A Knight of the Nets

A Knight of the Nets, by Amelia
E. Barr

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Title: A Knight of the Nets
Author: Amelia E. Barr
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A KNIGHT OF THE NETS
BY
AMELIA E. BARR
1896

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I
THE WORLD SHE LIVED IN.
II CHRISTINA AND ANDREW.
III THE AILING HEART.

IV THE LASH OF THE WHIP.
V THE LOST BRIDE.
VI WHERE IS MY MONEY?
VII THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
VIII A GREAT DELIVERANCE.
IX THE RIGHTING OF A WRONG.
X TAKE ME IN TO DIE.
XI DRIVEN TO HIS DUTY.
XII AMONG HER OWN PEOPLE.
XIII THE "LITTLE SOPHY".

Grey sky, brown waters: as a bird that flies My heart flits forth to these;
Back to the winter rose of Northern skies, Back to the Northern seas.
CHAPTER I
THE WORLD SHE LIVED IN
It would be easy to walk many a time through "Fife and all the lands
about it" and never once find the little fishing village of Pittendurie.
Indeed, it would be a singular thing if it was found, unless some special
business or direction led to it. For clearly it was never intended that
human beings should build homes where these cottages cling together,
between sea and sky,--a few here, and a few there, hidden away in
every bend of the rocks where a little ground could be levelled, so that
the tides in stormy weather break with threat and fury on the very
doorstones of the lowest cottages. Yet as the lofty semicircle of hills
bend inward, the sea follows; and there is a fair harbour, where the

fishing boats ride together while their sails dry in the afternoon sun.
Then the hamlet is very still; for the men are sleeping off the weariness
of their night work, while the children play quietly among the tangle,
and the women mend the nets or bait the lines for the next fishing. A
lonely little spot, shut in by sea and land, and yet life is there in all its
passionate variety--love and hate, jealousy and avarice, youth, with its
ideal sorrows and infinite expectations, age, with its memories and
regrets, and "sure and certain hope."
The cottages also have their individualities. Although they are much of
the same size and pattern, an observing eye would have picked out the
Binnie cottage as distinctive and prepossessing. Its outside walls were
as white as lime could make them; its small windows brightened with
geraniums and a white muslin curtain; and the litter of ropes and nets
and drying fish which encumbered the majority of thatches, was
pleasantly absent. Standing on a little level, thirty feet above the
shingle, it faced the open sea, and was constantly filled with the
confused tones of its sighing surges, and penetrated by its pulsating,
tremendous vitality.
It had been the home of many generations of Binnies, and the very old,
and the very young, had usually shared its comforts together; but at the
time of my story, there remained of the family only the widow of the
last proprietor, her son Andrew, and her daughter Christina. Christina
was twenty years old, and still unmarried,--a strange thing in
Pittendurie, where early marriages are the rule. Some said she was vain
of her beauty and could find no lad whom she thought good enough;
others thought she was a selfish, cold-hearted girl, feared for the cares
and the labours of a fisherman's wife.
On this July