tak' denner wi' the priest o' Sundays. They wes bidin' a good bit awa'
frae the chapel, ye ken, sir, an' they aye likit a talk wi' me aifter
Mass. So Mr. McGillivray wouldna' aloo them to fast till they got
hame, but aye pressit them to stay. For they wouldna' break their fast
till the priest did, ye ken; it had aye been the custom in their young
days, and they keepit it till they wes too weak to fast sae lang."

Besides the Ardmuirland district, the priest had charge of two others
at some little distance over the hills in different directions. It was
his duty to say Mass at one or other of these stations occasionally,
and the Ardmuirland folk who could conveniently manage the journey
would generally accompany him on a Sunday. They would walk over the
hill in a kind of unorganized procession, reciting the Rosary and
litany as they went.

During the week the priest kept daily moving about among his people,
and little of interest could happen which did not soon come to his
knowledge. "The fowk aye enjoyit a chat wi' the priest," said Bell,
"for Mr. McGillivray wes the best oot at tellin' auld-fashioned
stories." His figure was a familiar one in all the countryside, as he
walked slowly along, leaning on his silver-mounted walking-stick, and
wrapped in the ample folds of a well-worn Spanish cloak, buckled at the
neck by a silver clasp. Under that same cloak he would often carry
tit-bits of oatcake for the horses he might come across in the farms he
visited--for he was a lover of all dumb creatures.

Mr. McGillivray's only outdoor recreation was fishing. Children knew
his ways, and would shyly steal after him down to the side of the burn
and watch him from a distance. When his rod happened to get caught in
the branches of the stunted birches which bordered the stream--which