Ardtaraig

round their necks. On they went in the pitchy darkness, half ¬stupefied by wind and rain, and for the most part actually wading in water. They reached Ardtarig some time in the small hour when the household was peacefully slumbering, and going round the house to a bedroom window, they threw up pebbles and thereby aroused the occupant. Soon they were admitted, two deplorable objects! The consternation and commotion that followed may be imagined! I really think this escapade opened my mother’s eyes to the fact that here was a man not to be gainsaid, and that what had to be must be. Papa used to laugh and say that no man need pretend to have been really “in love,” unless he could declare that he had walked ten miles barefoot to see the lady of his heart.
No more devoted son was ever taken into the bosom of a family. He became part and parcel of it, and spent himself in its service in ways I need not now enter upon. To the end of his life, tears would spring to his eyes when the days passed in that small Highland paradise were spoken of. How he did enjoy the life there, so well suited to his active temperament, no tongue or pen can ever tell. He was a keen angler, and learned to know all the burns for miles around, as though to the manor born. He fished in the loch, too, although in these latter impoverished days the boats were none of the best, and some leaked badly. I remember being out with papa and mamma on some of those fishing expeditions, and amusing myself by keeping “the dear fish” alive in the bottom of the risky cobble, so full was it of their native element.
I am struck as this narrative has enrolled itself, by noticing how much more prominent grandmamma appears than does her lord and master; he recedes into the background, while she is ever to the front; yet of the two, his was the most imposing, and by far the most fascinating, personality. Papa, for instance, would almost weep when he spoke of “Gran,” but he said very little at all of “Mam”; though, after Gran’s death, he transferred his allegiance to her, so far as to send her the same daily papers with which he had kept Gran liberally supplied, and behaved to her, in other ways, as a most dutiful son to the close of her life. Gran was popular; he had a way of entrance to all hearts. Mam had no such gift; indeed, she rather scorned it, and plumed herself on being otherwise; she would often say, “He is a poor creature who has no enemies.” Gran was courteous and reluctant to hurt the feelings of others; Mam was downright, sometimes cold and stiff, but could, on occasion, be gracious. Once Gran remonstrated with her for declining an invitation in an abrupt and positive way. “What would you have had me say?” she asked. “Oh well,” said kindly old Gran, “you might just have said yes, and perhaps not have gone!” “That may be your way,” was the response, “it is not mine!” And neither was it; she inspired respect more than love, and was satisfied that it should be so. She was of a fiery temper, but had a cool head in the main; was philo¬sophical, practical, and went straight to the heart of things. I have heard it said that she had been a student of Voltaire in her youth, but don’t vouch for it. I can truly say that she lived the life of a quiet, unostentatious Christian; discharging every duty that her hand found to do with the utmost fidelity. When death came, she evidently realised that she had lived long, and was ready for the change; at least, she bore herself so, and in the case of one so reserved and self-sufficing, who should dare to draw aside the veil. She caught cold, but this at eighty-seven is no slight matter; her breathing was much oppressed, so that Aunts Susan and Grace, with some dread, ventured to suggest sending for Dr Maclachlan. She held the medical faculty in supreme contempt, and now she smiled, as if pitying their folly, but seeing their anxiety, said, “If you wish a doctor to see an old woman die, certainly send for him.” Only too thankful for the permission accorded, the aunts did so at once. His opinion was decided. “Yes,” he said, “she will go; but I shall give something that will relieve the breathing.” And the breathing was relieved, greatly to the surprise of the patient! She passed away quite peacefully. After death the furrows and wrinkles she had so much disliked nearly all disappeared, and papa, who saw her in her coffin, described the face as almost that of a young woman.
After this the last of the old home was finally scattered, and the house at Rothesay given up. Aunt Grace lived in Glasgow for some years, part of which time she lived with her nephews in Bath Street,