A Daughter of Fife. Amelia E. Barr

you see the minister?”

      “Ay; bring your chair near me, and I’ll tell you what he said. You’ll be to hear it, and as weel now, as again.”

      “Surely he had the kind word to-day, and you that fu’ o’ sorrow?”

      “He meant to be kind. Surely he meant to be kind. He sent me word to come up to his study, and wee Mysie Balmuto took me there. Eh, Maggie, if I had a room like that! It was fu’ o’ books; books frae the floor to the roof-place. He was standing on the hearth wi’ his back to the fire, and you ken hoo he looks at folk, through and through. ‘Weel, Davie,’ he said, what’s brought you o’er the hills through wind and rain pour? Had you work that must be pushed in spite o’ His work?’ ”

      “I felt kind o’ shamed then at my hurry, and I said, ‘Doctor, you’ll hae heard tell o’ the calamity that has come to our house?’ And he answered, I hae heard; but we willna call it a calamity, David, seeing that it was o’ His ordering.’ ”

      “ ‘It was very suddent, sir,’ I said, and he lookit at me, and said, ‘His messengers fly very swiftly. Your father was ready, and I do not think He calls the young men, unless He wants them. It was not of the dead you came to talk with me?’ I said, ‘No, sir, I came to ask you aboot Maggie and mysel’.’ ”

      “Then I told him hoo I longed to be a minister, and hoo fayther and the rest had planned to send me to Aberdeen this vera year, and hoo there was still #50 which you wanted me to take, and he never said a word, but just let me go blethering and blundering through the story, till I felt like I was the maist selfish and foolish o’ mortals. When I couldna find anither word, he spake up kind o’ stern like—”

      “What did he say? You be to tell me that noo.”

      “He said, ‘David Promoter, you’ll no dare to touch the #50 this year. Go back to the boats, and serve the Lord upon the sea for a twelve months. Go back to the boats and learn how to face hunger, and cold, and weariness, with patience; learn to look upon death, and not to fear him. Forbye you cannot leave your sister her lane. Lassies marry young among your folk, and she’ll need some plenishing. You would not surely send her from you with empty hands. You cannot right your own like with wranging hers, not even by a bawbee.’ ”

      “He shouldna hae said the like o’ that. The siller isna mine, nor wasna meant for me, and I’ll ne’er touch it. That I wont.” “Marry Angus Raith, and tak’ it, Maggie. He loves you weel.”

      “Angus Raith isna to be thocht o’, and it’s ill-luck mixing wedding talk wi’ death talk. The minister is right; whatna for are we hurrying up the future? Let us be still and wait; good, as well as evil comes, and us not looking for it. I’m sorry you didna hae a pleasanter visit.”

      “It wasna just unpleasant. I ken weel the minister is right. Put on a covering turf noo, Maggie, for the tide serves at six o’clock, and I’ll be awa’ to Largo the morn.”

      Maggie was up at gray dawn next morning, while yet the sea birds were dozing on their perches, looking like patches of late snow in the crannies of the black rocks. There was no wrath in the tide, only an irresistible set shoreward. When David was ready for his breakfast, Campbell was ready also; he said he wished to go with the boat, and David’s face lighted up with satisfaction at the proposal. And Maggie was not ill-pleased to be left alone. She was restless, and full of strange thoughts, and needed the calm and strength of solitude.

      It was an exquisite morning; the sea was dimpling and laughing in the sunrise, and great flocks of hungry white sea-birds were making for the Firth. Maggie folded her plaid around her, and walked to the little pier to see the boat away; and as she stood there, the wind blew the kerchief off her head into the water; and she saw Campbell lean forward and pick it up, and then nod back to her an assurance of its safety. She turned away half angry at herself for the thrill of pleasure the trifling incident had given her. “It’s my ain folk I ought to be thinking o’, and no strangers; it’s the dead, and no the living that ought to be in my heart. Oh Maggie Promoter, whate’er has come o’er you!”

      To such reflections she was hasting with bent head back to her cottage, And trying to avoid a meeting with any of the few men and women about so early. But she was soon sensible of a rapid step following her, and before she could turn her head, a large hand was laid upon her shoulder, and Angus Raith was at her side.

      “Sae you thocht to shun me, Maggie.”

      “You are wrang there, I didna even see you, Angus.”

      “That’s the God’s truth. You havena e’en for any body noo, but that proud, fine gentleman that’s staying wi’ you.”

      “Be quiet, Angus. Hoo daur you say the like o’that? I ne’er saw the man’s face until yestreen; you shouldna think ill o’ folk sae easy.”

      “What does he want here amang fishers? They dinna want him, I’m vera sure. There’s nae room for gentlemen in Pittenloch.”

      “Ask him what he wants. He pays for his room at Pittenloch; fourteen white shillings every week, he agreed wi’ Davie for.”

      “Fourteen shillings!”

      The magnitude of the sum astonished him. He walked silently by Maggie’s side until she came to her door-step. He was a heavy-faced Celt; sallow, and dark-eyed; with the impatient look of a selfish greedy man. Maggie’s resolute stand at her door-stone angered him, “I’m coming in a wee,” he said dourly, “there are words to be said between us.”

      “You are wrang there too, Angus. I hae neither this, nor that, to say to you; and I’m busy the day.”

      “I spoke to your fayther and your brother Will, anent a marriage between us, and you heard tell o’ it.”

      “Ay, they told me.”

      “And you let me walk wi’ you frae the kirk on the next Sabbath.—I’m no going to be jilted, Maggie Promoter, by you.”

      “Dinna daur to speak that way to me, Angus. I never said I wad wed you, and I dinna believe I ever sall say it. Think shame o’ yoursel’ for speaking o’ marrying before the tide has washed the footmarks o’ the dead off the sea sands. Let go my hand, Angus.”

      “It is my hand, and I’ll claim it as long as you live. And it will be ill for any ither body that daurs to touch it.”

      “Daurs indeed! I’ll no be daured by any body, manfolk or womanfolk. You hae gi’en me an insult, Angus Raith, and dinna cross my door-stane any more, till you get the invite to do so.”

      She stepped within her open door and faced him. Her eyes blazed, her whole attitude was that of defiance. The passions, which in well-bred women are educated clean down out of sight, were in Maggie Promoter’s tongue tip and finger tips. Angus saw it would not do to anger her further, and he said, “I meant nae harm, Maggie.”

      “I’ll no answer you anither word. And mind what I told you. Dinna cross my doorstane. You’ll get the red face if you try it.” She could have shut the door, but she would have thought the act a kind of humiliation. She preferred to stand guard at its threshold, until Angus, with a black scowl and some muttered words of anger, walked away. She watched him until he leaped into his boat; until he was fairly out to sea. Then she shut and barred the door; and sitting down in her father’s chair, wept passionately; wept as women weep, before they have learned the uselessness of tears, and the strength of self-restraint.