Ardtaraig

called him, the “Roy” being derived from the colour of his hair. Even with him, she had more gaiety than she cared for. He was a bon vivant, and gave good dinners, which were greatly appreci¬ated by the Rothesay gentry. After his death, the bereaved sister, following her natural tendency, went into the closest retirement, never resuming her former habits, while her reserve towards society gradually deepened as life wore on. Still, she had her own secluded pleasures. Her house was to me a charming little place, ever redolent of perfume. The rooms were always full of flowers, deftly arranged – an art she tried to teach me, but which with her was an inborn gift, not easily imparted. Roses of every kind and colour, clove carnations, mignonette, glowing heads of ten-week stock, pansies, such as I think I have never seen elsewhere, and others more than I can name, crowded her tables in their season. She very seldom went outside her own domain, but when she did, I am glad to say she looked very well, and dressed like other people. So also, when she gave a party and received her guests in her neat little drawing-room, she put on some of her pretty things and looked very nice. But these occasions were few and far between. Ordinarily, her attire was more comfortable than elegant; her caps were truly fearsome, not far removed from the ancient Scottish mutch, with wide borders almost hiding her face. Her nose and chin very nearly met, and from their coverts a pair of keen hazel eyes shone out, and one could not help wondering how an old eagle would look with such a cap on! Yet there was over her whole countenance a breezy kind of pleasantry, which, on all occasions, brought her in touch with those to whom she spoke. Her eyes, if sharp, were not without a kindly gleam, while her smile and general expression were bright and pleasant. A black silk shawl was usually tightly drawn around her shoulders, and crossed in front over a plain dark gown; while in her withered, lady-like hands, there was often firmly held a fine white handkerchief. It was an interesting personality altogether, and the house, all in all, such as I, for one, delighted to visit. The hospitality, though simple, was hearty; there was always on hand a stock of old-fashioned wines, home¬made of course, and what I preferred most, some delicious raspberry vinegar, not to mention a variety of fruit jellies, so delicate and trans¬parent as to be almost invisible in their Indian china dishes. That tiny house, I see it yet, and love to linger over the picture, giving an honoured place to the large chinchilla-coloured tabby cat in its warm corner! I feel I have taken up a lot of time and space with my thoughts of these old-ladies, for, of course, Aunt William, with her moustache, was always hovering in the background.
I shall not dwell upon the falling of the curtain. It was rapid; both the old ladies died the same winter, and the house has long since passed into the hands of strangers.
But I must now return to my dear old uncles, both my special favourites, who have been kept too long waiting. Uncle Donald, by right, now comes first. He was a minister of the Church of Scotland; his parish being that of Cantyre, Argyllshire. While settled there he married Miss Mary Anne Maclaverty, of Keil; her father, Dr Maclaverty, being a landed proprietor in the same parish. I remember Uncle Donald’s sweet little wife, but only faintly. She was petite, refined, and gentle. I remember her petting me, and admiring a small silver vinaigrette I had just got as a present. She said, “Take care; don’t use it too much or it will give you a little red nose!” She became the mother of five sons, who all grew up, but only two now survive, and are at present in the Argentina. These cousins, alone, of all the Ardtarig connections, bear the name of Campbell. During what I call the Rothesay days, Uncle Donald (having resigned his ministerial charge), resided in Rothesay with his sons, for the advantage of good schools, etc. Grandmamma and the aunts, also, lived there, and the household was en famille. The boys, of whom the elder ones were my contemporaries, were to me (an only daughter and a somewhat solitary child), very much like brothers, and I was fond of them all. Let me now for a moment recall my boy cousins.
Colin, the eldest, dark-eyed, eager, impetuous; George, quiet, thoughtful and deliberate; Archie, something between his elder brothers, with a dash of the sentimental, rather unusual in a boy. Edmund, Eddie, or Ned, a fastidious little gentleman to the finger-tips, but withal a dear wee boy. He and I used