ife.

"Weel may her keel row--"

Then with a merry, inward laugh she stopped, and said with pretended
displeasure: "Be quiet, Christine! You're makin' poetry again, and you
shouldna do the like o' that foolishness. Neil thinks it isna becoming
for women to mak' poetry--he says men lose their good sense when they
do it, and women! He hadna the words for their shortcomings in the
matter. He could only glower and shake his head, and look up at the
ceiling, which he remarked needed a coat o' clean lime and water.
Weel, I suppose Neil is right! There's many a thing not becomin' to
women, and nae doubt makin' poetry up is among them."

When she entered the cottage, she found the Domine, Dr. Magnus
Trenabie, drinking a cup of tea at the fireside. He had been to the
pier to see the boats sail, for all the men of his parish were near
and dear to him. He was an extraordinary man--a scholar who had taken
many degrees and honors, and not exhausted his mental powers in
getting them--a calm, sabbatic mystic, usually so quiet that his
simple presence had a sacramental efficacy--a man who never reasoned,
being full of faith; a man enlightened by his heart, not by his
brain.

Being spiritually of celestial race, he was lodged in a suitable body.
Its frame was Norse, its blood Celtic. He appeared to be a small man,
when he stood among the gigantic fishermen who obeyed him like little
children, but he was really of average height, graceful and slender.
His head was remarkably long and deep, his light hair straight and
fine. The expression of his face was usually calm and still, perhaps a
little cold, but there was every now and then a look of flame.
Spiritually, he had a great, tender soul quite happy to dwell in a
little house. Men and women loved him, he was the angel on the hearth
of every home in Culraine.

When Christine entered the cottage, the atmosphere of the sea was
around and about her. The salt air was in her clothing, the fresh wind
in her loosened hair, and she had a touch of its impetuosity in the
hurry of her feet, the toss of her manner, the ring of her voice.

"O Mither!" she cried, then seeing the Domine, she made a little
curtsey, and spoke to him first. "I was noticing you, Sir, among the
men on the pier. I thought you were going with them this night."

"They have hard work this night, Christine, and my heart tells me they
will be wanting to say little words they would not like me to hear."

"You could hae