"That was the best of Father's stories: they never had morals," said Ann. "The real secret of his charm was that at heart he was as much a child as any of them. Once I was down in the district with him, and we saw a very dirty little boy sitting on a doorstep. He greeted Father with a wide grin, and beckoned to him with a grimy forefinger. Father went obediently, and very slowly and mysteriously the little fellow drew from his ragged pocket a handful of marbles (very chipped and dirty ones) and said, 'Thae's whit ye ca' _bool_,' and Father, bending over the small figure, replied, 'So they are, sonny, so they are!' "Yes, the fat boy was right: he was a jolly kind of father to have!" CHAPTER XI "... When Rosamund was six months old we left Kirkcaple. It was a great uprooting. You don't live thirteen years in a place in close touch with the people without becoming deeply attached both to the place and people--and in the last year of our stay at Kirkcaple we had a wonderful experience. There was a great awakening of interest in spiritual things--a revival--and we saw many enter into life...." Mrs. Douglas stopped abruptly and regarded her daughter. "Ann," she said, "why do you begin to look abashed and miserable if I mention the word revival? Does conversion seem to you an improper subject?" Ann screwed her face uncomfortably. "Oh, I don't know, but I confess I do dislike to hear people talking glibly about that sort of thing. It somehow seems rather indecent. You didn't realise, you and Father, how miserable it was for us children going to so many evangelistic meetings. We liked shouting Sankey's hymns, and the addresses were all right, but oh! those 'after-meetings,' when we sat sick with fright, watching earnest young men working their way down the church to speak personally to us. How could we say we were on the road to heaven? And we were too honest--at least the boys were too honest--simply to say Yes, when asked if we were saved. I shall never think it right or proper that any casual person should leap on one and ask questions about one's soul. I should object to anyone, other than a doctor or intimate friend, asking me questions about my bodily health, and why should I be less select about my immortal soul? And it seemed to us so dreadful that they should count the converts. I remember with what abhorrence we once heard Mrs. Macfarlane tell how she and her husband had both talked to a young man about his soul. 'And when we had shown him the light'--you remember the sort of simper she gave--'and he had gone on his way rejoicing, I said to Mr. Macfarlane, "George dear, is it your soul or mine?"' In other words, 'My bird, sir.' I suppose she was out for stars in her crown, but I would rather have none than cadge for them like that." "Oh, Ann," cried her mother, "you don't know what you are saying. It hurts me to hear you talk in that flippant way about----"