo lassies did thon. i used often to watch them and wonder, but i could niver learn—i was aye a muckle hoose-end even as a lassie, an' tricks wad hev ill become me."

"it's a wise woman that knows her limitations," said ann. "i wish we were all wise enough to avoid being arch—marget, i've finished mother's life.'"

marget immediately dropped into a convenient chair. "let's hear it," she said.

"what! now?"

"what for no? is't that lang?"

"long?" said ann; "like the white knight's song, but very beautiful!"

"aw, if ye're gaun to haver." marget turned to her mistress. "what's it like, mem?"

"i don't know, marget, i've hardly seen a word of it, but it will certainly have to be censored before you get it typed, ann."

"oh yes," said ann. "you will read it and 'riddle oot the biggest lees frae ilka page,' and then i'll send it to the typing lady mark told me about; if she can make out mark's handwriting she won't be so aghast at mine. one copy for each of ourselves and some for very great friends——"

mrs. douglas broke in. "if you begin with friends there will be no end to it."

"then, perhaps, we had better have it privately printed and get about a hundred copies. have we a hundred friends?"

"liker twa hunner," marget said gloomily. "to me it seems a queer like thing to print a body's life when she's still leevin'."

ann quoted, "that horn is blowen for me," said balin, "yet i am not dead," then, laughing at the expression on marget's face, she said, "it's often done, marget, only you call it 'reminiscences.' mrs. asquith wrote her reminiscences, and you can't accuse her of being dead."

marget muttered something, and ann continued, "mother is very fortunate to have a daughter to write hers for her."

"fortunate!" said mrs. douglas. "i'll tell you when i've read it."

"weel," said marget, "i hope she made it interestin', mem, for i'm sure we hed a rale interestin' time baith in kirkcaple and glasgae—an' priorsford's no bad aither, though, of course, we're no ministers' folk there an' that maks a big differ: we havna the same posseetion."

"marget," said ann, "i believe you think a minister and his wife are the very highest in the land, higher even than a provost and his lady; infinitely higher than a mere earl."

marget said "earls!" and grunted, then she explained, "i yince kent an earl. when ma faither was leevin' an' we were at kinloch we kept yin o' the lodges for the big hoose, and i used to see the young earl playin' cricket. he minded me o' joseph wi' his coat o' many colours, but, hech! he was nae joseph. i doot potiphar's wife wad hae got nae rebuke frae him. i dinna hold wi' thae loose lords mysel' onyway." she turned her back on ann and addressed her mistress. "it's a queer thing, mem, that the folk we have to dae wi' now are no' near as interestin' as the folk we kent lang syne. i sit by the fire in the foresuppers—my eyes are no what they were, an' i get tired o' sewin' and readin'—an' i think awa' back to the auld days in kirkcaple. thae were the days! when the bairns were a' at hame. eh, puir things, mony a skelp i hed at them when they cam' fleein' wi' their lang legs ower ma new-sanded kitchen! thae simmer's afternunes when i went oot to the den wi' ellie robbie and them a' and we made a fire and hed oor tea; an' winter nichts when we sat roond the nursery fire and telt stories. an' the neebors drappin' in: mistress peat as neat as if she hed come oot o' a band-box, and mistress goskirk tellin' us hoo to mak' jeely—we kent fine oorsels—an' hoo to cut oot breeks for the laddies—we were never guid at cuttin' oot, ye'll mind, mem? an' mistress dewar sittin' on the lobby chair knittin' like mad when i got doon the stair to open the door for her, and mr. dewar sayin', 'is it bakin' day, marget?' an' in glasgae there was mistress burnett comin' in, aye wi' a present, an aye wi' something kind to say. some folk ye wad think tak' a fair delight in tellin' ye things that chaw ye, they juist canna help bein' nesty, puir sowls; ye mind mrs. lawrie was like that, she couldna gang awa wi'oot giving ye a bit sting—but mistress burnett cheered up the whole day wi' her veesit. an' miss barbara—she aye cam' at the maist daft-like time so that she wadna bother us for a meal, her that wad hae fed a' the earth! an' mistress lang—a braw wumman thon—she likit to come in efter tea an' hae a guid crack. an' dr. struthers—my! he pit us sair aboot when he cam' to stay, but i was rale pleased, it was like haein' yin o' thae auld prophets bidin' wi' us. an' the hoosefu's we had in the holidays when the bairns grew up, we whiles didna ken whaur to turn.... an' thae times are a' past, an' here we are sittin' an' a' the folk i've been speakin' aboot are deid, an' the moncrieffs are comin' the morn——"

"and if you don't keep the water boiling hot, you'll hear about it," ann warned her.

marget drew herself up. "if the cornel speaks to me as if i were a black oot in india i'll speir at him..."

"marget, more and more you remind me of the late queen victoria. you have the grand manner."

"havers!" said marget.

mrs. douglas broke in. "you'll have to be very kind to colonel and mrs. moncrieff, marget. you know since we last saw them they have lost both their sons, and from what i hear they are very broken."

marget shook her head. "it's awfu' hertless work leevin' now that sae mony o' the young folk are deid. a' ma life i've been fear't to dee, an' at meetings i never sang at 'o for the pearly gates o' heaven' for fear i'd be taken at ma word, but the ither nicht i hed sic a bonnie dream. i thocht i was in an awfu' neat wee hoose, an' it was johnnie johnston's hoose—ye mind him, mem, at kirkcaple?—an' i said, 'my, johnnie, ye're awfu' comfortable here,' an' he says, 'ay,' he says, 'look oot o' the windy.' an' there was a great sea, a terrible sea wi' waves an' a' kinds o' wee boats on it, some o' them gettin' an awfu' whummlin. an' i says, 'eh, is that galilee?' an' he says, 'na, it's the sea of life.' an' he says, 'look oot at the other windy noo,' an' here was anither sea, but it was a wee narra sea an' awfu' quait, an' i says, is that the jordan?' 'look ower at the ither side,' he says, an' i lookit, and there was the golden city. it was the bonniest place i ever saw, the very bonniest, an' i said, 'eh, i wad like awfu' weel to get ower there, johnnie johnston, an' he said, 'no the day, but there's naething surer than that ye'll get ower some day.' an' wi' that i wakened.... i was that vexed i fair grat, but i'll mind ma dream an' it'll help me when ma time comes to gang."

marget wiped her eyes and then, as if ashamed of having shown emotion, stalked majestically from the room.

ann and her mother, left alone, sat looking into the fire. for a long time they sat. the logs burned through and fell together, but ann did not seem to notice that the fire needed mending. the tatler playfully clawed her hand to entice her to a game, but she pushed him away.

mrs. douglas was the first to break the silence. "dear me, i've never begun my 'reading,' and it will soon be dinner-time. give me my books over, ann."

ann rose and fetched the pile and put them beside her mother. "biggest first," she said, and handed her hours of silence.

mrs. douglas put on her large tortoiseshell spectacles and began at once to read, but presently her eyes strayed from the printed page to her daughter's face, and she said, "why are you sitting looking at me, ann?"

"because you're such a queer little mother sitting there, with your owlish spectacles and your devotional books."

mrs. douglas sighed, and then she smiled. "poor marget with her 'bonnie' dream! i was sitting thinking just now how well off i am having her to go back with me to the old days. as she says, it is heartless work living now, and yet there is something very heartening about the continuity of life. when i stay with mark and charlotte and see mark rushing, the moment he gets home, to his garden, and watch him among the flowers, one hand behind his back in his father's very attitude, it might be my mark with me again. and rory, who came into the world the day his grandfather went out of it—one mark douglas going and another mark douglas taking his place—rory sidles up to me and puts his head on my shoulder when he wants something, just as his father did thirty years ago—i think they should stop calling him rory now and call him mark."

"well, it's a little confusing for charlotte to have two marks in the house unless she does as marget suggests, and 'ca's mr. mark papaw.' but i know what you mean about the feeling of continuity. last summer alis and rory, greatly condescending, were allowing young robbie to play some game with them. i came upon them suddenly, and the years seemed to roll back when i saw the earnest absorbed face of robbie as he padded about—it might have been my own robbie. he, too, played with his whole might.... oh, look at the fire going out rapidly."

ann knelt down and mended the fire with great care, sweeping in the ashes and making the hearth clean and tidy.

"i spent my life tidying up this fireside. i might as well be a vestal virgin in a temple. there, that will be a fine fire when we come back. have you finished your reading, mother? we must go and change. it's a good thing the moncrieffs are coming to-morrow. you and i have been living so much in the past that we are like two little grey ghosts."

"i've enjoyed it," said mrs. douglas. "but think a long time before you decide to print what you've written."

she gathered up her devotional books and built them in a neat pile on a table.

"i wonder who you think could possibly be interested in such an uneventful record? all about nothing, and not even an end——"

"i wonder," said ann.