Ardtaraig

children were much amazed. Some of them told me about it, and they seemed rather pleased than otherwise at what was, to them, a revelation. Parents have got to reckon with this; all too surely the time will come when their little ones will grow to be their judges. Well is it for all concerned when Love, the great advocate, has, in legal phrase, “a good case;” where there is nothing to condone, but everything to admire and venerate. Aunt Brown had certainly one weakness, and that was for pets; especially for parrots, and this from the days of her girlhood, when there was at Ardtarig a famous bird of the species, brightly coloured, yet a capital talker. Nothing came wrong to this wonderful creature – Gaelic or English, blessing or cursing, it was all the same. Where he came from I forget, but he was a notable member of the family for many a day. He had a savage hatred for Aunt Susan, and cursed her in Gaelic every time he saw her. Aunt Brown, on the other hand, he loved with growing intensity till the day of his tragic death. This was brought about by the Ardtarig boys, in a thoughtless moment. They stuck a fishing-rod in the ground, and attempted to perch poor Poll on it; the rod swayed, fell, and the bird was killed. The memory of this pet made Aunt Brown love all others of his kind, and great used to be my mingled pleasure and dread when visiting this aunt, to watch her parrot’s ways. He was a bright green, pretty creature, and would come sideways towards me along the backs of chairs, with a leer in his eye suggestive of terrible things. Then his mistress would interpose, and restore him to his cage.
The summer after mamma’s death papa and I made a journey to some of the spots connected with her life south of the Tweed. We went to Liverpool, saw where she had lived; visited the church of St Anne, where she was married, which latter we found in the course of demolition, but fortunately the walls were still standing. Not long after, we found ourselves at Pwllheli, gazing at the quiet, old-world little town; wandering along the beach, and around a huge rock, some-thing like St Michael’s Mount at Penzance. At last papa remarked, “I should like to find the house where the Browns lived. I wonder if anyone could point it out.” “I wonder indeed,” said I, “after fifty years it would be rather a forlorn quest.” “No matter said my energetic papa, “I’ll try; here’s an old man, I’ll ask him.” The man turned out to be a native of the place, who had gone away as a sailor, and after braving many a storm, had returned to end his days amongst his own people. Papa put a few questions – soon the old fellow’s face lighted up, and to our utter amazement we found, as the saying is, that “we had fallen on our feet.” “Yes,” exclaimed the old man, “I remember Mr. Brown; he used to buy fish from my mother. I was a boy then, and often carried them home for him. He was a nice gentleman – yes, I know Miss Roberts, she is the only one of that family now living – oh, but she would be glad to see you! I’ll take you to her!” Papa and I looked at each other. It would be taking a liberty to disturb the lady, we said. But the old fellow would not be gainsaid, and before we well knew what was happening, we were in the parlour of a neat old-fashioned house, with a bright-eyed elderly lady confronting us, who made us cordially welcome, talking eagerly the while, and asking many questions about the dead, and for the living, for Cousins Colin, and Duncan, and for little Grace (Cammie), at that time dead nearly thirty years. “Ah!” exclaimed Miss Roberts, “Mr. Brown was fond of Wales. Tell them all from me,” she added, “that from being the cheapest place in Wales, Pwllheli is now the dearest.” Much more she said, being very vivacious, and I was thankful that, from mamma’s account of the Misses Roberts, I was able, in my turn, to ask about her sisters, showing that I knew something, and that we were not impostors, for the families had been on the most friendly terms. All were dead, of course, but the little lady talked on as if the matters referred to were of yesterday, and was so cheery and bright that she almost banished the sadness that lay at our hearts. We came away feeling as those that dream, but not before she had sent her servant with us to point out the house where the Browns had lived; Ralla House, I think it was called, and as it proved to be the identical one the old man had shown us, when taking us to see Miss Roberts, the confirmation was complete. We walked around the old abode, the glow of the setting sun resting peacefully upon it, and the garden full of greenery. We noticed that the gable next the road was covered with slates, like a roof, otherwise there was nothing peculiar about it. It is now more than thirty years since papa and I stood there, in the ruddy “light of a day that is dead,” so that these recollections embrace a past within a past! The old lady and the old sailor must be sleeping their long sleep with