The White People

heme of life. When you begin to suspect this and to watch closely you also begin to see how trifles connect themselves with one another,

ow or care whether we are wrong or right, the right ones because we uncons

of person in simple words which other every-day people can understand. I am only expressing what has gradually grown into belief in my mind through reading with Angus ancient books and modern ones-books about faith

g at each other, I in one high-backed chair and he in another on the opposite side of the hearth. Angus is wonderful-wonderful! He KNOWS there is no such thing as chance. He

hed aside the books hiding the old manuscript which told the real story of Dark Malcolm of the Glen and Wee Brown Elspeth. It seemed l

ook courage and asked them if they would come to me. Most people are bored by the prospect of life in a feudal castle, howsoever picturesquely it is set in a place where there are no neighbors to count on. Its ancient stateli

view of the moor. Angus knew that Mr. MacNairn would love the library, and he hovered about consulting his catalogues and looking over his shelves, taking down volumes here and there, holding them tenderly in his long, bony old hand as he dipp

ounted the steps, as I often did when he left them, that I came upon the manuscript which related the old story of Dark Malcolm and his child. It

The one human passion of Dark Malcolm's life was his love for his little daughter. She had brown eyes and brown hair, and those who most loved her called her Wee Brown Elspeth. Ian Red Hand was richer and more powerful than Malcolm of the Glen, and therefore could more easily work his cruel will. He knew well of Malcolm's worship of his child, and laid his plans to torture him through her. D

alcolm, raving mad, "but we may die fighting to get near enough to

. By what strange chance Dark Malcolm came upon Wee Brown Elspeth, craftily set to playing hide-and-seek with a child of Ian's so that she might not cry out and betray her presence; how, already wounded to his death, he caught at and drove his dir

t Angus Macayre was standing in the dimness at the foot of the ladder. He lo

and and Dark Malcolm you are

who was fought for and k

y way for a father," he said. "A hound of hell was Ian

ioningly. "Did this fall at the back there

ng thing to read. I have hidden many from you.

st memories for a while and th

lence-"why did I call the child who us

but I made up my mind that you had heard some of the maids talki

ad been little more than a baby; the whole thing seemed like a half-forgotten

. "I do remember they had pale, savage, exultant faces. And torn, stained clothe

s too thick," he answered. "They

to try to remember, Angus," I said

d get down from the step-ladder. Come and look a

body and gone back to the day when I sat a little child on the moor and heard the dull sound o

hts were working at the same time in his mind: one his thoughts about Hector Mac

tairs to dress for dinner he said a strange thing

our minds. This Mr. Hector MacNairn is no common man. He is one who is great and wise enough to decide things plain people could not be sure of. Jean and I are glad indeed

if you and Jean had known some big secret all my life. But I am not fri

ld of both my hands and kissed them, pressing them quite long and emotionally to h