



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Inglises, by Margaret Murray Robertson.

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Margaret Robertson generally wrote about rather religion-minded people,
and this is no exception.  The women in her stories tend to moan on a
good bit, and this book is also no exception to that.  Having said that,
don't say I didn't warn you.  However, like all novels of the second
half of the nineteenth century, they are about a bygone age, and things
were different then.  For that reason it is worth reading books of that
period if you want to know more about how people lived in those days.

One very big difference was illness.  Nowadays, you go to the doctor,
and very probably he or she will be able to cure you.  In those days you
either died or were confined to your bed for a long time.  If you died
but had been responsible for income coming into the house, in many cases
that stopped, too.  The women-folk and the children would be left
without support.  No wonder they moaned a lot, and turned to religion,
to comfort themselves.  It is hard for us to realise what huge progress
has been made in social reforms.  Reading this book, and others of that
period (this book was published in 1872) will teach a lot about how
lucky we are to live in the present age, despite all its other faults.
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THE INGLISES, BY MARGARET MURRAY ROBERTSON.



CHAPTER ONE.

In the large and irregular township of Gourlay, there are two villages,
Gourlay Centre and Gourlay Corner.  The Reverend Mr Inglis lived in the
largest and prettiest of the two, but he preached in both.  He preached
also in another part of the town, called the North Gore.  A good many of
the Gore people used to attend church in one or other of the two
villages; but some of them would never have heard the Gospel preached
from one year's end to the other, if the minister had not gone to them.
So, though the way was long and the roads rough at the best of seasons,
Mr Inglis went often to hold service in the little red school-house
there.  It was not far on in November, but the night was as hard a night
to be out in as though it were the depth of winter, Mrs Inglis thought,
as the wind dashed the rain and sleet against the window out of which
she and her son David were trying to look.  They could see nothing,
however, for the night was very dark.  Even the village lights were but
dimly visible through the storm, which grew thicker every moment; with
less of rain and more of snow, and the moaning of the wind among the
trees made it impossible for them to hear any other sound.

"I ought to have gone with him, mamma," said the boy, at last.

"Perhaps so, dear.  But papa thought it not best, as this is Frank's
last night here."

"It is quite time he were at home, mamma, even though the roads are
bad."

"Yes; he must have been detained.  We will not wait any longer.  We will
have prayers, and let the children go to bed; he will be very tired when
he gets home."

"How the wind blows!  We could not hear the wagon even if he were quite
near.  Shall I go to the gate and wait?"

"No, dear, better not.  Only be ready with the lantern when he comes."

They stood waiting a little longer, and then David opened the door and
looked out.

"It will be awful on Hardscrabble to-night, mamma," said he, as he came
back to her side.

"Yes," said his mother, with a sigh, and then they were for a long time
silent.  She was thinking how the wind would find its way through the
long-worn great coat of her husband, and how unfit he was to bear the
bitter cold.  David was thinking how the rain, that had been falling so
heavily all the afternoon, must have gullied out the road down the north
side of Hardscrabble hill, and hoping that old Don would prove himself
sure-footed in the darkness.

"I wish I had gone with him," said he, again.

"Let us go to the children," said his mother.

The room in which the children were gathered was bright with
fire-light--a picture of comfort in contrast with the dark and stormy
night out upon which these two had been looking.  The mother shivered a
little as she drew near the fire.

"Sit here, mamma."

"No, sit here; this is the best place."  The eagerness was like to grow
to clamour.

"Hush! children," said the mother; "it is time for prayers.  We will not
wait for papa, because he will be very tired and cold.  No, Letty, you
need not get the books, there has been enough reading for the little
ones to-night.  We will sing `Jesus, lover of my soul,' and then David
will read the chapter."

"Oh! yes, mamma, `Jesus, lover;' I like that best," said little Mary,
laying her head down on her mother's shoulder, and her little shrill
voice joined with the others all through, though she could hardly speak
the words plainly.

"That's for papa," said she, when they reached the end of the last line,
"While the tempest still is high."

The children laughed, but the mother kissed her fondly, saying softly:

"Yes, love; but let us sing on to the end."

It was very sweet singing, and very earnest.  Even their cousin, Francis
Oswald, whose singing in general was of a very different kind, joined in
it, to its