My dear friend and neighbor, the Rev. Hugh Arnott, had gone, after Christmas, to pay a long--promised visit to a country house in the romantic Carse of Gowrie, and his home-coming was delayed on account of the storm. Meanwhile one of his parishioners had died and would have to be buried before he could possibly return. He telegraphed his difficulty to me, and I agreed to take the burial service. Mr. Arnott’s church was in the county town, but the home of the dead girl was in the little fishing village of Carronmouth, a mile to the north. There was no church in the village at this time, but every soul in the place was a hereditary Episcopalian. I made my way down the hill from the railway to the seaside, where Carronmouth stood at the base of a great overhanging cliff; but, as it was my first visit to the place, I looked about in some perplexity, wondering which was the house I wanted. I was soon out of my dilemma. A cheery voice called out to me: “This way, your reverence.” I looked, and saw approaching me a youngish man of middle stature, attired comfortably but plainly in a suit of dark blue, over which he wore a heavy reefer coat buttoned up to the chin. His whole appearance told that he was not one of the fishermen. I followed him into one of the cottages, in which were assembled a large gathering of silent men and women, evidently waiting for the service. The coffin of the young girl was in the “ben” end of the house, and there most of the women were; I retired to the “but” end, where the men were, to put on my surplice; and as I was getting ready I could not help observing that in the horny hand of each fisherman was a well-thumbed Prayer Book, the place turned up at the Burial Office. I noticed also that in every face there was a look of affectionate respect when my companion spoke, as he did to almost every individual. He seemed to move about, and to interest himself in the arrangements, as if the dead girl had been of his own kin; and the utmost deference was paid to him. While the Psalm was recited, verse about, by clergyman and people, I was astonished, but delighted, to hear the whole company joining, in clear earnest tones, led by my unknown friend. When the coffin was ready to be “lifted,” one of the women put into his hands a spotless white linen sheet, which he wrapped around the plain deal coffin and on which he laid a wreath of sweet winter flowers; and, when the procession started up the hill to the peaceful resting-place on the top, it was he who walked immediately behind the coffin in the place of the chief mourner. As soon as my duty was performed I retired to the ruins of the old church that stood in the churchyard; there I unrobed, and made ready for a smart walk back to the station, to catch my return train. One of the fishermen came to carry my bag, and as soon as we were well on our way, I asked him the name of the gentleman who had so aroused my curiosity.