r seemed quite at one
with the things of life--and his 'bogle tales' of which I was so fond,
all turned on the spirits of the dead coming again to visit those whom
they had loved, and from whom they had been taken--and he used to tell
them with such passionate conviction that sometimes I trembled and
wondered if any spirit were standing near us in the light of the peat
fire, or if the shriek of the wind over our sheiling were the cry of
some unhappy soul in torment. Well! When his time came, he was not
allowed to suffer--one day in a great storm he was struck by lightning
on the side of the mountain where he was herding in his flocks--and
there he was found lying as though he were peacefully asleep. Death must
have been swift and painless--and I always thank God for that!" He
paused a moment--then went on--"When I found myself quite alone in the
world, I hired myself out to a farmer for five years--and worked
faithfully for him--worked so well that he raised my wages and would
willingly have kept me on--but I had the 'bogle tales' in my head and
could not rest. It was in the days before Andrew Carnegie started trying
to rub out the memory of his 'Homestead' cruelty by planting 'free'
libraries, (for which taxpayers are rated) all over the country--and
pauperising Scottish University education by grants of money--I suppose
he is a sort of little Pontiff unto himself, and thinks that money can
pacify Heaven, and silence the cry of brothers' blood rising from the
Homestead ground. In my boyhood a Scottish University education had to
be earned by the would-be student himself--earned by hard work, hard
living, patience, perseverance and _grit_. That's the one quality I
had--grit--and it served me well in all I wanted. I entered at St.
Andrews--graduated, and came out an M.A. That helped to give me my first
chance with the press. But I'm sure I'm boring you by all this chatter
about myself! David, _you_ stop me when you think Miss Deane has had
enough!"

Helmsley looked at Mary's figure in its pale lilac gown touched here and
there by the red sparkle of the fire, and noted the attentive poise of
her head, and the passive quietude of her generally busy hands which now
lay in her lap loosely folded over her lace work.

"Have we had enough, Mary, do you think?" he asked, with the glimmering
of a tender little smile under his white moustache.

She glanced at him quickly in a startled way, as though she had been
suddenly wakene