O la.s.sie, come ower the hill.

Gin a body cud be a thocht o' grace, And no a sel' ava!

I'm sick o' my heid and my han's and my face, And my thouchts and mysel' and a'.

I'm sick o' the warl' and a'; The licht gangs by wi' a hiss; For throu' my een the sunbeams fa', But my weary hert they miss.

O la.s.sie, ayont the hill!

Come ower the tap o' the hill, Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, For I want ye sair the nicht.

For gin ance I saw yer bonnie heid, And the sunlicht o' yer hair, The ghaist o' mysel' wad fa' doon deid, And I'd be mysel' nae mair.

I wad be mysel' nae mair, Filled o' the sole remeid, Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer hair, Killed by yer body and heid.

O la.s.sie, ayont the hill! &c.

But gin ye lo'ed me, ever so sma'

For the sake o' my bonny dame, Whan I cam' to life, as she gaed awa', I could bide my body and name.

I micht bide mysel', the weary same, Aye settin' up its heid, Till I turn frae the claes that cover my frame, As gin they war roun' the deid.

O la.s.sie, ayont the hill! &c.

But gin ye lo'ed me as I lo'e you, I wad ring my ain deid knell; My sel' wad vanish, shot through and through By the shine o' your sunny sel'.

By the shine o' your sunny sel', By the licht aneath your broo, I wad dee to mysel', and ring my bell, And only live in you.

O la.s.sie, ayont the hill!

Come ower the tap o' the hill, Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, For I want ye sair the night.

I'm needin' ye sair the nicht, For I'm tired and sick o' mysel; A body's sel' 's the sairest weicht!

O la.s.sie, come ower the hill."

"Isna it raither metapheesical, Mr Cupples?" asked Alec.

"Ay is't. But fowk's metapheesical. True, they dinna aye ken't. I wad to G.o.d I cud get that sel' o' mine safe aneath the yird, for it jist torments the life oot o' me wi' its ugly face. Hit and me jist stan's an' girns at ane anither."

"It'll tak a heap o' Christianity to lay _that_ ghaist, Mr Cupples.

That I ken weel. The la.s.sie wadna be able to do't for ye. It's ower muckle to expec' o' her or ony mortal woman. For the sowl's a temple biggit for the Holy Ghost, and no woman can fill't, war she the Virgin Mary ower again. And till the Holy Ghost comes intil's ain hoose, the ghaist that ye speak o' winna gang oot."

A huge form towered above the d.y.k.e behind them.

"Ye had no richt to hearken, Thomas Crann," said Mr Cupples.

"I beg your pardon," returned Thomas; "I never thoucht o' that. The soun' was sae bonnie, I jist stud and hearkened. I beg your pardon.?-But that's no the richt thing for the Sawbath day."

"But ye're haein' a walk yersel', it seems, Thomas."

"Ay; but I'm gaun ower the hills to my school. An' I maunna bide to claver wi' ye, for I hae a guid twa hoors' traivel afore me."

"Come hame wi' us, and hae a mou'fu' o' denner afore ye gang, Thomas,"

said Alec.

"Na, I thank ye. It does the sowl gude to fast a wee ae day in saiven.

I had a piece, though, afore I cam' awa'. What am I braggin' o'! Gude day to ye."

"That's an honest man, Alec," said Cupples.

"He is," returned Alec. "But he never will do as other people do."

"Perhaps that's the source of his honesty?-that he walks by an inward light," said Cupples thoughtfully.

The year wore on. Alec grew confident. They returned together to their old quarters. Alec pa.s.sed his examinations triumphantly, and continued his studies with greater vigour than before. Especially he walked the hospitals with much attention and interest, ever warned by Cupples to beware lest he should come to regard a man as a physical machine, and so grow a mere doctoring machine himself.

Mr Fraser declined seeing him. The old man was in a pitiable condition, and indeed never lectured again.

Alec no more frequented his old dismal haunt by the seash.o.r.e. The cry of the drowning girl would not have come to him as it would to the more finely nervous const.i.tution of Mr Cupples; but the cry of a sea-gull, or the wash of the waves, or even the wind across the tops of the sand-hills, would have been enough to make him see in every crest which the wind tore white in the gloamin, the forlorn figure of the girl he loved vanishing from his eyes.

The more heartily he worked the more did the evil as well as the painful portions of his history recede into the background of his memory, growing more and more like the traces left by a bad, turbid, and sorrowful dream.

Is it true that _all_ our experiences will one day revive in entire clearness of outline and full brilliancy of colour, pa.s.sing before the horror-struck soul to the denial of time, and the a.s.sertion of ever-present eternity? If so, then G.o.d be with us, for we shall need him.

Annie Anderson's great-aunt took to her bed directly after her husband's funeral.

Finding there was much to do about the place, Annie felt no delicacy as to remaining. She worked harder than ever she had worked before, blistered her hands, and browned her fair face and neck altogether autumnally. Her aunt and she together sh.o.r.e (reaped) the little field of oats; got the sheaves home and made a rick of them; dug up the potatoes, and covered them in a pit with a blanket of earth; looked after the one cow and calf which gathered the gra.s.s along the road and river sides; fed the pigs and the poultry, and even went with a neighbour and his cart to the moss, to howk (dig) their winter-store of peats. But this they found too hard for them, and were forced to give up. Their neighbours, however, provided their fuel, as they had often done in part for old John Peterson.

Before the winter came there was little left to be done; and Annie saw by her aunt's looks that she wanted to get rid of her. Margaret Anderson had a chronic, consuming sense of poverty, and therefore worshipped with her whole soul the monkey Lars of saving and vigilance.

Hence Annie, as soon as Alec was gone, went, with the simplicity belonging to her childlike nature, to see Mrs Forbes, and returned to Clippenstrae only to bid them good-bye.

The bodily repose and mental activity of the winter formed a strong contrast with her last experiences. But the rainy, foggy, frosty, snowy months pa.s.sed away much as they had done before, fostering, amongst other hidden growths, that of Mrs Forbes' love for her semi-proteg?e, whom, like Castor and Pollux, she took half the year to heaven, and sent the other half to Tartarus. One notable event, however, of considerable importance in its results to the people of Howglen, took place this winter amongst the missionars of Glamerton.

CHAPTER Lx.x.xV.

So entire was Thomas Crann's notion of discipline, that it could not be satisfied with the mere riddance of Robert Bruce. Jealous, therefore, of encroachment on the part of minister or deacons, and opposed by his friend James Johnstone, he communicated his design to no one; for he knew that the higher powers, anxious to avoid scandal wherever possible, would, instead of putting the hypocrite to shame as he deserved, merely send him a civil letter, requesting him to withdraw from their communion. After watching for a fit opportunity, he resolved at length to make his accusation against Robert Bruce in person at an approaching church-meeting, at which, in consequence of the expected discussion of the question of the proper frequency of the administration of the sacrament, a full attendance of members might be expected.

They met in the chapel, which was partially lighted for the occasion.

The night was brilliant with frosty stars, as Thomas walked to the rendezvous. He felt the vigour of the season in his yet unsubdued limbs, but as he watched his breath curling in the frosty air, and then vanishing in the night, he thought how the world itself would pa.s.s away before the face of Him that sat on the great white throne; and how the missionars of Glamerton would have nothing to say for themselves on that day, if they did not purify themselves on this. From the faint light of the stars he pa.s.sed into the dull illumination of the tallow candles, and took his place in silence behind their snuffer, who, though half-witted, had yet shown intelligence and piety enough for admission into the community. The church slowly gathered, and at length Mr Turnbull appeared, supported by his deacons.

After the usual preliminary devotions, in which Robert Bruce "engaged,"

the business of the meeting was solemnly introduced. The only part which Thomas Crann took in it was to expostulate with the candle-snuffer, who being violently opposed to the wishes of the minister, and not daring to speak, kept grumbling in no inaudible voice at everything that came from that side of the house.

"Hoot, Richard! it's Scriptur', ye ken," said Thomas, soothingly.

"Scriptur' or no Scriptur', we're nae for't," growled Richard aloud, and rising, gave vent to his excited feelings by snuffing out and relighting every candle in its turn.

At length the further discussion of the question was postponed to the next meeting, and the minister was preparing to give out a hymn, when Thomas Crann's voice arose in the dusky s.p.a.ce. Mr Turnbull stopped to listen, and there fell an expectant silence; for the stone-mason was both reverenced and feared. It was too dark to see more than the dim bulk of his figure, but he spoke with slow emphasis, and every word was heard.

"Brethren and office-beirers o' the church, it's upo' discipline that I want to speak. Discipline is ane o' the main objecs for which a church is gathered by the speerit o' G.o.d. And we maun work discipleen amo'

oorsels, or else the rod o' the Almichty'll come doon upon a' oor backs. I winna haud ye frae particulars ony langer.?-Upon a certain Sawbath nicht i' the last year, I gaed into Robert Bruce's hoose, to hae worship wi' 'm.?-I'm gaein straucht and fair to the pint at ance.

Whan he opened the buik, I saw him slip something oot atween the leaves o' 't, and crunkle 't up in 's han', luikin his greediest. Syne he read the twenty-third and fourt psalms. I cudna help watchin' him, and whan we gaed down upo' oor k-nees, I luikit roon efter him, and saw him pit something intil's breek-pooch. Weel, it stack to me. Efterhin (afterwards) I fand oot frae the la.s.sie Annie Anderson, that the buik was hers, that auld Mr Cooie had gien't till her upo' 's deith-bed, and had tell't her forbye that he had pitten a five poun' note atween the leaves o' 't, to be her ain in remembrance o' him, like. What say ye to that, Robert Bruce?"