In those far-off days Ardmuirland was entirely Catholic. The Faith, in
consequence, was an integral part of the life of the district, and the
priest the recognized potentate, whom every one was at all times ready
to serve--working on his croft, plowing, harvesting, and such
like--with cheerful promptitude. Any such labor, when required, was
requested by the priest from the altar on Sunday.

"I shall be glad to receive help this week on the glebe-land," he would
announce. "You will kindly arrange the division of labor among
yourselves."

The same would happen when the time came for cutting and storing up
peats for the winter fuel. The day and hour would be named, and all
who could possibly help would be at the hill punctually to take their
respective shares in the labor.

It was on one such occasion that the incident occurred which struck me
as the culminating point of Bell's recollections. I cannot give it as
dramatically as she did, and if I attempted to do so the pathos would
be marred by the broad Doric--unintelligible to southrons--in which her
narrative was told; but I will reproduce it as faithfully as possible
in my own words.

It was the "peat-casting" for the priest; every one had worked with a
will--young and old. Dinner had been sent up to the moss at noon by
the various housewives of the district. It was a sumptuous repast, as
usual on so great an occasion; chickens, oatcake, scones, cheese, and
abundance of milk had been thoroughly enjoyed by the workers. The
children--bearers of the dainties from their respective mothers--though
bashful in responding to the fatherly greetings of the old priest, were