ime for Ruleson to appear, Margot turned to Angus and
thanked him for some special gift or kindness that had come to the
cottage that week, and Angus always laughed, and pointing to Neil,
said:

"Neil is the culprit, Mrs. Ruleson. It is Neil's doing, I assure you."
And of course this statement might be, in several ways, the truth. At
any rate, the old proverb which advises us "never to look a gift horse
in the mouth," is a good one. For the motive of the gift is more than
the gift itself.

These gifts were all simple enough, but they were such as delighted
Margot's childlike heart--an armful of dahlias or carnations--a basket
of nectarines or apricots--two or three dozen fresh eggs--a pot of
butter--a pair of guinea fowls, then rare in poultry yards, or a brood
of young turkeys to feed and fatten for the New Year's festival. About
these fowls, Neil wrote her elaborate directions. And Margot was more
delighted with these simple gifts than many have been with a great
estate. And Christine knew, and Angus knew that she knew, and it was a
subtle tie between them, made of meeting glances and clasping hands.

CHAPTER IV

THE FISHERMAN'S FAIR

The winds go up and down upon the sea,
And some they lightly clasp, entreating kindly,
And waft them to the port where they would be:
And other ships they buffet long and blindly.
The cloud comes down on the great sinking deep,
And on the shore, the watchers stand and weep.

So the busy fishing season passed away, and was a very fortunate one,
until it was nearly over. Then there were several days of foggy,
dismal weather, and one night when the nets were down a sudden violent
storm drove from the north, and the boats, being at that time mostly
open boats, shipped water at every sea. The greatest hurry and
confusion followed, and they were finally compelled to cut the nets
adrift, glad indeed to lose all, if they could only make the first
shelter. And mothers and wives, standing helpless at the little
windows of their cottages, watched the storm, while the men they loved
were fighting the furious tempest in the black night.

"God help my men!" prayed Margot. She was weeping like a child, but
yet in her anguish full of faith in God's mercy, and looking
trustfully to Him to send her men home again. "I'll ne'er fret for
the nets," she said, "they'll hav' to go, nae doubt o' that. Let them
go! But oh, Feyther i' heaven, send hame my men folk!"

Ah! Women w