Ardtaraig

duties, but both of them did “that which their hand found to do,” heartily and well. The outstanding work of Aunt Grace’s life was taking charge of Uncle Donald’s five motherless boys. Here, according to her lights, she shone out brightly. Few mother s have done more for their offspring than she did for them – her “dear boys,” who were so to her, to the last hour of her life, though, when it came, they were all scattered and far away from her. I think I am right in saying that they never forgot t he old aunt to whom they were so dear. Her latter years were spent in, the home of her sister, my Aunt Maclean, whose part with reference to her last surviving sister was both just and generous. It was under Aunt Maclean’s roof that Aunt Grace breathed her last, after a short illness, in her eightieth year.
And now I come to speak of the other spinster, the youngest but one of the sisterhood, and, shall I say, the sweetest and the best? They would themselves, with one accord, have said so; for, in truth, she was as a good angel in their midst – dear, bright, loving Aunt Margaret! And yet she stood as it were apart, for God’s hand had indeed been laid heavily upon her. As a child, she was, I believe, a bright, pretty little thing, but when quite young, about five or six years old, I suppose, she met with a terrible accident. There was some press of household work on hand, and both nursemaids were, along with the other servants, put into requisition. The children, left alone in the nursery, were warned not to go near the fire, and I have been told that grandmamma, with her own hand, drew a circle, with chalk, all round the fireplace, and forbade them to cross it, on pain of severest punishment. Little Maggie in some way disobeyed the injunction, and tried to light a piece of wood. Her pinafore caught fire, and in a moment she was enveloped in flames. Grandpapa, who happened to hear her cries, rushed to the spot, and losing his presence of mind, tried to draw the burning garments over the child’s head, injuring his own hands severely. Before other help came the little creature was fearfully burned, especially about the lower part of her face. Everything possible was done for her. Dr Ivie Campbell came and stayed several nights in the house, while the little Sufferer lay hovering betwixt life and death. She was spared, and in time recovered, but with her neck and part of her face terribly scarred, and with a nervous affection of the heart which afflicted her for the whole of her life. Dr Ivie believed it to be caused by the shock of the accident. If affection and tender care could have sweetened her life, it would have been sweet indeed, for she was truly the loved of all, but alas! her sky was fatally overcast. As she grew into woman-hood the pain of her position deepened, in proportion as she became more conscious of it. The upper part of the face was so pretty that the contrast with the lower was almost painful. She had large sparkling blue eyes, that spoke of a gay and ardent spirit.
It needs no stretch of imagination to realise her sadness and suffering, when mingling with young companions and feeling all the while that her youth was not like theirs – that hope, and joy, and love, were never to be hers. She bore her burden quietly – so much so that she had less of the pain of being pitied than she might other-wise have had. They were, all of them, these sisters, self-contained; they knew well how to suffer and be strong. It is pleasant now to think that as time passed her sorrow grew more bearable, and I have good reason to know that her later years were even happy. She was a darling auntie, and next to my mother, the tenderest friend of my childhood. Naturally, the difference in our ages prevented anything like heart to heart intimacy, and never at any time was her disfigurement mentioned between us. One notable night, however, the veil was partially lifted. It was at Rothesay. I occupied a small bedroom, with a white-curtained bed, all by myself, and every night Aunt Maggie came to take away my candle, after seeing me safe in bed. This night she sat down and seemed inclined for a chat. I cannot remember the beginning of the conversation, but presently she began to speak of God’s goodness to herself personally. She remarked how strange it was that at an age when other women usually took sad views of things, and were given to lamenting over their lost youth, she felt herself growing happier every day. And then, by degrees, it all came out – the sorrow of her early days; the eager longings of a more than ordinarily fervid nature; the loneliness amongst her sisters, who were all merry, sought after, and admired, while she, like a creature set apart, endured her solitude in silence. For her no girlish dreams; no sweet romances; not even, as it happened, the gift of song, which some of the others possessed, and on this she especially dwelt. Not one amongst them all, as I well knew, was more worthy than she to gain the love that every maiden claims, yet it was denied – the barrier was