"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.
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 who spend such nights may well call caller herrin' "the lives o' men"!