indeed they
were, although a trifle limited in horizon, and he hoped that one of
the "fruits" was "satisfied with his Sunday's work," which shows that
as often as a man of twenty-one gets out of touch with reality, he
ought straightway to sit down and write to his mother. Carmichael
indeed told me one evening at the Cottage that he never had any
mystical call to the ministry, but only had entered the Divinity Hall
instead of going to Oxford because his mother had this for her heart's
desire, and he loved her. As a layman it perhaps did not become me to
judge mysteries, but I dared to say that any man might well be guided
by his mother in religion, and that the closer he kept to her memory
the better he would do his work. After which both of us smoked
furiously, and Carmichael, two minutes later, was moved to remark that
some Turkish I had then was enough to lure a man up Glen Urtach in the
month of December.

The young minister was stirred on the way to Kilbogie, and began to
dream dreams in the twilight. Love had come suddenly to him, and after
an unexpected fashion. Miss Carnegie was of another rank and another
faith, nor was she even his ideal woman, neither conspicuously
spiritual nor gentle, but frank, outspoken, fearless, self-willed. He
could also see that she had been spoiled by her father and his friends,
who had given her _carte blanche_ to say and do what she pleased. Very
likely--he could admit that even in the first blush of his emotion--she
might be passionate and prejudiced on occasion, even a fierce hater.
This he had imagined in the Tochty woods, and was not afraid, for her
imperfections seemed to him a provocation and an attraction. They were
the defects of her qualities--of her courage, candour, generosity,
affection. Carmichael leant upon a stile, and recalled the carriage of
her head, the quick flash of her eye, the tap of her foot, the
fascination of her manner. She was free from the affectations,
gaucheries, commonplaces, wearinesses of many good women he had known.
St. Theresa had been the woman enshrined in the tabernacle of his
heart, but life might have been a trifle tiresome if a man were married
to a saint. The saints have no humour, and do not relax. Life with a
woman like Miss Carnegie would be effervescent and stimulating, full of
surprises and piquancy. No, she was not a saint, but he felt by an
instinct she was pure, loyal, reverent, and true at the core. She was
a gallan