what was going on,
for he always knew everything affecting the people who sat in Culraine
Kirk of Scotland.

Certainly he watched Christine's improvement with the greatest
interest and pleasure. In six months she was a far more beautiful
woman than she had ever before been. Her soul was developing on the
finest lines, and it was constantly beautifying its fleshly abode. The
work was like that of a lapidary who, day by day, cuts and polishes a
gem of great value. Even Margot occasionally looked intently at her
daughter, and said wonderingly, "You are growing very bonnie,
Christine, the Domine must hae lost his sight, when he thought you
were sick and wearying for a change."

"I'm never sick, Mither. Whiles, when I was worrying mysel' anent
Angus Ballister, I used to hae a dowie weariness come o'er me; but
since feyther went awa' I havena had as much as a headache. Now if it
suits you, Mither, I'll gie you your knitting, I'm wanting to go and
write down something."

"Weel, gie me the needles, and gie my love to Cluny, and tell him to
bring me ane o' them white fuchsia plants he saw in a Glasgow
window."

"I hae given that word already, Mither."

"Do it again, lassie. Any man bides twice telling."

But the writing Christine wished to do was not a letter to her lover.
It was some lines that had been running through her mind for an hour,
and she knew that the only way in which she could lay their
persistency, was to write them down. She had just finished this work,
when the door was opened, and the Domine came in, with a gust of wind,
that blew the paper on which she was writing across the room. He
caught it first, and he smiled when he saw it was poetry.

"I'll even read it, Christine, it might be worth while."

"I couldna help writing the lines down, Sir. They bothered me till I
did sae. They always do."

"Oh-h! Then the lines are your own. That is a circumstance I cannot
pass."

"Gie them to me, Sir. Please!"

"When I have read them, Christine," and immediately he proceeded to
read them aloud. He read them twice, the second time with care and
sympathy:

"The boats rocked idly on the bay,
The nets hung straight within the deep,
On the hard deck the fishers lay,
Lost in a deep and dreamless sleep.
Why should they care, and watch, and wake--
Nets of the sleeping fishers take.
Only the sea the silence broke,
Until the Master Fisher spoke.

"O Christ, Thou must have loved the sea