The last straggler had slipped into the back seat, the churc

Produced by Al Haines

DUNCAN POLITE

THE WATCHMAN OF GLENORO

BY

MARIAN KEITH

THE WESTMINSTER CO., Limited

PUBLISHERS, TORONTO

Entered According to the Act of Parliament of Canada in the Year 1905

By THE WESTMINSTER COMPANY

In the Office of the Minister of Agriculture

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE COVENANT

II. A MEMORABLE SABBATH

III. A WAR-MAKER AND A PEACE-MAKER

IV. THE SECOND JOHN McALPINE

V. A PASTORAL VISITATION

VI. THE FULFILMENT OF PROMISE

VII. A DISASTROUS PICNIC

VIII. BURSTING OF THE STORM

IX. THE PRESIDENT OF THE LADIES' AID SOCIETY

X. THE WATCHMAN'S DESPAIR

XI. COALS OF FIRE

XII. JESSIE

XIII. THE CANADIAN PATRIOTIC SOCIETY

XIV. DONALD'S RETURN

XV. THE SACRIFICE

XVI. THE COVENANT RENEWED

DUNCAN POLITE

THE WATCHMAN OF GLENORO

I

THE COVENANT

The morning sun was growing stronger as it rose higher. Collie,

returning from driving his master's cow to the cool shade of the back

pasture, felt its rays penetrate his shaggy coat. His tongue hung out

as he padded swiftly up the garden path where already the dew was

almost dried from the rows of marigolds and sweet William. He dropped

with a sigh in the shadow of the old water-barrel that stood against

the house. He felt too warm even to chase his enemy, the cat, into her

accustomed shelter of the adjacent pine tree, though she was curled up

with impudent complacence upon the top of the barrel. Instead, he lay

in the shade, his eyes glancing furtively through the open door. He

could see inside the old log shanty, where a figure was moving about

the bare, spotless kitchen; his tail began to thump a welcome upon the

ground, as the figure came slowly forward and stood in the doorway. It

was an old man, tall and stooped, with a finely built frame which

suggested a less rugged constitution than is the possession of the

average pioneer. His face was handsome, with regular, clearly cut

features and a pair of wonderful eyes, dark and deep set, with a wealth

of kindness in their brown depths and a mysterious pathos which spoke

of a poetic soul beneath.

Duncan Polite, the people of the neighbourhood called him, partly

because the name was descriptive of his gentle, courteous nature, and

partly because, among the many McDonalds of these Canadian Highlands,

to which clan he belonged, names were so often repeated that the only

appellation of any use to a man was the special and distinguishing one,

complimentary or otherwise, bestowed upon him by his neighbours.

Indeed, such was the dearth of original names that it is on record that

old Ian McAllister, the first schoolmaster in the McDonald settlement,

was often compelled as he flung his tawse across the room at some

focussed point of mischief behind the stove, to pause even at the

boiling-point of his wrath, to deliver himself of some such explanation

of the case as:

"Fiddlin' Archie's Archie, an' Squintin' Archie's Duncan, an' you,

Black Sandy More, come up here or Ah'll smash every curse o' a McDonald

in the school!"

But among all the McDonalds there was only one whose character demanded

such a title as belonged to Duncan Polite. He stood for a moment this

morning, in his doorway, gazing over the sun-bathed fields, all green

and gold in their early summer dress, then went back into the room,

returning the next moment carrying an old leather-bound Bible. He

spread his big red handkerchief upon the doorstep to protect his

Sabbath clothes from possible contact with dust, and seated himself

upon it, the open Book on his knee.

Everything in his little bachelor domain was in perfect order; the path

to the gate, with its bright border of flowers, was swept as clean as

the spotless floor within the log shanty; the old stove in the centre

of the kitchen, the big, high cupboard with its rows of shining dishes,

the old clock ticking in a solemn muffled tone from its place on the

dresser, and the bare pine table were all in a condition of beautiful

dazzling cleanliness. A condition befitting the day, Duncan felt, for

it was Sabbath morning, and now he sat awaiting the coming of his old

friend, with whom it had been his custom, for more than thirty years,

to walk down the valley to church, rain or shine, snow storm or blazing

heat.

Collie looked up with eyes of dumb devotion as the man seated himself.

He wagged his tail expectantly, but, seeing the open Bible, dropped his

nose between his paws again and dozed.

But Duncan Polite did not read. His eyes wandered away over the

landscape. It was a scene worth contemplating--an expansive tract of

rich farm lands, stretching from the blue line of Lake Simcoe on the

south, to another blue line on the northern horizon, where Lake Oro

peeped through the sharp tops of the firs. But to Duncan Polite, the

best of all was the little valley that sloped abruptly from his very

doorstep to the sparkling river.

His eyes followed the white road that passed his farm and wound down

into the shady depths. He could see it twisting in and out among the

elms, and on through the village where the tall smoke-stack of the

saw-mill, the church spire and the chimneys of the houses rose out of

the green orchards. It crossed the blue line of the river where the

old church stood, and then went winding up the opposite hill to

disappear among the pines.

The beauty of it all went to Duncan Polite's poetic heart. The music

of the river, mingling with the chorus of the orioles that flashed

golden in the pines at his gate, found an echo in his soul, and he

crooned to its accompaniment his favourite Gaelic psalm,

"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,

He leadeth me beside the still waters."

_His_ glen, Duncan Polite had always called this place beneath him,

though he owned not a foot of land within its green walls; but his glen

it really was in a higher sense. More than fifty years before, old

Donald McDonald, his father, had cut down the first tree on the Oro

banks, and there, in that time of incredible hardships, he had knelt

one day by an old mossy stone on the edge of the valley and,

Jacob-like, made a covenant with the Lord, that if He would be with him

and give him a home for his children in the wilderness, they would

pledge themselves to make it a place of righteousness, as pure and

lovely as they had received it from Nature's hand.

Duncan had been a mere child then, but he had realised something of the

solemnity of the pledge. As he grew older the feeling became stronger,

until it developed into the conviction that he had been chosen for this

special work, namely, that of keeping the little glen at his feet a

centre of all good influences. He had set himself as a sort of

spiritual watchman to the place; everything that brought discredit upon

it gave him deepest pain; everything that tended to raise its moral

tone was, to him, a personal favour and joy.

Sometimes his task had seemed impossible; sometimes he doubted his

ability to be of any use; but on this bright Sabbath morning a new

accession of hope had made him unusually happy. His eyes rested upon

the sun-bathed hilltops with a deep peace. Those enduring hills had

always been of great comfort to the watchman. As he saw the dense

forests change into fields of grain, they seemed the one immutable

feature in his surroundings and served as a familiar landmark to a

puzzled traveller.

"I will lift up mine eyes into the hills, from whence cometh mine aid,"

he quoted softly.

A brisk step sounded upon the stony road above; the old man did not

hear, his lips were still moving, his eyes still fixed in a happy

reverie upon the far-off horizon.

Collie arose slowly as a figure approached the gate. He was too well

versed in canine etiquette to bark at his master's oldest friend, but

he felt he should mark his approach in some way. He went forward with

waving tail and respectfully lowered head, uttering a gruff ejaculation

which could scarcely be called a bark and yet served as a form of

greeting.

The newcomer paused at the gate. "Aye, Duncan, ye're waitin'," he said.

Duncan Polite's friend was as unlike him as a Lowland Scot can be

unlike a Highlander, which is granting a very wide difference indeed.

He was short and thick-set, with energy and force speaking from every

limb of his well-knit frame. In spite of his near approach to

three-score-and-ten, he was erect and brisk, and, although he always

carried a stick, it was more for the purpose of emphasising his

forcible arguments than as a support for advancing age.

A stern, upright man was Andrew Johnstone, a terror to evil-doers and

so prone to carry out all the law and the prophets by physical force

that he had earned, among the irreverent youth of the community, the

name of "Splinterin' Andra."

The deep friendship between him and the gentle, poetic Duncan McDonald

was as strange as it was lasting; for, though they seemed not to

possess one characteristic in common, not once in all their long years

of comradeship had their allegiance waned.

At the sight of him, Duncan Polite started up in a bewildered fashion.

"Oh, and it will be you, Andra," he said, "Oh yes, yes, it will be time

to be going, indeed."

Collie came sadly and limply to the gate and watched them depart. He

was a wise dog, and knew that when his master wore a black suit and

carried two books, dogs were not wanted. The thought never entered his

sagacious canine head to attempt upsetting the established order of

things, but he could not resist a longing whine as he stood looking

through the bars of the gate, his eyes eager, his head on one side, his

whole body a quivering protest against being left at home in the

company of a mere cat.

Duncan turned and said a comforting word in Gaelic, and Collie, though

a Canadian, understood the language of his Highland ancestors, and

trotted meekly back to his despised companion on the water-barrel.

The two old men stepped out leisurely, one on either side of the road,

as was their custom, Duncan with his head bent forward, his eyes fixed

on the far-off horizon, and Andrew with his head thrown back and chest

expanded, his hands clasped behind him, his big stick waving up and

down beneath his coat-tails, except when he whirled it to the front, to

bring it crashing upon the stones in emphasis of some truth.

These walks to the church were their greatest enjoyment. They started

at least an hour earlier than was necessary and had plenty of time to

move along at the gentle lingering pace conducive to friendly talk.

They discussed everything of interest that was in keeping with the day.

Generally their conversation was of the good old times and the great

transformations they had witnessed; and sometimes Duncan Polite hinted

at his ambition for the village, knowing he was sure of his friend's

sympathy.

They passed the first turn in the winding road and came out from behind

a fairy curtain of drooping elm boughs into full view of the river and

the orchards, before either spoke.

Andrew Johnstone showed what his thoughts had been when he broke the

silence.

"Yon Collie o' yours is jist like the young folk o' to-day, Duncan," he

said. "They're aye wantin' away when they should bide at hame."

The old man's chief cross in life was the rising generation, of which

he considered his own son the most exasperating type.

"Aye," he repeated ruminatingly, "he's jist like the young folk, but Ah

misdoot he's got mair sense than some o' them."

But Duncan Polite had unbounded faith in Young Canada. "Oh, indeed

they will be jist lads and lasses, Andra," he said indulgently. "And

they will be good at heart. The Lord will guide them aright, never

fear."

"Ah hope so, Duncan, Ah hope so, but there's oor Andra noo, he's got

nae mair sense than when he was on his mither's knee. Him an' yon

nephews o' yours are jist as prone to evil as the sparks to fly

upwards. They spend half o' their time in the glen wi' yon' gigglin'

licht-heided lasses o' John Hamilton's, and the ither half, fleein'

ower the country. Ah see Sandy's gotten the bag-pipes noo, an' ma

lad's jist gone fair daft wi' the goin's on up at Betsey's."

Duncan was somewhat abashed. He remembered with a pang of conscience

that he had admired his nephew's bag-pipes, and had laughed with his

sister, as the piper strode up and down the kitchen, playing McDonald's

reel, to the stirring and uproarious accompaniment of the six flying

feet of his brothers.

"Oh well, well," he said apologetically, "they would not be meaning any

harm, and Donal' will be at home for his holidays, and the lads will be

jist a wee bit noisy. And, indeed, Sandy would be playing a fine

strathspey the other night." He checked himself hurriedly, feeling

that such a subject was incongruous on the Sabbath.

Andrew Johnstone seemed to share his opinion, for he made no answer,

but walked along whacking the wayside weeds with vicious strokes of his

big stick. This was always a bad sign, and Duncan was silent for a

time. He had a great piece of good news regarding one of those same

nephews, but the turn the conversation had taken rendered it rather

difficult to tell his friend.

"I would be thinking this morning of the great power of prayer, Andra,"

he said, by way of introduction. "All the good that would be coming to

Glenoro in these years the good Lord would be sending it in answer to

prayer."

Andrew Johnstone put his stick behind him; his face cleared. "Aye,

aye, Duncan, yon's a fact. Man, d'ye mind how your faither an' mine,

an' old Donald Fraser would meet when we were lads an' pray for the

means o' grace an' the ordinances o' God's hoose?"

"Yes, yes, Andra, yes indeed, and He would be sending Mr. McAlpine to

awaken the people, and then the church came, and Mr. Cameron."

"Man, yon were wild days, before Mr. McAlpine cam'," replied his

friend, giving himself up to the joys of retrospect. "Yer faither used

to say the Glen was jist like the Garden o' Eden until the serpent

cam', an' it wes the tavern. Ah mind when yon Eerish crew from the

Flats cam' up here to Pete Nash's tavern, an' the lads from the Oa cam'

doon, a' McDonalds to a man, an' ye could hear the fechtin' ower on the

Tenth. Man, yon Murphys were a bad lot!"

Duncan's eyes shone. He was leading up skilfully to his happy

disclosure. "Yes, the times would be bad, but Mr. McAlpine came, and

the revival came. He would be the man of God indeed, and it would be

jist prayer that brought him, and it would be prayer that brought the

church and Mr. Cameron among us."

"Aye, aye, Duncan; when we remember all the way He has led us, we

shouldna' lose faith."

There was a pause and Duncan began again with an effort. It was always

difficult for him to open his heart, even to the comrade of his youth.

"I would be praying all these years for something, Andra, and it would

seem almost too great, but the Father would be answering me. Oh, yes,

He would be kinder than we can ever know."

His friend turned and looked at him sharply, and noticed for the first

time the unusual radiance of his face. "Aye?" he inquired. "It would

be aboot Betsey's lads."

Duncan nodded, his face aglow. "Donal'."

"An' what aboot him?"

"He would be studying so hard when I sent him to the school that now I

will be sending him to college next fall, an' I will be praying

that----" He faltered, almost fearing to put his great hope into words.

Andrew Johnstone paused in his walk and stared. He knew Duncan had

been long nursing a great ambition for his eldest nephew and had been

educating him at his own expense towards that end, but he could not

believe it was to be fulfilled.

"He'll no be thinkin' o' bein' a meenister?" he inquired, failing to

keep his utter astonishment out of his tone.

Duncan nodded, his eyes shining. "He would not be jist promising me

yet, for Donal' says he will not be worthy, and the lad is right, for

it will be a high calling. But he would not be refusing me when I

asked him, and he will be going to Toronto in the fall, and surely the

Lord will touch the lad's heart----" He was off in a happy day-dream

again, a dream wherein his nephew stood in Glenoro pulpit when their

aged minister laid down the work.

Andrew Johnstone did not answer for some minutes. He hesitated to

disturb his friend's airy castles, but in his estimation there was no

material in any of the youth of Glenoro for the making of a minister,

much less in Duncan's eldest nephew. For one thing, the young man was

far too intimate with his own son.

"Ah houp it'll be so, Duncan," he said at last, as they turned in at

the church gate. "Maister Cameron's an' auld man noo an' he'll soon be

wantin' to retire, an' mebby----" He paused as though the sequel were

impossible, adding at last the rather ambiguous encouragement, "With

God, all things are possible, ye ken."

II

A MEMORABLE SABBATH

The Glenoro Presbyterian Church, which the two old men were entering,

was a bare, white structure, very grand in the eyes of the old folk who

remembered the little log building where Mr. McAlpine, their first

minister, used to preach. But to the rising generation it appeared

much inferior to the neat brick church on the slope of the northern

hill, where the Methodists worshipped.

It was certainly not a handsome edifice, but Nature had done much where

man had been most neglectful. It stood right by the water's edge; and

the Oro River, coming out from between its high wooded banks, made a

pretty sweep round the quiet graveyard with its white stones. A fringe

of willows hung over the water, mirrored in its green depths, and some

woodbine from the neighbouring forest had found its way up the church

walls and covered them with a drapery green and enduring. Verily,

beautiful for situation was the Zion of the Glenoro Presbyterians.

But inside, where man's taste had full control, everything was very

severe. The two rows of long, stiff, black pews, the high, box-like

pulpit, the little cage for the precentor, a few oil lamps in brackets

along the walls and the huge black stove with its weary length of pipes

stretching from end to end of the building, constituted the furniture.

As for decoration, there was absolutely none, unless the high arched

panel behind the pulpit, painted a dull grey and looking like a

gigantic tombstone, or the two shining tin pails hung at the elbows of

the stove-pipes to prevent the rain from dripping upon the worshippers

could be considered ornaments. But the floor and the walls were white

and spotless, the stove and stove-pipes shone with all the brilliancy

that polish could give them; and the big, rectangular, thirty-six paned

windows glittered like the waters of the Oro, whose music was now being

wafted through their open sashes.

And, indeed, to the two old men who were entering the church it

mattered little that man's hand had no part in adorning their Zion, for

to them the place was clothed in the beauty of holiness and filled with

the presence of Him who is the brightness of His Father's glory.

They stepped in quietly and reverently, each passing at once to his own

place, Andrew to his prominent pew at the side of the pulpit, Duncan to

his modest seat behind the stove. They never addressed each other

after entering the sanctuary, but sat with bowed heads in meditation

and prayer until the commencement of the service. They generally had a

long time to wait, too, for no matter at what unseasonable hour in the

morning the other worshippers might start for church, it was well nigh

impossible to get there before the elders.

Some time passed before anyone else arrived, but at last the big door

swung slowly open and Peter McNabb, elder and precentor, who was always

a good second in the stately and pious race for church, entered, and

went silently forward to his place in front of the pulpit. The custom

of having a precentor to "raise the tune" instead of a choir and organ

was considered extremely old-fashioned by the more juvenile members of

the congregation, but the old people held tenaciously to this

time-honoured custom, in spite of much agitation for a change. And,

indeed, had the young advocates of progress but paused to consider,

they must have been forced to confess that Peter McNabb was a much

better musical instrument than any that could ever be produced by man.

He was the village blacksmith and he put the same energy into his

singing on the Sabbath as he did into the mighty swing of his sledge on

week days. He knew very little about musical technique; his voice may

not have been very highly cultivated; but he had an appreciation of the

psalms which only a godly man can have, and a pure, silvery voice which

could pour out floods of melody, or soften itself to the most

heart-breaking pathos as the words demanded. For, when he sang to the

wail of _Martyrdom_,

"Lord, from the depths to Thee I cry,"

he melted many a heart to tears. And sometimes Duncan's musical soul

was so stirred that he found himself clutching the seat in a very

ecstasy, almost expecting the grey panel behind the minister's saintly

head to burst into inconceivable glory of cherubim and seraphim as,

with a rapturous shout, the precentor swept the congregation into the

glory of the old psalm,

"Ye gates lift up your heads on high,

Ye doors that last for aye,

Be lifted up that so the King

Of glory enter may!"

To the aged minister behind him, Peter's singing was a pillar of faith.

Mr. Cameron had travelled widely in his younger days and had heard

grand music in the cathedrals of the old world, magnificent harmonies

of trained voices with flute and violin and organ helping to interpret

the divine meaning of the old masters. It had all been very grand and

he often longed to hear such music again; but he sometimes wondered, as

he sat in the shadow of his pulpit desk on a Sabbath morning, why there

had been nothing in all its grandeur which tended to settle so

unshakably the foundations of one's faith, as did listening to Peter

McNabb lead his Glenoro congregation slowly and solemnly in

"Oh Lord the God of Hosts, who can

To Thee compared be?

The Mighty One, the Lord, Whose truth

Doth round encompass Thee!"

There were three more elders: big John Hamilton, whose only sin was a

family of over-dressed daughters; Donald Fraser, son of the Fraser

famous for having Mr. McAlpine's first service at his place; and Peter

Farquhar, a Highlander, one of the many McDonalds. Good men and true

they all were, who feared God and eschewed evil, veritable fathers in

Israel to the congregation.

The people soon followed. Duncan Polite's face lit up with pleasure as

a group of five filed past him into his pew, his widowed sister and her

four boys. The old man's gaze rested lovingly upon Donald, the lad of

his hopes. He was a young man worthy a second glance, a straight,

lithe fellow, the kind they breed in the Canadian Highlands. His thin,

keen face showed a striking resemblance to his uncle's in its handsome

regularity of feature, but there was nothing of Duncan Polite in the

bold flash of the young man's eye, nor in the proud swing of his fine

figure.

Duncan's attention was taken from him by a slight disturbance at his

side. Archie, a small urchin of nine, was struggling quietly but

persistently with Neil, his senior by two years, for the honour of

sitting next his uncle. Mrs. Neil treated the affair, as she did all

the boys' misdemeanours, with a sweet, unconscious placidity, but

Donald, who exercised a sort of muscular authority over his brothers,

put out his big foot with a quiet but emphatic kick which settled the

dispute.

Sandy looked disappointed. "Why didn't you let the little beggars

fight it out?" he whispered, "it would give Splinterin' Andra something

to chew on."

Donald's face twitched with laughter, and from his point of vantage in

the front pew, the ruling elder caught the smile on the face of

Glenoro's future pastor and sighed to think how greatly his friend was

being deceived.

The last straggler had slipped into the back seat, the church was

filled, and every eye was turned expectantly towards the vestry door.

It opened presently and the aged minister came forth. As he went up

the steep pulpit stair, Duncan Polite's loving eye caught signs of

added weakness in his gait, the motions of one too weary for further

effort, and his heart was smitten with fear. He could never

contemplate the removal of his pastor without the apprehension of

coming disaster. There was a new class of people growing up in the

church, whose broad views threatened to overturn the simple, pious ways

of their fathers. As long as Mr. Cameron was over them Duncan felt

assured they would never go far astray, but he often looked into the

future with some misgivings.

The minister's text was characteristic, one that Duncan remembered all

his life afterwards, as his greatest stay and comfort in times of

distress: "And the Lord shall guide thee continually and satisfy thy

soul in drought."

The sermon was not shortened because of the minister's apparent

weakness; a Glenoro sermon was never less than an hour in length and

very often reached the two-hour limit. There were two morning sermons,

one in Gaelic immediately following the English service for the benefit

of the Highlanders who flocked down from the Oa, the Highland

settlement north of Glenoro. Many of the Gentiles, who did not know

the chosen language, went home after the first service, and their

places were taken by the new contingent.

Andrew Johnstone always remained for the Gaelic service. He understood

very little of the language, but he felt the presence of the elders was

necessary, and then he could walk home with Duncan and discuss the

sermon, a pleasure for which it was worth waiting.

The breaking up of the Glenoro congregation followed an established

order of procedure and varied not one Sabbath from another. Any

departure from the order of their going would have been considered as

irregular as though the minister were to pronounce the benediction

before the sermon. First, the young men of the back row flung

themselves through the door, noiselessly but hastily, inhaling great

breaths of relief. Next came those who had to get their horses from

the shed, and close upon them the village folk, passing with fine

superiority their rural neighbours. These came out last, to linger and

chat while the big double buggies were whirled into place with a

scraping sound and the families were perched aboard. Duncan and

Andrew, as was their custom, waited for a private word with the

minister. The former watched Donald hand his mother into the smart

single buggy and drive away through the gate. He did not even miss the

glance of Donald's eyes towards John Hamilton's daughters, passing up

the street like a gay posy of flowers. Duncan Polite's heart was ever

young and he smiled sympathetically as he caught the answering glance

from a pair of bright eyes beneath a big white hat.

The minister came slowly down the aisle, shaking hands with all. He

had only time for his midday meal and then he was away again to his

other charge, a church some nine miles distant on one of the township

roads colloquially styled the Tenth. But Mr. Cameron never hurried

away without a word with his two old friends.

"Ye're no lookin' well the day, sir," said Andrew Johnstone anxiously.

"The work's ower hard on ye in the hot weather; ye're needin' a bit

rest."

"Oh, I will be getting a rest, Andrew," he answered, smiling, "a good

long rest, and it will be soon."

Duncan Polite looked up with a sudden flash of apprehension in his

eyes, but his friend returned the glance with a reassuring smile.

"And so Donald is going to college," he said. "Ah, that's fine,

Duncan, that's fine! We'll make a minister of him yet, and a fine one

he'll be, I promise. You'll live to hear him preach here when I'm

gone."

Duncan put up his hand in protest.

"Tut, tut, sir," said the elder sharply, as was his way when he was

moved, "ye'll hear him yersel' some day if he comes till it, never

fear."

The minister shook his head. "No, Andrew, I will not hear the lad, but

it is a great comfort to me to see Donald McDonald's grandson taking up

the work he prayed for, and I hope the Father will spare you both a

long time. But as for me----" He paused. The church was empty but

for the three old men; the subdued murmur of the people's voices came

through the open windows; a smile illuminated the old minister's

saintly face. "As for me, it will not be long; 'Tarry thou here, for

the Lord hath sent me to Jordan.'"

He turned and, still smiling, walked up the aisle and into the vestry.

The two went out into the sunlight.

"Surely he wouldna' mean----" suggested Andrew Johnstone, afraid to say

more.

But Duncan Polite could not answer; in the midst of his happiness, when

his hopes were at their height, he had been stricken with a great fear.

He understood too well the significance of his pastor's words, the

farewell of Elijah, and, like Elisha, the old man could have cried out

from his very soul, "As the Lord liveth, and as thy soul liveth, I will

not leave thee!" But he knew that this was a Jordan that must be

crossed alone.

The two friends walked up the hill in silence, one filled with a

foreboding, the other with a dread certainty of impending trouble.

"If Maister Cameron's ever ta'en awa frae us, Duncan," said the elder

gloomily, "mark ma word, there'll be trouble in the kirk. We ha'e a

pack o' godless young folk growin' up that need the blue beech gad,

every one o' them, an' if Maister Cameron was ta'en Ah'm no sayin' what

they'd do!"

Duncan had turned and was looking down the hill at a rapidly

approaching figure. His companion followed the direction of his gaze.

"Man, is yon Peter McNabb?" he inquired in amazement.

The feeling was quite natural. To see an elder of the Presbyterian

Church rushing along the public highway without his coat, on the

Sabbath day, was sufficient to raise consternation in the breast of any

Glenorian. Duncan's heart contracted with fear. "Is it the minister?"

he asked tremulously, as the blacksmith came up to them, breathless.

Peter's ruddy face was pale beneath the tan. His eyes fell before the

question as though he were guilty. "Aye, it's jist that," he said with

simple sorrow; "I came for ye both."

The two turned and retraced their steps at his side. Andrew Johnstone

was the first to speak. "He's no gone, Peter?" he asked, with more

than his usual sternness.

"Aye," said the other in a whisper, "that's jist it, Andra, he's gone."

III

A WAR-MAKER AND A PEACE-MAKER

Duncan Polite's valley was slowly disappearing in the shadows of

evening when he stepped from his gate and somewhat hesitatingly turned

down into its purple depths. He was experiencing a strange, almost

uncanny feeling, for, not only was he going to church alone, but he was

actually on his way to worship with the Methodists! He had a vague

fear that he must be doing wrong. But indeed, he was going merely in

the hope that he might hear some comforting words from the Methodist

minister; and Duncan was sadly in need of comfort.

In the long months since Mr. Cameron's death, his days had been filled

with anxiety and fear for his covenant. When the first sharpness of

grief at the loss of his old friend had passed, the Watchman slowly

awakened to the knowledge that he was living among a strange people.

Under Mr. Cameron's wise, loving rule all classes in the congregation

had been unanimous; the elder folk believed him perfect and the younger

respected him too deeply to disagree with him. But when the bond of

union was severed, a new party with alarmingly progressive ideas,

suddenly came to life. They were fain to introduce many improvements

into the church service which the fathers of the sanctuary considered

unsound and irreverent. They wanted a choir and an organ like the

Methodists; they desired to sing hymns as did their sister congregation

over on the Tenth; and, most of all, they considered it imperative that

they should stand to sing and sit to pray, as did all respectable

people.

Andrew Johnstone, who represented the old school and its traditions,

stood at the head of the ancient party as immovable as the church

foundations. Some of the elders might counsel yielding, or at least

compromising, but not Splinterin' Andra. He regarded all these

youthful aspirations as signs of the degeneracy of the times and a

decay of spiritual life and, therefore, to be immediately quenched.

So the two parties stood arrayed against each other and the chief cause

of their dissension was the choice of a new minister. The more

youthful party wanted a young man, or at least one who was "lively,"

while old Glenoro held to its ideal--a man as much as possible like

Hector Cameron, or, if it were not looking for too much on this earth,

a second John McAlpine. But the young people of the congregation had

never heard Mr. McAlpine preach, and, like the Egyptians, who did not

know Joseph, they had not the proper respect for that great leader, and

they also considered Gaelic sermons, two-hour discourses and half-hour

prayers as belonging to a past generation.

All these trials, youthful frivolity, the lack of a Gaelic service and

old Andrew Johnstone's storms, Duncan Polite had borne patiently; but

to-day's sermon had been almost too much for even his optimism, for

that morning a smart probationer had stood up in Mr. Cameron's sacred

pulpit and delivered a twenty-minute address on the Beauties of Nature!

Even the young people had been shocked, and Andrew Johnstone had, for

once, voiced the sentiments of the whole congregation as he gave his

opinion of the young man to Duncan Polite on their homeward walk.

"It's a guid thing Maister Cameron's gone till his rest," he remarked

sombrely. "If he'd a lived to see his pulpit filled by a bit buddie

that couldna' hang on till his taxt for half an' 'oor, he'd never a

held up his heid again!"

And so Duncan had been driven to the extremity of seeking comfort in

the Methodist Church and was on his way thither, in some doubt as to

the wisdom of such a strange proceeding, and in much fear that Andrew

would disapprove.

The Methodist Church was a substantial brick building, set

picturesquely on the slope of the northern hill. Duncan went

hesitatingly in and took a seat near the door. He found it quite a

roomy place and well filled. There was much more ornamentation here

than in his own place of worship; the walls were papered, the pulpit

platform was covered with a gay carpet, two shining brass chandeliers

were suspended from the ceiling, the windows were frosted glass with a

row of lurid blue and red panes around each, and behind the minister

was the centre of attraction and cynosure of all eyes, the choir and

the organ.

Duncan felt a return of his misgivings when he recognised many members

of his own church in that institution; for, such was the chaos of these

new times that the Methodist services were attended regularly by nearly

all the young Presbyterians. And, indeed, matters had come to such a

pitch that the choir was conducted by no less a person than young

Andrew Johnstone himself, much to the wrath and shame of his pious

father.

That choir was at once the delight and torment of its members. The

hopes and fears, the triumphs and despairs that surged within the

little railing, would have been sufficient to swamp the congregation,

could they have broken loose. But the enjoyment outweighed the pain;

there was choir practise once a week and sometimes they were invited to

furnish the music at a neighbouring tea-meeting and both these were

unmixed joys. Then, too, they were permitted to sing quite alone at

the regular church services, while the collection was being taken up;

and sometimes they even ventured to sing an anthem, though the evening

they sang one with a tenor solo by Sylvanus Todd, they were considered

to have gone a little too far, by even the most liberal minded, and the

offence was not repeated until more enlightened times.

Mr. Ansdell, the Methodist minister, was a benign old gentleman with an

angelic face and a heart to match. He noted the mingling of the

different religious sects in Glenoro with humble joy, and regarded the

fact that a Presbyterian elder's son should lead the singing in the

Methodist church as a mark of the broad and kindly spirit of the age

and one of the potent signs of the millennium.

He was just the sort of man to appeal to Duncan Polite's heart. His

sermon was like himself, gentle, loving and overflowing with goodwill

to all men. Duncan sat and drank it in with deepest joy; surely his

covenant was in no great danger with such a man as Mr. Ansdell in his

glen!

Thereafter, in spite of old Andrew's opposition, he could not resist

the pleasure of an occasional Sabbath evening service. He did not

always have the privilege of listening to his new friend, however. Mr.

Ansdell had another field and preached only on alternate Sabbaths in

his Glenoro pulpit. On the occasions of his absence the service was

generally taken by a student or a lay preacher from some place in the

vicinity. Sometimes the preacher was anything but a man of parts, and

was too often a source of merriment to the frivolous row of young men

in the back seats. The big college student with the long, fair hair,

who raved and foamed and battered all the fringe off the pulpit cushion

in a gallant attempt to prove that the Bible is true, a fact which,

until then, no Glenorian would have dreamed of calling in question; the

poor, halting farmer who tacked a nervous syllable to occasional words,

making his text read: "All-um we like sheep-um have gone astray-um;"

the giant from the Irish Flats who roared out a long prayer in a manner

that terrified his hearers and set all the babies crying and then ended

his bellowings with "Lord, hear our feeble breathings," all these were

a joy to the back row and the cause of much irreverent giggling in the

choir.

But whether the sermon was delivered by minister, layman or divinity

student, Duncan Polite always found something spiritually uplifting in

the service; and, indeed, so did many another, for if the preacher

sometimes lacked in oratory, he made up for it in piety, and if he

failed to shine in the pulpit, his life was nearly always a sermon

strong and convincing.

Even on the rare occasions when old Silas Todd led the service, the

time was not misspent, in the opinion of the Watchman. Silas Todd was

one of the pillars of the church and when the local preacher failed to

appear, which contingency sometimes arose in the season of bad roads,

the duty of preaching a sermon generally devolved upon him. He was a

pious little man, bent and thin, with a marked Cockney accent. He had

mild pale blue eyes and a simple, almost seraphic smile which scarcely

ever left his countenance and which was the index to his character.

His wife was small and pious like himself, and had the same accent and

the same benevolent expression. They always sat close together on the

front seat like a pair of shy children, he in his rough, loose

homespun, she in her grey wincey, a neatly folded Paisley shawl and a

brown bonnet with a pink feather--this last ornament being the pride of

Silas' heart and the one bit of finery his wife permitted herself.

They shared one hymn book and Bible, no matter how many there might be

scattered around them, and both sang in a high ecstatic key, a measure

behind the choir. They swayed to and fro, quite carried away by the

music, and as Silas stood with his head thrown back and his eyes shut,

and his wife kept her eyes modestly upon her book, they very often

collided, to the great detriment of the singing and the disturbing of

the pink feather. But the only sign their frequent collisions called

forth was a smile of perfect accord and redoubled energy in the singing

and swaying.

Silas was modest and never shouldered the task of leading the service

until all hope of the preacher's appearing had been given up. On such

occasions the congregation would assemble and sit quietly expectant;

even the back row, who waited at the church shed until they were in

sufficient numbers to brave an entry into the church, having flopped

noisily into their places. The choir would whisper and the organist

nervously turn over the leaves of the hymn book. Then the fathers of

the church would confer, look through the window or tip-toe to the

door, confer again, and once more gaze anxiously in the direction from

which the preacher was expected to appear.

At this point there would arise from the Todd pew such a fluttering and

twittering as can be heard in the nest when the mother-bird is

encouraging her little ones to fly. Mrs. Todd, acting as monitor,

would give Silas many pushes and nudges which he modestly resisted,

until her efforts were augmented by those of his brother officials,

when, yielding at last to their importunities, he would slowly rise and

go shyly and lingeringly up to the pulpit desk. And the congregation

would settle back with a resigned air to listen to the simple, good old

fellow give a long and tedious recital of his spiritual experiences,

punctuated by many sighs and tearful "Amens" from beneath the

sympathetic Paisley shawl.

But in spite of much comfort afforded by the Methodists, Duncan

Polite's heart was often heavy with foreboding. He could not help

seeing that Andrew Johnstone must soon come to open war with the new

party in the church. In his well-meant and vigorous efforts to make

everyone tread the old paths the ruling elder produced a great amount

of friction; for, though he feared God, he did not regard man, and woe

betide the reckless youth who made himself too conspicuous in the

reform movement.

The Sabbath school was his stronghold, for there he was superintendent

and monarch absolute, and there he seized every opportunity to publicly

rebuke anyone who dared transgress his rigid laws.

But the rising generation was not to be wholly deterred from rising by

even the terrors of Splinterin' Andra; and, as Duncan Polite feared,

the inevitable conflict ensued.

The immediate cause of the rupture was a church organ, merely a myth as

yet, but real enough to arouse the apostle of ancient customs to his

best fighting mood. The very mention of an instrument made by man to

be used in the worship of God, was to the ruling elder the extreme of

sacrilege. But in spite of his disapproval, the young people went so

far as to hold a meeting at which to discuss the possibility of their

purchasing the coveted instrument.

Miss Cotton, the chief dress and mischiefmaker in the village, although

no longer absolutely young, was the leader of the rising generation,

and she counselled just going ahead without Splinterin' Andra's advice.

There were not many, however, who were possessed of either her courage

or her indiscretion. They all agreed, though, that Andrew Johnstone

was the one insurmountable barrier to their hopes. Most of the other

elders had been approached in a tentative way. Peter McNabb was a

broad-minded man with such a passion for music that, though he looked

askance at any innovation, yet he would have welcomed anything that

would help the singing. Old Donald Fraser considered an organ an

unmixed evil and remarked, when asked for his opinion on the subject,

that it would be "clean defyin' o' the Almighty" to introduce one into

the church. But he had a very ambitious wife and daughter, and as the

latter had been taking music lessons and cherishing rosy dreams of one

day playing in church, the organ party felt that Mr. Fraser would not

be quite immovable. Old John Hamilton, of course, scarcely counted.

He said "aye, aye," in a dazed way when his daughters clamoured for his

consent, adding that "he'd see what Andra said." Peter Farquhar, they

knew, might be difficult, as he belonged to the Oa and was, therefore,

very old-fashioned; but they all agreed that if Andrew Johnstone could

be moved, all the others would follow; so some one must ask his

permission.

Miss Cotton suggested that Wee Andra, the son of old Andra, would be

the proper person to carry their request to the elder. "Wee Andra" the

young man had been called in his babyhood, to distinguish him from his

father, and he still bore the anomalous title though he stood

six-feet-four in his moccasins and was disproportionately broad. But

in spite of these physical securities, the young giant flatly refused

the doubtful honour of approaching his father on the sore subject; so,

after much discussion, the delicate task devolved upon Mr. Watson, the

schoolmaster. The master had "tack" and education, Miss Cotton

explained, and was just the man for the position. So, fortified by

this flattery, the young man went up over the hills one morning on his

dangerous quest.

The schoolmaster was a young man who was born for agitation; he loved

to throw himself heart and soul into some new enterprise, and upon this

occasion he had the satisfaction at least of getting up plenty of

excitement. What transpired in that fatal interview between him and

the ruling elder could never be accurately learned from the former.

When questioned upon the subject, he confined his remarks to dark hints

regarding antediluvian pig-headedness and backwoods ignorance, but Wee

Andra, who in his heart was rather proud of his sire's fighting

qualities, spread the account of the schoolmaster's defeat over the

whole neighbourhood, with the result that for a season the agitators

left their common enemy to turn upon and rend each other.

On the evening after the encounter, Duncan Polite sat expectantly on

his door-step. He knew that Andrew would be sure to come down to tell

him of the affair, and he was waiting in some trepidation, hoping that

his fiery old friend had not said something which would wreck forever

the peace of Glenoro church.

Duncan scarcely felt equal to shouldering any more burdens that day,

for only the morning before Donald had left for college. The old man

had sent him away with high hopes for his future; but he missed his boy

more than he could tell. For Donald had been as his own son ever since

the Neil boys had been left fatherless. "The Neil boys" they were

always called, for their father, as well as their mother, had been a

McDonald and, of necessity, his sons used his first name only. Neil

McDonald had died when Archie was an infant, and had left Donald at the

head of the family, a circumstance which might have proved disastrous

to both Donald and the family had it not been for Duncan Polite. For

in his boyhood Donald had bade fair to inherit his father's fame, and

in the good old fighting days when men used their axes in argument,

Neil More was the fiercest warrior between the two lakes. But as

manhood approached, discretion had tempered young Donald's valour; he

had grown up under the gentle but potent influence of his uncle and had

developed a character of which Duncan Polite was justly proud.

But now Donald was gone; and Duncan was sitting thinking sadly of his

loss and of this coming trouble, when a sturdy, square figure came down

the darkening road.

"Come away in, Andra," said Duncan Polite rising, while Collie bowed

his respectful welcome, "come away in, for you will be finding it cool

on the step, whatever."

But Andrew preferred to sit out of doors.

Duncan divined at once from his manner that he was in a very bad frame

of mind, and so attempted to lead the conversation into a safe channel.

"I hear we will be having a fine young man next Sabbath," he commenced

hopefully, "Mr. Murray. I would be hearing Mr. Cameron speak of him

often."

Andrew Johnstone grunted.

"Aye, mebby," he remarked sourly. "Whatever he's like he'll suit the

young folk anyway, for he'll be new, an' that's a' they want. Man,

Duncan, the youth o' this day are jist fair daft! The Athenians were

naething to them, for their one desire is to possess some new thing.

They've got a new church, an' they're goin' to hae a new meenister, an'

they're wantin' them new bit tinklin' hymns; aye, an' they're wantin'

new elders, Ah'm sure o' that. When you an' me an' a few more o' the

auld buddies slip awa, they'll jist be gettin' a new God an' then Ah

houp they'll be setisfied!"

"Och, och, Andra," said Duncan Polite soothingly. "Lads and lassies

will be young, an' we would be that way ourselves once, and they will

be better than you know. There's your own lad now, an' Sandy----"