“Naething oot o’ the way, I just told him, in a ceevil manner, that he was a feckless, fashious gowk, or something or ither o’ an idiotic make. He was just telling me he didn’t speak French, when you opened the door,” and then she laughed in a very infectious manner. “But this is not business, Madam,” she said, “and I will be glad to hear what you require.”
Our business was soon pleasantly arranged, and just then, very opportunely, my five o’clock tea came in, and I asked Miss Sarah Lochrigg to stay, and drink a cup with me, and tell me all about the Scotland of her day. “It is fifty years since I left Scotland,” I said, “there will be many changes since then.”
She took off her hat and gloves and sat down. “I come from a fishing village on the coast of Fife. 364 They don’t change easily, or quickly, in a fishing village.”
“What village? Was it Largo?”
“No. Culraine, a bit north of Largo.”
“Never!”
“Ay, Culraine. Do you know the place?”
“I used to know people who lived there. Doctor Magnus Trenabie, for instance. Is he living yet?”
“No, he went the way of the righteous, twenty years ago. I remember him very well. He preached until the last day of his life, but he was so weak, and his eyesight so bad, that one of the elders helped him up the pulpit stairs, and another went up at the close of the service, and helped him down, and saw him safely home.
“One Sabbath morning, though he made no complaint, he found it difficult to pronounce the benediction, but with a great effort he raised his hands and face heavenward, and said every word plainly. Then he turned his face to the elder, and said, ‘Help me home, Ruleson,’ and both Ruleson and Tamsen took him there. He died sometime in the afternoon, while the whole kirk was praying for him, died so quietly, it was hard to tell the very time o’ his flitting. He was here one minute, the next he was gone. In every cottage there was the feeling of death. He was really a rich man, and left a deal of money to the Ruleson school in Culraine village.”