I followed him into one of the cottages, in which were assembled a large gathering of silent men and women, evidently waiting for the service. The coffin of the young girl was in the “ben” end of the house, and there most of the women were; I retired to the “but” end, where the men were, to put on my surplice; and as I was getting ready I could not help observing that in the horny hand of each fisherman was a well-thumbed Prayer Book, the place turned up at the Burial Office.
I noticed also that in every face there was a look of affectionate respect when my companion spoke, as he did to almost every individual. He seemed to move about, and to interest himself in the arrangements, as if the dead girl had been of his own kin; and the utmost deference was paid to him.
While the Psalm was recited, verse about, by clergyman and people, I was astonished, but delighted, to hear the whole company joining, in clear earnest tones, led by my unknown friend.
When the coffin was ready to be “lifted,” one of the women put into his hands a spotless white linen sheet, which he wrapped around the plain deal coffin and on which he laid a wreath of sweet winter flowers; and, when the procession started up the hill to the peaceful resting-place on the top, it was he who walked immediately behind the coffin in the place of the chief mourner.
As soon as my duty was performed I retired to the ruins of the old church that stood in the churchyard; there I unrobed, and made ready for a smart walk back to the station, to catch my return train. One of the fishermen came to carry my bag, and as soon as we were well on our way, I asked him the name of the gentleman who had so aroused my curiosity.
“Oh! the Major, you mean; I thocht a’body hereaboot kent the Major. He’s the Laird o’ Carron, and owns the hale toon o’ Carronmooth. He bides in yon big hoose amo’ the trees, on the tap o’ the hill. He’s an awfu’ fine man. Aye, gin a’ the lairds were like him, you wouldna hear sae muckle grumblin’ frae the workin’ fowk. There’s no a bairn in the place he disna ken. Noo, there was wee Mirren that we’ve juist beeried—she was an orphan, an’ the Major an’ his leddy never loot her want for onything that could do her good, a’ the time she was sick. Aye, there’s nae mony fowk like the Major!”
“Is he a wealthy man, then?”
“Na, sir; as lairds go, he’s a poor man. He disna gie himsel’ a chance to grow rich. The rents frae the estate dinna come to a great deal, an’ he spends the feck o’ it. When he cam’ here, aifter the auld laird deed, things were in a gey bad wye. He made nae fuss aboot it, but in his ain quaiet style he set himsel’ to the wark o’ local improvement.
“The first big job he startit was to repair a’ the cottages, an’ to get in a regular set o’ drains. There’s nae half the sick fowk noo that there used to be.
“Syne he fitted up ane o’ the hooses as a schuil, and got Miss Emslie an’ her twa nieces to teach the bairns. They’re maybe nae sae weel trained as the toon’s teachers, but they can teach readin’, an’ writin’, an’ coontin’—an’ what’s better than a’, they see that a’ oor young folk ken the Gospels, an’ the Catechism, an’ the Mornin’ an’ Evenin’ Prayer.