Adela Cathcart, Volume 3 by MacDonald, George, 1824-1905

"'Two words to that!' said the fearless Earl; 'The sleep was none of thine; For I dreamed of my brother all the night-- His soul brought the sleep to mine.

"'But I care not a crack for a soul so black, And thou may'st have it yet: I would let it burn to eternity, My brother alive to set.'

"The demon lifted his beaver up, Crusted with blood and mould; And, lo! John Gordon looked out of the helm, And smiled upon Archibold.

"'Thy soul is mine, brother Archie,' he said, 'And I yield it thee none the worse; No devil came near thee, Archie, lad, But a brother to be thy nurse.'

"Lord Archibold fell upon his knee, On the blood-fed, bright green sod: 'The soul that my brother gives back to me, Is thine for ever, O God!'"

"Now for a piece of good, honest prose!" said the curate, the moment Harry had finished, without allowing room for any remarks. "That is, if the ladies and gentlemen will allow me to read once more."

Of course, all assented heartily.

"It is nothing of a story, but I think it is something of a picture, drawn principally from experiences of my own childhood, which I told you was spent chiefly in the north of Scotland. The one great joy of the year, although some years went without it altogether, was the summer visit paid to the shores of the Moray Firth. My story is merely a record of some of the impressions left on myself by such a visit, although the boy is certainly not a portrait of myself; and if it has no result, no end, reaching beyond childhood into what is commonly called life, I presume it is not of a peculiar or solitary character in that respect; for surely many that we count finished stories--life-histories--must look very different to the angels; and if they haven't to be written over again, at least they have to be carried on a few aeons further.

"A CHILD'S HOLIDAY.

"Before the door of a substantial farm-house in the north of Scotland, stands a vehicle of somewhat singular construction. When analysed, however, its composition proves to be simple enough. It is a common agricultural cart, over which, by means of a few iron rods bent across, a semi-cylindrical covering of white canvas has been stretched. It is thus transformed from a hay or harvest cart into a family carriage, of comfortable dimensions, though somewhat slow of progress. The lack of springs is supplied by thick layers of straw, while sacks stuffed with the same material are placed around for seats. Various articles are being stowed away under the bags, and in the corners among the straw, by children with bright expectant faces; the said articles having been in process of collection and arrangement for a month or six weeks previous, in anticipation of the journey which now lies, in all its length and brightness, the length and brightness of a long northern summer's day, before them.