Up in Ardmuirland | Page 6

holy water for the Asperges, and with his
"lint-white locks" flowing onto his neck, he used to appear in Bell's
eyes "a deal mair imposin' lookin' ner the priest himsel'." His modest
and respectful bearing gained him the esteem of all. "I always think of
him," said Bell, "as one o' the saints of th' olden times, ye ken. He was
the model of a guid Catholic--pious, hard-workin', and aye happy and
contented."

In those far-off days Ardmuirland was entirely Catholic. The Faith, in
consequence, was an integral part of the life of the district, and the
priest the recognized potentate, whom every one was at all times ready
to serve--working on his croft, plowing, harvesting, and such like--with
cheerful promptitude. Any such labor, when required, was requested by
the priest from the altar on Sunday.
"I shall be glad to receive help this week on the glebe-land," he would
announce. "You will kindly arrange the division of labor among
yourselves."
The same would happen when the time came for cutting and storing up
peats for the winter fuel. The day and hour would be named, and all
who could possibly help would be at the hill punctually to take their
respective shares in the labor.
It was on one such occasion that the incident occurred which struck me
as the culminating point of Bell's recollections. I cannot give it as
dramatically as she did, and if I attempted to do so the pathos would be
marred by the broad Doric--unintelligible to southrons--in which her
narrative was told; but I will reproduce it as faithfully as possible in my
own words.
It was the "peat-casting" for the priest; every one had worked with a
will--young and old. Dinner had been sent up to the moss at noon by
the various housewives of the district. It was a sumptuous repast, as
usual on so great an occasion; chickens, oatcake, scones, cheese, and
abundance of milk had been thoroughly enjoyed by the workers. The
children--bearers of the dainties from their respective mothers--though
bashful in responding to the fatherly greetings of the old priest, were
yet secretly proud of the honor of his special notice. Shyly they stood
about in groups, watching for a time the resumed labors of fathers and
brothers, until afternoon was wearing away, and it was time to betake
themselves home to make ready for the still more important event of
the day. Gaily they rushed down the hill, their joyous laughter and
merry shouts--relieved as they were from the restraint which good
manners had imposed in the priest's presence--awaking the echoes of
the glen. For many of them would be allowed to take part in the

evening's festivity, and all might share in the preparations for it. This
event was the public supper in the priest's barn, when women were
welcomed with their husbands and brothers, and even the bigger
children were admitted. For the evening repast, as for that of noonday,
each family contributed its share of provisions, which were always
ample in quantity as well as excellent in quality.
Supper, on this particular occasion--as was usual--took some time, and
it was a serious business, when little conversation was encouraged. But
after supper the real fun began. None love dancing more than Scots; so
dancing must needs form the climax of every gathering for social
enjoyment. The bashful roughness which characterized the
commencement had worn off; lads and lasses were thoroughly enjoying
the somewhat rare opportunity of taking part in so large an assembly;
Archie Cattanach, the piper, was throwing his whole soul into the skirls
and flourishes of his choice tunes; all was gaiety and innocent
enjoyment. The good priest sat looking on pleased because his people
were happy; now and again he would move his position to another
group of the older guests, so that he might chat with all in turn; his
flock, though they held their Pastor in that reverence which none but a
priest can inspire, were under no false restraint in his presence, but
joined in laugh and jest with ease and simplicity.
Loudly rang out Archie's pipes, merrily tripped the dancers, and joy
reigned supreme, when suddenly there came an unexpected check. The
outer door flew open, and a girlie of about ten, wild-eyed, bare-headed,
panting for breath, rushed into the midst of the gathering. She was
evidently laboring under the stress of some unwonted excitement.
There was no shyness now, in spite of the priest's presence--in spite of
the eager faces that sought hers in anxious questioning.
"Mither, Mither!" she screamed shrilly, as she caught sight of the
familiar face she sought, and rushed toward her mother's open arms. It
was little Peggy, Bell's younger sister.
"Oh, Mither," she wailed through her sobs, "oor Jessie's nae to be foond!
She's nae