Aunt Effie wrote, as you will remember, that Aunt Margaret's daughter, Christie, and her husband made their home where David and Bessie McDougal had so long lived; and she said, too, that they would be like to prosper. If they have not prospered I am no judge. John McHardie has a way of getting pennies together that few have; and he is a God-fearing and God-serving man too, and he gives liberally to the kirk. As for Christie, you would not find her like for strong sense and goodness among a score of women. They have raised a large family—four lads and five lassies; and, although they were all brought up to work hard, they were the most mirthful of all the cousins. The lads whistled merrily as they drove the team to the field, and the lassies sang at the wheel. In the evening they found something to do with their hands, while they cracked innocent jokes or slyly speired at each other about the neighboring lads and lassies. They were so good-natured with it all that there was much laughing, but no ill-temper.

I went there to spend the day one Saturday when I was about thirteen years of age. It was unusual for me to have a day to myself; but I worked well all the morning that I might leave as little as possible for mother to do. I then made myself tidy, and took the path along the western brae, for it was more pleasant than the dusty road, and I liked to see the bonnie things that grew in the shade of the coppice.

It was almost dinner-time when I arrived, and preparations were going on for that meal. Over the fire hung a large kettle of barley soup; in a corner of the fireplace sat the bake-kettle, on the cover of which Christie was heaping glowing embers as I entered; before the fire were oaten cakes set up to bake, for Sunday must be provided for, and the family were blessed with good appetites.

Christie gave me hearty greeting and inquired after father and mother. Just then Ellen, her daughter, came in with a basket of eggs. "The black hen has a notion to set," she was saying, when she saw me, and her face broke into smiles. She was a bonnie lass, just turned fourteen. She and two lads were all that were left at home, the rest having married or gone out into the world to seek their fortune.

In the middle of the afternoon it began to rain, and darkness came early, so that I was obliged to spend the night with them. A fire made the little room cheerful, and we were all as merry as we could wish. Christie sat by the candle finishing the week's sewing, and her husband sat by the fire, falling asleep now and then, for he had been chilled by the rain.

The evening was half spent when the door opened and Sandy McHardie, the eldest son, came in.

"Weel, Sandy, what brings ye out on sic a night?" said his mother.

"Ye may well say 'sic a night,' for if I hadna taen my plaid I would hae been wet to the skin."

"Wha is here?" asked his father, rousing from sleep.

"Naebody but Sandy, father. I am come to hae a talk wi' you. And I maun tell you before I forget it—for I hae anither trouble on my mind—that the brown mare has a swelling on her knee, and I want you to come the morrow morn, if it is Sunday, and look at it, for it would be a wark o' mercy to help the puir faithful beast."

"There'll be nae need o' that, Sandy. I think it maun be the same as ailed the black horse. I'll gie you a bottle o' the wash that cured him; I am never without it sin' that time."

"I'll try it; but if it graws waur instead o' better I'll send you word, for I dinna want onything to happen to that beast. Now for something mair. My sheep got into Jock Wilson's field, and it's nae wonder, for he hasna a wa' that would keep out the maist orderly sheep in a' Scotland. Weel, what did he do but set that savage beast o' his on them, and ane o' the ewes was sae badly torn wi' his ugly teeth that I had to kill her at ance, and anither broke her leg. Now I ca' that vera unneeborly, to say the least o' it; and I am that angry I could a'maist set sic a beast on himsel, the scoundrel! There isna an honest hair on his heid, nor on his father's before him, nor yet on his grandfather's, the auld traitor, wha for filthy lucre turned foe to his countrymen, and pit thae accursed instruments o' torture to his ain neebors!"

Here he paused to take breath.

"Mother," said Ellen softly, "was he no the ane wha put the match to Uncle Jamie's fingers?"

Her mother nodded in the affirmative.

"There isna need to be sae muckle heated aboot it, Sandy," said his father. "It is nae wonder ye are vexed, but ye ken that will do nae gude. How is your ain part o' the wa'?"

"It couldna be better. That is the vexing part o' the matter. He kens weel I hae nae ither place to keep my sheep. Now what is to be dune aboot it?"

"Just speak to the laird aboot it. Jock is afeared o' him if he isna o' you; and if he doesna gang right he'll soon be shifted frae his bonnie cot and set doon by the wayside, for a' Laird Graham will care."

"Sure enough. I was that angry I couldna think sae far."

"Now let me say a word, Sandy," said his mother. "If ye had minded the gude Ward ye wouldna hae let the sun go down on your wrath; ye would hae thought yoursel about laying the matter before your uncle. Ye maun be slow to wrath, as the apostle James has written."

"Weel, mother, I hae been slow to speak; leastways I didna gang to him as I had a mind to do. So ye see I hae heeded part o' the injunction, at ony rate."

"Ye hae dune weel in that, Sandy. Thae Wilsons are as they are, and the less ye hae to do wi' them, the better."

"Ye are right there, mother. I wish the hail boodle o' them could be set across the North Sea into another land than Scotland!"

"O Sandy, we can bring nae gude feeling into our hearts by cherishing ill-will towards ony human creature. We maun a' hae mair patience. Alas! I fear nane o' us are like the meek and gentle Maister. Compose yoursel noo, Sandy, and get your mind better prepared for the service o' the Lord's house on the morrow."

"I suppose ye killed baith the ewes," said the father.

"That I did. I could do nae less."

"I'll tak ane o' them; the ither ye can mak use o'. On Monday I'll ride over and see the laird, and I think ye'll hae nae mair trouble wi' your neebor on that score, and there'll be nae real loss after a'."

"I canna quite say that," replied Sandy. "They were fine ewes, o' a choice breed. I wouldna set the value o' twa ither sheep anent them as a fitting recompense."

"Weel, it is bad enough, Sandy; but say nae mair aboot it. I'll gie ye twa bonnie lambs in their place. Peace is muckle better than discord among neebors."

Sandy rose to go.

"Tak your faither's plaid," said his mother; "your ain is no dry yet."

Sandy opened the door. "The rain has abated," said he. "I need nae plaid at all. Gude night to ye all." Then recollecting himself, he paused to say, "Tell Stephen's lass to come over wi' her parents and visit us. I want Stephen and Agnes to see how we are making out on the wee place."

It was late bedtime when Sandy left. John McHardie took the Book of all books, and with solemn voice read the thirty-fourth Psalm. Then he made a lengthy prayer, in which he thanked God for the blessings of the week just past, and asked that an especial blessing might attend the labors of God's servants on the morrow. After worship all retired. I was both sleepy and weary, and was soon lost in slumber. That was my first night from home.

When I awoke in the morning I could not for a moment remember where I was. Then all came back to me. Ellen had already risen. I rose and looked out of the window. It was a bright, bonnie morn. I looked up at the blue sky, then down at the green earth; everything looked fresh, and the air was sweet. All was so still and peaceful that I thought the Sabbath had a calmness of its own, and to this day I fancy that it has.

I went with my cousins to the kirk, and from there I went home. I had been gone but a short time, but I was glad to be again under the home-roof.