t as the anniversary solemnities closed at noon, the crowd of
pilgrims prepared to return home. The Valamo, too, sounded her warning
bell, so we left the monastery as friends where we had arrived as
strangers, and went on board. Boat after boat, gunwale-deep with the gay
Carelians, rowed down the inlet, and in the space of half an hour but a
few stragglers were left of all the multitude. Some of the monks came
down to say another good-bye, and the under-abbot, blessing R., made the
sign of the cross upon his brow and breast.

When we reached the golden dome of St. Nicholas, at the outlet of the
harbor, the boats had set their sails, and the lake was no longer
lonely. Scores of white wings gleamed in the sun, as they scattered away
in radii from the central and sacred point, some north, some east, and
some veering south around Holy Island. Sergius and Herrmann gave them
smooth seas, and light, favorable airs; for the least roughness would
have carried them, overladen as they were, to the bottom. Once more the
bells of Valaam chimed farewell, and we turned the point to the
westward, steering back to Kexholm.

Late that night we reached our old moorage at Konewitz, and on Saturday,
at the appointed hour, landed in St. Petersburg. We carried the white
cross at the fore as we descended the Neva, and the bells of the
churches along the banks welcomed our return. And now, as I recall those
five days among the islands of the Northern Lake, I see that it is good
to go on a pilgrimage, even if one is not a pilgrim.

* * * * *

WET-WEATHER WORK.

BY A FARMER.

VI.

I begin my day with a canny Scot, who was born in Edinburgh in 1726,
near which city his father conducted a large market-garden. As a youth,
aged nineteen, John Abercrombie (for it is of him I make companion this
wet morning) saw the Battle of Preston Pans, at which the Highlanders
pushed the King's-men in defeat to the very foot of his father's
garden-wall. Whether he shouldered a matchlock for the Castle-people and
Sir John Hope, or merely looked over from the kale-beds at the
victorious fighters for Prince Charley, I cannot learn; it is certain
only that before Culloden, and the final discomfiture of the Pretender,
he avowed himself a good King's-man, and in many an after-year, over his
pipe and his ale, told the story of the battle which surged wrathfully
around his father's kale-garden by Preston Pans.

But he did not stay