Ardtaraig

insurmountable. She had to stand aside and look on, whilst others won and wore the crown that might have been her own. In some instances the crown might have been, in reality, no great prize; the inexperienced girl could not be expected to see things in their absolutely true colours, but she could feel, and she did feel, through every fibre of her being, and the pain, and the shame, and the grief were overwhelming. It was a terrible revelation, and astounded me. I was very young, and could do little more than just understand. I was, moreover, startled, and felt shy at such a proof of being thought worthy of an older person’s confidence. I sat up in bed, open-eyed, excited, sorry, but uncertain what to do or say. I must have said something meant to be kind in a blundering way – perhaps she saw beneath the surface – at all events, she looked as if satisfied, and her good-night kiss was as warm as usual, and, as it were, set a seal upon the little interview. I told no one then, not even my mother, but now, after fifty years, I feel that there is no longer any call for reticence. The sorrow of which she spoke was a dead sorrow; had it been otherwise, she would not have spoken at all; of that, I feel sure. After she left me I was in a tumult for a little, and lay gazing at the shadows on the roof, thrown by the moving candle through the fan¬light over the door. Those lights, and the fleeting shapes they cast as the household was being shut up for the night, used to lull me into the delicious sleep of youth. This night they probably did so, for I have certainly no recollection of lying long awake, but the sad revelation made so strangely lived in my memory, and reappeared again in after years, to be better understood and sorrowed over. My heart still bleeds for my darling auntie. She was such a dainty little woman, with such a neat figure and such a trim waist! So full of playful fun was she, so jolly, and so glad to be of use in any way. It almost cost an effort to connect her with a hidden sorrow. Dear soul, she did not live to be really old; within two years after that outburst of feeling, she passed away forever from all possible trouble and decay. She was, perhaps, more like grandmamma than any of the other, daughters, even to the absence of the all-prevailing embonpoint. It is hard to say whether there was reason to sorrow or to rejoice, for her own sake, that she was taken when her troubles had been outlived. Doubtless, what happened was the best, but to our poor understandings such things are mysteries.
Unlike Aunt Barbara, all Aunt Maggie’s bitter turned to sweet. She lived for others, and verily the harvest of love which she reaped must have been to her a rich reward. Owing to the heart weakness, her breathing was often oppressed. One day she was suffering terribly from this cause, having been exerting herself, as usual, helping others. Someone said, “Now, Maggie dear, do take some rest.” “Oh no,” she said, “you know we must not weary in well-doing!” My mother loved her dearly. I shall never forget her agony of grief on arriving at the death-bed, and finding the ever helpful little sister unconscious. Aunt Maggie was ill only about a fortnight. She had fainted out-of-doors, and had to be carried in. There did not seem to be much suffering; indeed, she was cheerful most of the time, chatting, and repeating verses of poetry no one had ever heard before. One day Aunt Grace said, “Those lines are very pretty, Maggie; who wrote them?” The blue eyes sparkled, “Oh, just a wee poet of my own !” The verses, whatever they were, died with her. Her good pastor, Dr Elder, came often to see her, and on one occasion, after he had gone, she said, “I wonder if my dear minister likes me, as well as I like him. – Yes,” she added, “I think he does; there’s a silence that speaks, and a language that’s mute!” Towards the end, she became unconscious. All hope was over; the bright. eyes appeared as if sealed forever, when, to the amazement of the watchers, they suddenly opened wide, and with a steadfast gaze looked fixedly as if at something invisible to the bystanders; a momentary bright expression flitted across her features, and then the light faded and the last dread shadow fell.
It is long since she went – to me, it seems like yesterday! I am glad to write this record of her, if only to rescue from oblivion, for a time at least, one of the sweetest and most charming of all our relatives. I don’t know if there is a person now living, besides myself, who could find her grave. I shall do my best to indicate the spot. It is on the south side of Rothesay Churchyard, quite close to the old, and at present not beautiful Parish Church, beside the grave of its former minister, grandpapa’s uncle, the Rev. Hugh Campbell. There is a flat tombstone to his memory, where, in a Latin inscription, his people have honoured his memory, and have recorded that he was born in 1700 and died in 1764. He