CHAPTER XXVI.

REST

*LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.*

"Folding his withered hands, he said, in solemn and trembling tones,

'Let us pray'" . . . _Frontispiece_

"Uplifting his hand, he swore the solemn oath"

"Little Jeanie ... brought out a draught for the general"

"The wildest confusion seemed to prevail on the bridge"

*Adam Hepburn's Vow*

_*A TALE OF KIRK AND COVENANT.*_

*CHAPTER I.*

*THE TRAVELLERS.*

Towards the close of a bleak grey February afternoon, in the year 1638,

a small party of travellers might have been seen approaching Edinburgh

by the high road from Glasgow. It consisted of a sturdy brown pony,

whereon sat a fair-faced, sunny-haired little girl, whose age could not

have exceeded nine years; a bright-faced, bold-looking lad, walking at

the animal's head, and having the bridle-rein hung loosely over his arm;

and a middle-aged gentleman, whose aspect and attire proclaimed him a

clergyman. He walked slowly, a little apart from the others, and his

hands were clasped before him, and his eyes bent thoughtfully on the

ground. He was a man somewhat past his prime, of a noble and manly

bearing, with a fine open countenance, and a speaking eye, wherein dwelt

a singularly sweet and benevolent expression.

The shadows of evening were already beginning to gather over the

surrounding scene, making objects at a distance somewhat indistinct.

Yet, truly, there was little at that season of the year to refresh the

eye or gladden the heart. The icy hand of winter had scarcely yet

relaxed its grasp on mother earth; there were no green buds on hedge or

tree; no blades of promise springing up by the wayside: all was

desolate, bleak, and cold. Yet the newly upturned furrows smelt fresh

and sweet, and the purling brooks wandered cheerfully on their way;

singing their song of gladness, as if they knew that spring was close at

hand. Presently the little party ascended a gentle eminence, and then

many lights were seen twinkling not far ahead.

"See, father, are yon the lights of Edinburgh?" exclaimed the lad, in

his eagerness letting go his hold on Roger's rein.

The minister raised his head, and a light kindled in his eye as he

looked upon the clustering roof-trees and towering spires of the

beautiful city.

"Yes, my son, that is Edinburgh," he said in his full, mellow tones.

"Thanks be to the Lord who hath brought us thither in safety. Would my

little Agnes like to walk now? The evening dews are falling, and

methinks a little exercise would do you no harm. Very soon now you will

be warmed and cheered by the ruddy glow by Aunt Jean's fireside."

As he spoke, the minister turned to Roger (who at a word from his master

stood perfectly still), and gently lifted his little daughter to the

ground. It was then seen that her figure was very slight and fragile,

her face pale and refined-looking, her whole expression thoughtful and

even sad beyond her years.

"Are you wearied, David?" asked the kind father then; but the lad drew

himself up proudly, and shook his head.

"Wearied! no, no, father. I could walk back to Inverburn, I believe,

without resting."

"Keep within the bounds, my boy," said the minister. "See, lead Roger

down to yon little pool, and let him drink. The poor animal is thirsty

and wayworn. Then we will make what haste we can into the city, which

will of necessity be in somewhat of a turmoil to-night, owing to the

many strangers within her gates."

"Father, will there be a great crowd and a noise in Edinburgh?" asked

the little Agnes, somewhat timidly and holding yet more closely by her

father's hand.

"There will be a crowd, my daughter, but no unseemly noise, I trust.

The occasion upon which the nation is assembled in her ancient capital

is too solemn for vain clamourings," said the minister, somewhat sadly;

and as his eyes once more roamed over the spreading roof-trees of the

city, they were filled with tears. The little Agnes, too young to

understand the cause of his emotion, still more closely clasped his

hand, and looked with awe into his face.

"I wish it would not grow dark so soon, father," said David, now

returning from watering the pony. "We will see nothing of Edinburgh till

to-morrow."

"But to-morrow, please the Lord, there will be a sight seen in

Edinburgh, the like of which there has never been in Scotland," said the

minister with kindling eye. "The voice of her people raised in a

national testimony against the injustice and oppression of an earthly

ruler. May the Heavenly King look down in approval on the faithfulness

of the Kirk of Scotland, and give her strength to stand firm to her vow;

ay, to seal it if need be with her blood."

The minister spoke with solemnity and passionate earnestness, which

impressed his young listeners not a little.

"Father, will the soldiers be out on their horses?" David asked with

boyish eagerness; to him the great event to transpire on the morrow

meant a gay pageant to delight the eye and stir the pulse of youth.

"My son, I cannot tell; only I know that peer and peasant, soldier and

civilian, minister and ministered unto, will assemble to-morrow on equal

ground, animated by one grand purpose, and stirred by a common zeal.

May the God of Hosts look down upon and bless the assembled multitudes,"

replied the minister; and then a silence fell upon the little party

which remained unbroken till they entered the city. Even in the

outskirts there were not lacking signs of stir and unusual commotion.

The streets were thronged with vehicles and foot-passengers, and the

very air seemed full of murmurings, telling of a nation's heart stirred

to its deepest depths. The young lad and his sister looked about them

with lively interest; to them the city was a revelation indeed, in the

great contrast it presented to the unfrequented roads and quiet

solitudes of their native parish. Darkness had fallen when the minister

guided Roger's steps into the Grass-market, where stood the hospitable

dwelling which was to shelter them during their sojourn in Edinburgh.

It was the abode of the minister's only sister, who was married to a

well-to-do merchant, by name Edward Kilgour. Having been duly apprised

of his brother-in-law's coming on that day, Edward Kilgour was waiting

at the close mouth, anxiously peering up the street, which was now

almost in total darkness, there being no appliances then for lighting

the thoroughfares and byeways of the city. Hearing the click of the

pony's hoofs, he walked a few steps up the street, and then catching

sight of the little party, he called out in his cheery tones, "Andrew

Gray of Inverburn, and his little ones, if I mistake not!"

"Yes; thus far hath the Lord permitted us to travel in safety, Edward,"

said the minister. "How is it with thee and thine?"

"All well; Jean a little impatient and fearful about you, as is the way

of womenkind," replied the merchant, heartily shaking his brother-in-law

by the hand. "But what! David, and little Agnes too! How did their

mother ever trust them so far?" he exclaimed, in surprise, at sight of

the children.

"She knew them safe with me, Edward, and I thought that the events of

to-morrow might, please God, make an impression on their young minds

which time would never efface. And the Kirk, I am thinking, will need

both old and young to stand firm in her defence ere she be crowned and

blessed with liberty," said the minister, with a sigh.

"You speak the truth, Andrew," replied the merchant, soberly. "Well, I

will take Roger to his stall and see that he is rubbed down and fed. Do

you take the bairns upstairs: you know the way."

The minister nodded, and taking his boy and girl by the hand, led them

up the dark close and into a low doorway, which, unless he had been

familiar with the way, would have been difficult to find.

Aunt Jean heard their steps on the stair, and presently appeared on the

landing with a candle.

"Bless me! Andrew Gray, is that the bairns all the way from the manse

of Inverburn?" she exclaimed, her motherly heart warming at sight of

them.

"Even so, Jean. There will be room and welcome for them as well as for

their father under this roof-tree," answered the minister. "Edward

tells me you are well; and, truly, you look it."

"Oh, ay, I am well in body!" she answered, blithely, and stooping she

lifted the little Agnes in her motherly arms, and affectionately kissed

her cheeks. "Eh, Andrew, this bairn's her mother's living image. How

is Ailie and Jane, and that stirring laddie, Andrew? Why did you leave

him at home?"

"His master could not spare him, being busy preparing the ground for the

seed," replied the minister. "It was a sore disappointment to the lad.

He has a constant craving for something new."

By this time they had entered the wide and comfortable kitchen, where

the log-fire burned merrily, casting its ruddy glow on the hospitable

board spread for the expected guest. A wooden cradle stood in the

warmest corner by the ingle-neuk, wherein slept peacefully the one child

of the household, a babe of eight months, and the first which had

blessed their hearth and home since their marriage, five years before.

The little Agnes looked very long and earnestly into her aunt's face,

never remembering having seen her before.

Mrs. Kilgour had been married out of the manse of Inverburn, at which

time Agnes was only four years old, but she had never visited it since,

and had only once seen her brother's wife, when she accompanied her

husband to Edinburgh on his being appointed to represent the Presbytery

of Lanark at the General Assembly. Travelling in these days was very

slow and laborious, and not unaccompanied by dangers on the roads, owing

to the disturbed and unprotected state of the country.

"Ay, but she is like her mother, Andrew," repeated Mrs. Kilgour, as she

stooped to unfasten the child's cloak. "She has her very een; may the

spirt of the bairn be her mother's likewise! And this is David! He is

greatly grown. I would hardly have known him again! Dearie me, what

changes time works on bairns, as on other things!"

"You are right, Jean. How has business been prospering with you

throughout the winter?"

"We cannot complain of the measure of prosperity the Lord has vouchsafed

to us," Andrew answered Mistress Kilgour. "Edward has had to employ

another young lad to help him in his work and still is hard-pressed; but

here he comes himself to tell you all about it."

The merchant now entered the kitchen, and hung up his hat on the peg

behind the door. Now that the light shone upon him, it revealed a short

and somewhat stout figure, clad in homely grey, a broad kindly face

adorned by a short brown beard, and made peculiarly expressive by the

twinkling of a pair of merry, blue eyes.

He was a Lanark man by birth, but had come to Edinburgh to try his

fortunes, and by steady well-doing and shrewd business capacity was

likely to succeed.

"And how are they all at Inverburn? Come, tell me about every man,

woman, and child in the parish, Andrew," said the merchant. "It's like

a gliff of the heather-scented wind to look upon your faces, bairns, and

to think you were reared in the shade of the birks of Inverburn!"

The merchant spoke lightly, but a tear started in his honest eye, as he

lifted Agnes on his knee, and drew David to his side.

"'Deed they must have something to eat first, Edward, my man,"

interrupted Mistress Kilgour. "Come, bairns, to your milk and bread.

It's no like the milk and home-made scones at the manse, but it's the

best I have, an' ye get it wi' Auntie Jean's kind, kind love."

They drew in their chairs to the table, and after the minister had asked

a fervent blessing on the board, they ate with a will, for their mode of

travelling had given them all appetites.

"You are never asking for _our_ bairn, Andrew," said the fond mother

slily, when presently the little one stirred slightly in its cradle.

"Truly I forgot, Jean," said the minister, with a smile; "and yet it was

among Ailie's last messages--sympathy and love to you about the little

one. God grant she may grow up a blessing to you both."

The little Agnes presently slipped from her chair, and, stealing over to

the cradle, looked in upon the smiling face of the infant. Her own was

suffused with a glow of tender wondering pleasure, which made her aunt

look at her again. And when, presently, Mistress Kilgour lifted the

child, Agnes kept close by her side, as if the babe were a magnet from

which she could not separate herself.

The conversation during supper turned chiefly upon topics connected with

the parish of Inverburn, in which both the merchant and his wife were

deeply and affectionately interested, for, though they had built up a

home in Edinburgh, their hearts were knit to their native glen in the

bonds of a deep, enduring love.

While she cleared the table, Mistress Kilgour entrusted the babe to

Agnes, who sat on a low stool holding the precious burden in her arms,

with a mixture of love, rapture, and pride glorifying her face. Shortly

thereafter, it being near eight of the clock, Mistress Kilgour made down

beds for the children in the adjoining room, and they retired to rest.

Then their elders drew up their chairs to the hearth, and began to speak

in low, troubled, anxious tones, telling that the topic was one of vital

interest, of terrible importance to them all. Before they separated for

the night, the minister read a portion from Scripture, and then they

knelt to pour out their hearts' desires before the Lord. The tones of

Andrew Gray's voice trembled sore as he prayed with passionate

earnestness that the arm of the Almighty would be about the tottering

Church of Scotland, and that strength might be given to her people to

stand up fearlessly in defence of her liberty and purity, ay, even

though they should be required to seal their faithfulness with their

blood.

"To-morrow will be a great day for Scotland," he said when he rose to

his feet. "Either it will be the beginning of peace or the beginning of

many sorrows for God's people. It is in times like these we feel the

need of prayer, of constant and pious humbling of ourselves before

Jehovah. There is that within me, my friends, which forewarns me that

we are about to be visited by fierce and terrible temptations and

dispensations. Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he

fall."

Awed by the prophetic earnestness with which their kinsman spoke, the

merchant and his wife spoke not, but silently bade him good night.

Andrew Gray retired to his own chamber, but not to sleep. He sat long

by the uncurtained window, looking out upon the city slumbering

peacefully under the fitful February moonlight, as if all unconscious of

the issues of the coming day.

During the silent watches of the night the minister of Inverburn

wrestled in prayer for Scotland's Church and people, that they might be

upheld and kept faithful in the tumults of the struggle to come.

*CHAPTER II.*

*A NATION'S TESTIMONY.*

Chill and grey broke the morning of that memorable day over the city of

Edinburgh. The inmates of Edward Kilgour's household were early astir,

and the elder folk partook of breakfast by candlelight.

"I suppose your place of business will be closed to-day?" said the

minister enquiringly to his brother-in-law.

"Yes; there will be little business done to-day, I fancy, except by the

taverns and other places of like resort, which must be open to supply

refreshments to the many strangers," replied Edward Kilgour. "There will

be a goodly number of Inverburn folks in this morning?"

"Yes, Adam Hepburn of Rowallan, and a party with him, were to start on

the evening of the day on which we left," replied the minister. "They

would arrive a few hours' later than us--their animals being swifter of

foot than our 'Roger.'"

"What is the Laird of Inverburn saying to the Covenant, Andrew?" asked

Mistress Kilgour, replenishing her brother's cup with milk, which, with

some wheaten cakes, composed his frugal meal.

A slight shade of sadness stole over the minister's fine face.

"Truly, Jean, Sir Thomas Hamilton proves himself a loyal subject and a

faithful servant of the king. They tell me he uses the Liturgy in his

household devotions, and he has never been in his pew in my church since

the proclamation concerning the new book of service. I am told too, on

good authority, that my neighbour minister, John Methven of Lochlee,

uses it in the services of his church, in accordance with the express

desire of the laird who worships there every Sabbath Day."

"John Methven was ever a time-server and a worshipper of rank," said

Edward Kilgour, with curling lip. "He would sell conscience and liberty

for the smile of a patron so high in station as the Laird of Inverburn."

"Let us not so hardly judge the man, Edward," said the minister, gently.

"His motives and his conscience are known only to himself and his God.

Yet I fear that when the times of trouble grow hotter in the land, the

Church will not find a supporter in the minister of Lochlee."

"What I fear, Andrew," said Mistress Kilgour, with a sigh, "is lest the

Laird of Inverburn, not finding you conforming to his desires, may do

you injury in the parish, may even turn the people against you."

The minister smiled.

"I am in the Lord's hands, Jean. Except He will, Sir Thomas Hamilton

cannot touch a hair of my head, nor even damage my interests in the

parish. And my people, thanks be to God, are faithful and honest, and I

think have some little love for their minister in their hearts."

"As well they may," said the merchant, fervently.

"The name of Gray has long been honoured in Inverburn, certainly," said

the mistress, musingly. "Our forbears have been so many generations in

the manse that I think the people would be sad to see a stranger under

its roof-tree, or ministering to them in the kirk on the Sabbath Day."

"We will not trouble ourselves with such things to-day, Jean, there

being graver issues at stake than the interests of Inverburn, which,

though very dear to us, is but a small corner of the Lord's vineyard,"

said the minister, rising. "While you dress the bairns, Edward and I

might walk a little way into the town, and see what is doing. I see the

shadows of the night are wearing away from the castle heights, and day

breaking in the east!"

Accordingly the twain left the house together, and wended their way

through the streets. Even thus early there were many people abroad,

some standing in little groups, earnestly discussing the one topic of

absorbing interest occupying the minds of citizens and strangers alike.

Arm in arm the minister and the merchant walked together in the shadow

of the grey turrets of the castle, until they came to the shores of the

North Loch, which was tossing uneasily under the grey and wintry sky. A

keen east wind was sweeping up from the Frith, and it had a wailing in

its tone as if in warning of a coming storm.

The two pedestrians, alone at that hour by the solitudes of the loch,

talked low and earnestly together on the crisis to which affairs in

Scotland had now reached. The merchant was a keen Churchman, and a

devoted, pious Christian, with a heart ready to suffer and endure for

the cause of religion, and a brave, indomitable courage to fight for his

principles if required. Needless to say, the friendship between his

brother-in-law and himself was warm and sincere, because they had so

much in common. Engrossed in conversation, the time passed unheeded,

until the solemn strokes of the Tolbooth bell proclaimed the hour of

nine.

Then they turned their steps towards the Grassmarket once more, which

was now considerably busier than it had been an hour ago. Yet there was

no disorder or sign of tumult, nor was the aspect of the people wild or

excited. There was an expression of calm yet fixed resolution,

especially upon the faces of the older among them, which indicated that

no giddy froth of passion, no excitement of a moment moved them. Andrew

Gray remarked upon that to the merchant, and expressed his satisfaction

at the visible earnestness and quietness of spirit which seemed to be

abroad.

When they returned to the house they found the children up and dressed

and partaking of their morning meal, good Aunt Jean talking to them all

the while.

"Are you going forth to witness for the Covenant with us to-day, Jean?"

enquired the minister.

The mistress shook her head.

"I cannot well leave my house and my bairn, Andrew, but the Lord knows

that I can make my vow at home and keep it as faithfully as I would keep

a public testimony," she answered, with a smile and a tear. "But are

you going to take both these young things with you to the vast assembly

gathered in and about the Greyfriars?"

"For that purpose I brought them on this journey, Jean. As I said to

Edward, the proceedings of this day may make an impression on their

minds which will never be effaced, and--who knows?--the memory of it may

even serve to build them up yet more steadfastly in the faith in days to

come. Well, I think we should be going now. The proceedings, I learn,

are to begin early, and I would not that we should be at the outside

limits of the crowd."

Accordingly Aunt Jean prepared the children for going out of doors,

fastening the cloak of the little Agnes very closely about her neck, and

adding a scarf of her own to protect the throat against the biting wind

of March. David wrapped his plaid about his shoulders in true Highland

fashion, put on his bonnet, and, taking in his hand the stout ash stick

he had cut in the woods of Inverburn, bravely announced that he was

ready. So, followed by kind Aunt Jean's blessing and prayer, the little

party left the house and emerged into the busy streets.

Although it was yet early, every thoroughfare was thronged with human

beings, some moving on towards the place of meeting, others standing

about in little knots discussing the solemn occasion upon which so many

were gathered together. Our friends made their way leisurely up the

Bow, and were among the earliest to enter the churchyard, and thus were

enabled to take up a good position where everything could be seen and

heard. The church doors were standing wide open, and it was evidently

intended that the chief service should be held within the walls of the

sacred edifice itself. The minister of Inverburn, leaving his little

ones with their uncle, entered into the church, and met there many of

his colleagues in the ministry, as well as others with whom he had some

acquaintance.

As the stream of humanity surging towards the churchyard widened and

broadened, until it seemed as if there could be no room for even one

more, it was hastily decided that the proceedings should take place out

of doors, in order to prevent any undue crowding in the church, and to

enable as many as possible to hear and take part in the solemn service,

which was to precede the signing of the Covenant.

Accordingly a table was set in the middle of the church, and thereon was

laid the Bible used in the Greyfriars pulpit, and side by side with it

the gigantic sheet prepared to receive the signatures of a nation.

Everything being made ready, there gathered about the table the

venerable Earl of Loudon, the Earl of Sutherland, Sir Archibald

Johnston, the Reverend Alexander Henderson, with many other nobles and

ministers and prominent personages.

Beyond that circle was gathered a vast throng, comprising every rank,

age, and calling, upon whose faces, lit by a holy enthusiasm, the chill

March sunlight played fitfully as it escaped through the refts in the

cloudy sky. It was a wondrous sight. There was no noise, no unseemly

clamourings or vain babblings; the great concourse seemed to be hushed

into solemn expectancy, even the hot blood of the more passionate among

them being held in curb by the strange awe-inspiring nature of this

national gathering.

After a confession of national sin, an eloquent sermon was preached to

the assembled multitude by one of the most gifted ministers in the

Church.

Then amid a strange, deep silence Sir Archibald Johnston slowly and

distinctly read aloud to the people the contents of the document to

which every loyal Scot was asked to subscribe his name. It was

beautifully and reverently compiled, and so simple and clear in its

phraseology, that even the youngest and most illiterate person present

could not fail to comprehend its meaning. It was simply a protest

against all the corruptions and unholy innovations which the king sought

to introduce into the service of the Church, and in signing the bond the

subscribers pledged themselves solemnly before God to use every lawful

means to recover and preserve the early purity and simplicity of worship

in the Church of Scotland, and to resist every effort made by the king

to introduce an Episcopal form of worship into the land.

When the reading of the Covenant was concluded, the Earl of London

addressed the multitude in eloquent, heart-stirring tones, exhorting

them to consider well the solemn and binding nature of the oath about to

be taken, and impressing upon them the necessity of standing steadfast

by their testimony, for not otherwise could that liberty, civil and

religious, so dear to every Scottish heart, be restored and maintained

in the land. One of the leading and most devoted ministers in the

Church then gave utterance to a prayer, which hushed the very breathing

of the assembly, and moved them as if by a mighty wind from Heaven.

Amid the solemn silence which ensued, the Earl of Sutherland stepped

forward, and uplifting his hand he swore the solemn oath, and then

affixed the first signature to the Covenant. He was followed by nobles,

ministers, citizens, men, women, and children, who subscribed name after

name on the great sheet, until it could hold no more. Some, more

enthusiastic than their fellows, opened veins in their arms, and wrote

their names in their blood.

[Illustration: "Uplifting his hand, he swore the solemn oath"]

It was a day such as Scotland had never witnessed before, and which she

will never witness again, since, thanks be to God, the need for a

national covenanting to protect civil and religious rights is swallowed

up in the glorious liberty of these present days.

The impressive proceedings over, the people departed peaceably to their

homes.

The minister of Inverburn, with his children, abode another night under

Edward Kilgour's hospitable roof-tree, and early on the second morning

the little party set out upon their return journey to their home in the

pleasant vale of Inverburn.

*CHAPTER III.*

*FOREBODINGS OF EVIL.*

It was the month of April, and all Nature was sweetly rejoicing in the

wealth and beauty of a perfect spring. While spring is ever a pleasant

season in rural districts, it was especially so in that rich and

picturesque part of Lanarkshire which included the parish and village of

Inverburn. It lay in a secluded and lovely valley, sheltered from the

north and east by heather-clad hills, while to the west it commanded a

magnificent and wide-stretching view of the Vale of Clyde, at the utmost

limit of which the smoke from the populous city of Glasgow obscured the

clear brightness of the horizon. Although the parish of Inverburn was

by no means small, the village itself consisted only of a small main

street and a few straggling houses in the outskirts. The only building

of any pretensions was the Hamilton Arms Inn, a substantial two-storey

block, with a wide, low doorway and a trellised porch set round with

benches, a favourite resort for the villagers on the long summer

evenings, when honest Mistress Lyall's parlour became too close and warm

to be pleasant. Upon a gentle eminence about a mile removed from the

village, the grey turrets of Inverburn, long time the seat of the

Hamiltons, peeped out from among its ancestral trees. It was a fine,

proud old place, renowned for its beauty and its antiquity even in a

district where many a princely heritage reared its stately head. The

graceful spire of the parish church intervened, however, between the

village and the mansion. It also stood upon a gentle knoll, and was

beautifully shaded by the birch trees which were known far and near as

the "birks of Inverburn." The manse was close by, a grey and rambling

house, just such a one to be hallowed by many precious memories of home

and loved ones. It was a common saying that there had been Grays in the

manse as long as there had been Hamiltons in Inverburn, so that the one

family could claim equal antiquity with its prouder neighbour.

There could be no sweeter spot to live and die in than that

old-fashioned country manse, standing so cosily amid its wealth of

greenery, the roses and honeysuckle and sweet woodbine clambering about

doors and windows with a loving clinging touch. It looked fair indeed

that mild April evening, for lilac, laburnum, and hawthorn were in

flower in the shrubberies, and primrose and polyanthus blooming in the

old-fashioned plots before the door. The air about it was sweet and

fragrant indeed; but it was more: it breathed something of the peace

which dwelt ever under its roof-tree.

By the open window of the family sitting-room sat a pleasant-faced,

sedate-looking young woman, busily engaged embroidering a white frock

for a child. She was neatly though plainly dressed, and there was an

air of precision and daintiness about her which some women acquire as

they grow older, especially if they are unmarried. It was a pleasant

face, as I said, yet there was a grave firmness about the mouth, a

dauntless gleam in the fine clear brown eye, which betokened that Jane

Gray was not without a will of her own. She looked what she was, a

firm, prudent, self-reliant woman, who had known the cares as well as

the joys of life. To her dying mother Jane Gray had solemnly pledged

herself not to quit the roof-tree of the manse so long as her father

needed her care. Both the giver and receiver of that promise had felt

assured that it would not be long ere she was released from its

fulfilment, because the minister of Inverburn was at that time in a

precarious state of health.

But, to the joy of those who loved him, certain means prescribed by an

Edinburgh physician were blessed to his complete recovery, and he seemed

to receive a new lease of life. That made no alteration, however, in

the resolution of the elder daughter of the manse. Very faithfully year

by year she discharged her duties as mistress of her father's household.

She was mother and sister in one to her brothers, and it was a question

which was dearer to her heart, the broad-shouldered, bluff-mannered

farmer Andrew, or gentle-voiced, scholarly, meek-minded David, minister

of the neighbouring parish of Broomhill.

She had watched them go forth to their own homes, with a blessing and a

tear, and she had dressed for her bridal her fair and delicate sister

Agnes, who had now been for two years the wife of Adam Hepburn of

Rowallan. It must not be supposed that Jane Gray had no other

alternative but to remain under her father's roof-tree. Nay, it was far

otherwise. Many knew and appreciated her sterling worth, and more than

one had pleaded for her love. But though there came one at last who

stirred her heart to its deepest depths, she shook her head. She looked

at her father's white head and drooping shoulders, thought of his

desolate old age, the empty, childless home she would leave behind, and,

crushing down the yearnings of her heart, she answered no. Perhaps it

was that experience, undreamed of by those to whom she so unselfishly

ministered, which had lined her broad brow, and tinged her hair with

grey before its time. Her face in its repose was apt to look sad, for

it was in the stillness of an evening such as this that Jane Gray's

heart was often peculiarly stirred by memories of the past. She laid

down her seam at length, and leaning her arm on the sill, looked out

into the flower-laden garden, which was sweet with all the lovely bloom

of spring.

Just then her reverie was disturbed by a short, sharp whistle, and a

light, hurried footfall coming round the approach which led down to the

gate, and thence to the public road. And almost immediately a young lad

came bounding over to the open window, waving his cap in the air. Jane

Gray looked at the young, eager face with a kindly smile, for the eldest

son of her brother Andrew was very dear to her heart. He had been

sojourning for some months at the manse, his grandfather taking much

pride and pleasure in forwarding him in his studies preparatory to his

entering the University of Edinburgh or Glasgow, as a student of

divinity. It had been his father's desire that he should follow his

vocation, and by-and-by succeed him as the farmer of Hartrigge, but the

lad had so early shown his distaste for outdoor labour, and his love for

books, that it was evident nature intended him for a scholar.

"What is it, Gavin? You seem eager and excited," said his aunt,

resuming her work.

"There is a horse and rider coming up the road, Aunt Jane, and I am sure

it is the Reverend James Guthrie. It is his horse, I am quite sure, by

the white foot and the white star on its forehead. Is grandfather in?"

"Yes, he is in his study; nay, do not disturb him yet, until we make

sure you are right," she said, restraining the impetuous boy, as he was

about to run off in search of his grandfather. "Stay, and I will walk

down with you to the road, and by that time the horse and his rider,

whoever he may be, will have reached the gate."

So saying, Jane Gray folded up her work, and in a minute had joined her

nephew out of doors. "I cannot think that you can be right, Gavin," she

said thoughtfully, "for I remember that Mr. Guthrie intended to be

present at a special meeting in Edinburgh this week, and he has not yet

had time to return to Stirling and come on so far as this."

"Why, there he is alighting at the gate, Aunt Jane! it is _just_ Mr.

Guthrie!" exclaimed the lad, and darting forward, he was the first to

greet the much-beloved minister of Stirling, and to relieve him of his

horse's bridle rein.

A glow of pleasure overspread the face of Jane Gray as she advanced to

meet her father's revered friend, who was almost a brother to her, so

close and dear was the intimacy between the two families.

"Mr. Guthrie, it is no ordinary pleasure to see you so unexpectedly,"

she said, as they shook hands; nevertheless her eyes dwelt rather

anxiously upon his fine face, for in these troublous and foreboding

times the announcement of danger or alarm might come at any moment.

"To me also, Miss Gray; I trust I have arrived to find your honoured

father under his own roof-tree.

"Oh, yes; he is busy with his sermon. It is not often a minister is far

from home on a Friday evening if he is to supply his own pulpit on the

Sabbath Day. We thought you had been in Edinburgh this week, Mr.

Guthrie."

"So I have been; and thanks to the Lord's journeying mercies vouchsafed

to his unworthy servant, I have again been brought to my father's house

in safety. The lad is out of hearing, I see," he added, glancing towards

Gavin, who was leading the hot and dusty steed away in the direction of

his grandfather's stable, "so I may say that a strange apprehension of

evil came upon me in my bed last night, and so strong was the conviction

in my mind this morning that I should not long be at liberty, that I was

constrained to ride over here to be encouraged and comforted by your

father's sweet counsel, and, if need be, bid your family circle, who are

as dear to me almost as my own kinsfolk at Guthrie, a last farewell."

The ruddy colour faded out of Jane Gray's cheeks, and her startled eye

looked with alarm into the minister's face. She was astonished and

relieved at its sweet serenity; evidently his gloomy convictions had not

power to rob him of his tranquillity.

"The Lord forbid that a hand should be laid on you, one of His most

honoured and valued servants," she said involuntarily; "but pray tell

me, Mr. Guthrie, have you had any warnings that the evil men in power

are jealous of your influence for good?"

"In Edinburgh, yesterday, I was told that that good and noble lord,

Archibald, Marquis of Argyll, will be laid hands upon ere long. If that

be so, I cannot hope to escape, for I am doubly guilty of the actions

which have doomed him. If it be so, and the Lord call me to bear

witness for Him on the scaffold, He will give me strength to crucify the

passions and affections of the body, and to glory in suffering for His

sake."

The good man's face was suffused with a holy peace and joy, but a

shudder ran through Jane Gray's frame, for not yet had the scaffold

become so common, and in those brutal times so desirable a mode of exit

from this troublous life as it was destined to become ere long in poor

stricken Scotland.

"The prayers of God's people can but be offered up on your behalf, Mr.

Guthrie. Such as you can ill be spared from the vineyard in these

times," said Jane Gray, earnestly. "But now, let us tarry no longer out

of doors; I am sure you stand in need of refreshment after your long

ride."

Ere he crossed the threshold, the minister, as was his wont, raised his

eyes to Heaven and reverently invoked a benediction in the words of the

apostle of old: "Peace be to this house."

Having shown her guest into the sitting-room, Jane Gray sent Betty the

maid to tap at the minister's door and tell him the Reverend James

Guthrie, from Stirling, had arrived at the manse. Betty, or Elizabeth

McBean, had served with the Grays since her girlhood, and her love for

the family was only exceeded by her intense love and devotion to the

Kirk of Scotland, and her intense hatred to every form of religion alien

to the sound Presbyterianism of her forefathers.

While Jane Gray with her own hands set about preparing some refreshment

for the guest, the minister, her father, left his study with joyful

haste, and entering the family room, very warmly greeted his friend and

brother-minister, whom he had known and loved these many years. There

was a great change in the minister of Inverburn since that memorable

time three-and-twenty years before, when he had visited Edinburgh, and

witnessed with his brethren for the Covenant in the Kirk of the

Greyfriars.

His tall, spare figure was now much stooped, his face worn and wrinkled,

his eye, though still bright and clear, far sunken in his head, his long

hair and flowing beard as white as the driven snow. He looked a

patriarch indeed, and the serene and heavenly expression on his face,

his kindly smile, and sweet fatherliness of manner and tone were

calculated to inspire the deepest reverence and love.

"Bless the Lord, I am again permitted to look upon your face, my

brother!" he said, as he warmly and fervently grasped Mr. Guthrie's

hand. "But I trust no untoward circumstances prompt your unlooked-for

visit. In these troublous times we are all as watchers on the

house-top."

"I was but saying to your daughter, Mr. Gray, that it was a presentiment

of evil which brought me here to-night," replied the minister of

Stirling. "I only returned from Edinburgh yesterday, and what I heard

there augured ill for the peace of Zion. It is rumoured that the

Marquis of Argyll is no longer safe, so the king's emissaries are not to

be satisfied with common prey."

"I can hardly credit the truth of such rumours, Mr. Guthrie," replied

the minister of Inverburn. "Gratitude for past invaluable services

should render his person sacred in the eyes of the king."

An expression of mild scorn passed over Mr. Guthrie's face.

"Gratitude is a word not found in the vocabulary of the House of

Stuart," he said, quietly. "The Marquis, I am told, leaves for London

on Monday, to offer his congratulations to the king on his restoration.

I fear me he takes the journey at his own great risk."

"If need be the Lord will hold His sheltering arm over him, Mr.

Guthrie," said the minister of Inverburn, cheerfully. "No man, either

prince or peasant, shall die before the appointed time. But here comes

Jane with your refreshment. I hope it is not your intention to quit the

roof-tree of the manse before the dawning of another day."

"If convenient for Miss Jane I will very gladly stay," answered Mr.

Guthrie. "As troubles thicken round us, opportunities for sweet counsel

together, though more sorely needed, will become more limited, I fear.

And now, are all your kinsfolk at Hartrigge and Rowallan well? and is

the kirk at Broomhill prospering under David's ministrations?"

"Verily the Lord hath been pleased to greatly bless the lad in his

labours," said the minister of Inverburn, in tones of satisfaction.

"Here comes young Gavin Gray, in whose studies I take a deep interest.

Here Gavin, lad, come and speak to the Reverend Mr. Guthrie, and behold

in him the pattern of what I one day hope to see you become."

The bright, happy-faced boy came forward frankly, and was again

addressed cordially by the minister of Stirling.

"I have been thinking, father," said Jane Gray's pleasant voice in the

doorway, "that Gavin might saddle Donald, and carry word of Mr.

Guthrie's visitation both to his father's house, and to his uncle and

aunt at Rowallan. Andrew and Susan, I am sure, would be greatly

rejoiced to come over to the manse. They could drive round in their

little cart to Rowallan, and bring over Adam and Agnes with them."

"A very good suggestion, my daughter," said Mr. Gray. "You hear what

your aunt says, Gavin," he added to the lad. "Run and get Donald

saddled and if you ride quickly they can all be here before the evening

is far spent."

Gavin, nothing loth, at once obeyed his grandfather's behest, and was

soon scampering along the road towards Hartrigge.

*CHAPTER IV.*

*THE MINISTER'S CHILDREN.*

The farm of Hartrigge, where abode the minister's eldest son, was one of

the largest holdings on the estate of Inverburn. Andrew Gray had

entered it on his marriage, seventeen years before, and was therefore

drawing near the expiry of his lease. Having been trained as a

practical farmer, he had converted the somewhat poverty-stricken acres

into rich and fertile soil. He was a careful, prudent man himself, and,

having married Susan Baillie (the daughter of the farmer under whom he

had learned his business), one eminently fitted to be a true helpmeet to

him in every way, he was a prosperous, and might even be called a rich

man.

In disposition he was not nearly so lovable as his brother, the minister

of Broomhill. He was by nature rather harsh and stern, and, though his

anger was not easily kindled, it was a slow and deadly fire which did

not quickly burn out. Had his wife not been of a singularly sweet and

amiable temperament, Hartrigge would not have been such a happy,

peaceable household as it was. And yet Andrew Gray was a sincerely good

man, rather austere in his religious views, perhaps, but ardently

attached to the Church of Scotland, and passionately jealous regarding

all her ancient privileges. Four children had blessed Hartrigge with

the sunshine of their presence--Gavin, the eldest; then Jane, a quiet

douce maiden of fourteen; then merry, rattling Sandy; and sweet,

winsome, gentle-eyed little Agnes, whom they called Nannie, to

distinguish her from her namesake aunt at Rowallan.

Hartrigge was distant about two miles from the manse, the road leading

in a southerly direction through rich and beautiful scenery, exquisitely

varied by all the changing tints of spring. Here the tender, delicate

green of the beech showed in sharp relief against some sombre fir; again

the silver buds on the chestnut gleamed side by side with the brighter

hue of the larch and the mountain ash. Cowslip and daisy dotted every

grassy slope, and the hedgerows already were gleaming white with

hawthorn bloom--so early had the summer burst in fragrance on the earth.

About a mile beyond the massive stone gateway which gave entrance to the

grounds surrounding the mansion-house of Inverburn, a low white gate

shut out intruders from the private road leading to Hartrigge. This

familiar barrier Donald took at a bound, and in five minutes afterwards

was galloping round the path which cut through the fir wood surrounding

the house. It was a substantial dwelling, of plain and sober aspect,

befitting its inmates, and, though there was ample garden ground in

front, there were no flowers blooming sweetly as in the manse garden.

Everything was austerely neat, simple, and plain. Gavin rode the pony

round to the kitchen door, and, dismounting, tied the rein to a

projecting hook placed in the wall for that purpose. Then he bounded

into the house, It was milking-time, and the maids were in the byre

(cowhouse), and he knew that his mother would be upstairs putting the

younger ones to bed, for everything moved by clockwork in that most

methodical of houses. The sound of voices in the ben-end (parlour)

proclaimed that his father was giving Jeanie her evening lesson, which

Gavin boldly interrupted.

"Grandfather sent me to bid mother and you come to the manse, father,"

he said, impetuously. "Mr. Guthrie from Stirling is here, and would like

to see you. And I am to go to Rowallan and tell Uncle Adam and Aunt

Agnes to be ready to drive down with you when you come for them."

Andrew Gray closed his book and rose to his feet, with a gleam of

interest brightening his rugged face. He was a tall, broad-shouldered

man, whose physique was suggestive of giant strength, while his keen,

stern black eye and massive jaw indicated an indomitable will. He was

plainly dressed in rough homespun, and looked what he was--a

substantial, well-to-do Clydesdale farmer.

"Mr. James Guthrie! Surely his coming was not anticipated, Gavin," he

said in tones of surprise. "Was your grandfather very pressing? It is

somewhat late to leave the house to-night."

"Yes; I believe it is something special, father, and I must away. Well,

Jeanie, have you learned to milk Mysie yet?" he added, teasingly, to the

quiet-faced little maiden, who was being initiated into all the

household ways.

"Yes, I can milk her fine, Gavin, all but the strippings!" she answered,

proudly. "Are you going away already?"

At that moment Mrs. Gray, having heard Gavin's voice upstairs, entered

the room. She was a comely, pleasant-faced woman, with shrewd, grey

eyes, in which shone a kindly, and at times very humorous gleam. She

looked very young to be the mother of her tall son, for her figure was

well preserved, and even graceful, her cheeks red and bonnie, as they

had been in her girlhood. She appeared much pleased to hear of the

invitation to the manse, and at once said they could go, for Sandy and

Nannie were asleep, and Margaret, the more responsible of the two maids,

could very well see to the house in their absence. So after another

teasing word to Jeanie, a run upstairs to look at Sandy and Nannie

sleeping in their beds, Gavin mounted Donald again, and turned his head

into the field-path which led straight to Rowallan.

If Hartrigge was noted for its simplicity and absence of all outer

adornments, Rowallan was renowned for the exquisite beauty of its

natural situation and surroundings, as well as for the taste with which

the little garden was laid out and kept.

Hartrigge stood upon a somewhat bleak and barren hill. Rowallan was

sheltered in a cosy hollow, protected on every side from every wind that

blew. It also formed a part of the lands of Inverburn, but was

considerably smaller in extent than its neighbour.

And yet it had sufficed as a dwelling-place and livelihood for the

Hepburns for generations. There had been an Adam Hepburn in Rowallan as

far back as the country folk could remember or tell, and an Adam Hepburn

of Rowallan had left his ploughshare at the call of patriotism, and had

met his death on the fateful field of Flodden; an Adam Hepburn had

signed the Covenant at Edinburgh, three-and-twenty years before, and

though he was now gathered to his fathers, there was an Adam Hepburn in

Rowallan still. True friends and generous foes the Hepburns had ever

been, faithful to their plighted word, scorning the very name of

meanness or dishonour. A wild, passionate impetuous temper was the

family failing, and yet for deeds done, or words spoken in the heat of

anger, they were ever ready to make amends. Although Adam Hepburn was

married to Agnes Gray, her brother Andrew, at Hartrigge, had never taken

kindly to him. Both were good men, and yet there was a strange antipathy

between them, and it was better that they should not meet often. There

was nothing of rigid solemn austerity about Adam Hepburn, and he often

indulged in good-humoured banter against his brother-in-law's solemnity;

yet none could have a truer reverence for things divine than Adam

Hepburn. Under the gay exterior there was a deeper, more earnest

current of feeling, which kept him in the paths of righteousness and

peace. Both Uncle Adam and Aunt Agnes were almost worshipped by the

young folk at Hartrigge, and also by the little Hepburns, the children

of Adam's brother, who was a well-to-do merchant in the town of Lanark.

Even manse Donald himself seemed to know and love the way to Rowallan,

for he fairly capered and whinnied with delight when he came in sight of

the cosy homestead at the foot of its sheltering hill. It was indeed a

sweet spot. The house was whitewashed, and built in a low, rambling

style, with many a quaint gable and window, about which crept green and

lovely creepers, as well as time-honoured honeysuckle and wild-rose. A

little lawn in front sloped down to a broad swift-running stream, which

had its being in the hill to the east of the house, and which danced

merrily over its pebbly bed on its way to join the noble Clyde. In the

stillness of the April evening its bosom was broken by many a circling

eddy, where the lusty trout leaped up to catch the buzzing insects which

hummed in the drowsy air.

Catching sight of his aunt standing in the doorway, Gavin waved his cap,

a salutation to which she replied by fluttering her white handkerchief

in the breeze. And as if in response to a word from her, her husband

joined her outside, and they came slowly along the path to meet the

messenger. They were a goodly pair. Adam Hepburn stood six feet in his

stockings, and his tall figure was well-built and splendidly

proportioned, while his fine head, with its clustering, chestnut curls,

was set firmly on his shoulders, giving the idea of strength and

resolution as well as manly beauty. His face was sunny, open, and

honest as the day; his keen, blue eye, with its humorous gleam, his firm

yet tender mouth, redeemed the face from any harshness which the

strongly-marked features might otherwise have given. His wife had

fulfilled all the gentle promise of her girlhood. She was a sweet, shy,

shrinking woman, such as makes the sunshine of home for one, but who is

lost sight of in the busier ways of life. She was like the gentle

lily-of-the-vale, breathing forth in her quiet life an unseen but

exquisite perfume, which shed its influence on all around it. Of her

husband's strong, deep, yearning love for her I cannot write; it was the

passion of his life, and she was indeed the very desire of his heart and

the apple of his eye. And she loved him, if less demonstratively, as

truly and tenderly as such women do.

"Hullo, youngster, how have you and Donald managed to escape from the

manse so late?" queried Uncle Adam when the pony and its rider were

within a hundred yards or so of them, while Aunt Agnes gently hoped that

he brought no bad news. Gavin delivered his message, which seemed to be

very acceptable to both, and they signified their willingness and

pleasure to prepare themselves against the arriving of the conveyance

from Hartrigge. Then he turned Donald's head once more, and trotted

rapidly back to the manse. About eight of the clock the conveyance

arrived also, and all the minister's family with the exception of David,

whose absence all deplored, were gathered under his roof-tree. Mr.

Guthrie had not yet seen the husband whom Agnes Gray had married, and he

was greatly taken with his pleasant manner and fine open face. Of the

daughters of the manse the younger had ever been his favourite, because

she reminded him of a dear sister of his own he had lost in early life.

After the usual greetings, the talk turned upon the one absorbing topic

of interest--the Church and her affairs, together with the evil doings

of the two men, Middleton and Sharp, who held in their hands the reins

of Scottish Government, and who seemed determined to exercise their

power to the suppression of both civil and religious liberty in the

land.

While the minister of Stirling fearlessly expressed his opinion

regarding these matters, for all under the roof-tree of the manse were

true as steel, it might have been observed with what deep and breathless

interest Andrew Gray of Hartrigge hung upon every word, and how, at some

revelation of tyranny and injustice hitherto unknown to him, he clenched

his hands, and the veins on his forehead stood out like knotted cords.

It was easy to see that when the approaching crisis came he would be

found in the hottest forefront of the battle.

"I am of opinion, my friends, that there should be a day set apart for

the nation to humble herself before the God of nations, lest it be

through any backsliding or lukewarmness of her own that these ominous

things are happening in her midst," said the minister, thoughtfully;

"there had need to be a reviving of the covenanting spirit among us. In

these times how many are sitting at their ease in Zion, while her very

bulwarks are assailed by the sons of Belial."

"Could you not move such a resolution at the first meeting of your

Presbytery, Mr. Guthrie, an example which I also would follow upon the

eighteenth of May in my own Presbytery of Lanark?" suggested the

minister of Inverburn.

Mr. Guthrie remained for a few minutes silent, while his countenance

wore an expression of deep seriousness and settled conviction.

"If I be still in the body and at liberty, brother, I will indeed act

upon your suggestion," he said at length.

"Why, Mr. Guthrie, do you fear that you may be laid hands on?" quoth

Adam Hepburn, impetuously. "Surely the ill men in power would never

venture upon sic an offence."

"There is no offence too heinous to be committed by those who sell their

souls to Satan, young man," said the minister, mildly. "Will you bring

the Book, Miss Jane, and we will comfort ourselves for a little season

with the precious Word of His grace. It may be the last time we will

have so sweet a privilege together."

Nothing loth, Jane Gray lifted the Book from its honoured place and laid

it before the minister of Stirling. He read an appropriate portion of

Scripture, and commented thereon in his own eloquent and persuasive

style. Then the minister of Inverburn led the devotions of the little

gathering, and so devout and impressive were these exercises that all

felt that Jesus was indeed Himself in their midst. The memory of that

night remained very sweet and precious in their hearts when Mr.

Guthrie's prediction was fulfilled, and there were few opportunities for

Christian fellowship permitted to God's people. When they parted for

the night Mr. Guthrie bade them all a solemn farewell, knowing in his

inmost heart that they should meet no more on earth.

*CHAPTER V.*

*THE FIRST MARTYRS.*

As several weeks passed, and Mr. Guthrie was still left to peaceable

ministrations in his church and parish, his friends at Inverburn began

to hope that his direful prophesies regarding his own fate might, after

all, prove themselves to be but vain imaginings. The most noble Marquis

of Argyll repaired to London according to arrangements, in response to

the urgent solicitations of the king that he should present himself at

Court, and for a space nothing was heard of him.

In the month of August a number of the ministers met in Edinburgh, by

special appointment, for the purpose of drawing up a petition to the

king. The Reverend Mr. Gray of Inverburn had hoped and expected to be

present at that gathering, but was prevented by a severe chill caught

after a long walk in the heat of the day. As it afterwards turned out,

it appeared as if the Lord had specially preserved him in safety at

home, for no sooner was the conference gathered together in Edinburgh

than they were all apprehended, with the exception of one who very

miraculously escaped. They were first imprisoned in the Castle of

Edinburgh, but Mr. Guthrie was afterwards removed to Stirling Castle, as

if to be taunted with his confinement in the place where he had long

exercised so much liberty both of person and conscience. And so

desolation and mourning fell upon the people of Stirling because of the

strange and grievous affliction which had befallen their minister.

A very bountiful harvest blessed Scotland that year; nevertheless it was

ingathered with a strange foreboding that ere long the dark cloud of

want and misery would overshadow the now plentiful and peaceful land.

One evening early in the bleak month of December, when the minister of

Inverburn was returning from visiting a sick parishioner, a shepherd

among the hills beyond Rowallan, he met the laird riding between the

manse gate and the entrance to Inverburn. Sir Thomas Hamilton was a

fine, handsome-looking man, but, owing to his haughty and overbearing

manner and his well-known leanings towards the side of Prelacy, he was

not greatly beloved in the parish. The minister gravely and courteously

saluted him, but, somewhat to his surprise, the laird drew rein, with

the intention of speaking to him.

"Good evening, Mr. Gray. I have been to the manse seeking you," he said

in his quick, imperious way. "Having missed you there, I am fortunate

in meeting you. You were preaching in your own kirk on the Sabbath Day,

I am told?"

"I was, Sir Thomas," answered the minister, in tones of mild surprise.

"And they tell me you preached a very disloyal discourse, calculated to

stir up strife against the king and his honourable counsellors and

representatives in Scotland," said the laird, with a peculiar smile.

"Nay, Sir Thomas; whoever carried such a tale to you grievously and

wilfully misrepresented me," said the minister, quietly. "I said that

these were woeful and troublous times for the Kirk and country, when

such good men as James Guthrie of Stirling were imprisoned for

fearlessly advocating the principles of civil and religious liberty, and

protesting against the many strange and heathenish innovations which the

king, through his representatives, is seeking to force into the worship

of the Kirk of Scotland."

"Heathenish! By the powers, Andrew Gray, have a care, and keep a better

bridle on thy prating tongue, or it will get thee into mischief yet,"

said the laird, rudely. "The time is coming when a man may get his

mouth closed for less."

"Nay, it now is," said the minister, mournfully. "Truly, I know not

whither this poor country is drifting nor what will become of her

Church, unless the God of the Covenant stretch out to her a helping

hand."

"See here, Andrew Gray," said the laird, leaning down from his saddle

and speaking in very significant tones; "you are a prating old fool.

Let me advise you, for your own safety and that of your household, to

take a leaf out of the book of your neighbour, the minister of Lochlee.

He is a wise man, now, who can seal his lips and obey the reasonable

desires of the king, without making so much ado."

"You speak truly, Sir Thomas. John Methven is indeed a wise man for

this present life, but woe is me for the lustre of his crown in glory.

I fear me the fear of man is much more before his mind than the fear of

God."

"But tell me, Andrew Gray," said the laird, impatiently, "what harm can

there be in using the new prayer book in the service of the Church? It

is a very holy and good book, and there is nothing in it even to offend

the most fastidious taste."

"It savours too strongly of the popish breviary, Sir Thomas, besides

being the thin end of the wedge which will drive the pure worship of God

from every Scottish pulpit. As such I humbly pray it may be as

resolutely kept without the church doors as it has been hitherto,"

returned the minister, fearlessly.

"I tell you, Andrew Gray, it is useless to resist the will of the king,

who has might as well as right upon his side. And think you that when

such men as Archibald of Argyll are not reckoned too high in influence

and station to be punished for treason, that the king will regard with

leniency lesser lights like you?"

The minister started.

"Then the spirit of prophecy which was vouchsafed to James Guthrie has

had its double fulfilment and His Grace is a fellow-captive with his

ministerial brethren?" he said sadly.

"Even so," replied the laird. "I have had intelligence from London that

Argyll is confined in the Tower, awaiting trial for treason. I tell you

this in confidence, to warn you, Andrew Gray, for, obstinate though you

be, I have no desire to see any harm befall your grey hairs. And take

my word for it, Episcopacy must sooner or later be established in

Scotland, and it is simple madness to attempt to swim against the tide."

With these significant words the Laird of Inverburn gave his horse the

rein, and rode rapidly away, leaving the minister to pursue his solitary

way in sad meditation over the difficulties and dangers daily thickening

round the path of God's people.

Turning a bend in the road, he beheld in the distance the figure of his

son David, the minister of Broomhill, advancing to meet him. He was not

surprised, having been duly apprised of his intention to come with his

wife and child that day to spend a brief season at the manse. David

Gray was now a tall and fine-looking man, although his figure was very

slim and slenderly built, and his face wore that thoughtful and even

careworn aspect common to the scholar and the earnest minister of the

Gospel. Although only in his thirty-fifth year, his black locks were

already tinged with grey, and there were not a few wrinkles on his high

and thoughtful brow.

A warm greeting passed between father and son, mutual inquiries for each

other's health and welfare, and then both plunged into the subject which

was occupying the minds of all thinking people at that time. They

walked slowly on to the manse, engaged in earnest discussion, and were

so deeply absorbed that they stood outside the door, heedless of the

chill and biting evening air, until Jane Gray, hearing voices, came and

peremptorily ordered them in.

In the family room David Gray's wife was sitting by the hearth with her

baby on her knee. She was a fair-faced, flaxen-haired young woman,

without much depth of character or soundness of understanding. She was

the only daughter of a little laird, in the parish of Broomhill, and had

been brought up to think of little except her own pretty face. She was

not in any way fitted to be the wife of a minister, especially of such a

one as David Gray, and many had marvelled at his choice. The Grays had

not much approved his marriage with her, but seeing his heart was set

upon the maiden, they had kept their thoughts to themselves, and hoped

that under his influence Lilian Burnet would become a better woman.

"And how is it with thee, my daughter?" queried the minister of

Inverburn in his fatherly manner, and at the same time laying his hand

in blessing on the fair head of the child sleeping on her knee.

"Oh I am very well, grandfather," she answered, flippantly; "and glad to

come here for a change. David has harped so long about coming to the

manse of Inverburn. I wanted to go home to my father's house at

Haughhead and let him come alone, but he would not listen to me."

The minister readily guessed the cause of his son's desire to separate

his wife as much as possible from the influence of her own kinsfolk.

Although they followed an outward form of Presbyterianism they were at

heart attached to Episcopacy, solely because it was the form of religion

most favoured then by royalty and great folk, for whom the needy Burnets

had a great admiration. In the presence of Mrs. David Gray there was

not much said anent the affairs of the Church; but as there were many

other matters relating to family and social life interesting to them,

the conversation did not flag. Also, later in the evening, Adam Hepburn

and his wife walked over from Rowallan and joined the family circle at

the manse. And so the night sped on swift and pleasant wings.

Next day Betty McBean's brother, a carrier by trade, and who had been at

Edinburgh on some errands for various people in the parish, brought word

to the manse that the Marquis of Argyll had been brought a close

prisoner by sea from London to Leith, and was confined in Edinburgh

Castle. So the laird's statement, which Mr. Gray had partly

disbelieved, was true after all. It was with deep anxiety that Mr.

Gray, in common with all other God-fearing people throughout Scotland,

awaited the results which must follow upon these significant

proceedings.

On the 13th of February the Marquis of Argyll was arraigned before the

bar of the Parliament in Edinburgh, charged with high treason. The

evidence against him was of a very slender character, and was chiefly

made up of a number of vile and baseless slanders gathered together for

his condemnation. Upon the 20th of the same month the Reverend James

Guthrie was put upon his trial, charged with a similar offence. But the

real cause of offence against these two great and good men was that they

were the two most influential Protestants in Scotland, and must

therefore be removed out of the way.

Therefore both, after a mockery of a trial, were put on their defence,

which not being satisfactory to their base accusers and unjust and

perjured judges, they were both condemned to die, Argyll on the 28th of

May, and Mr. Guthrie on the 1st of June. When the grievous news was

brought to Inverburn, Mr. Gray at once rose and prepared himself for a

journey to Edinburgh, in order to be present with his beloved friend

during the last days of his life, to comfort him with the sweet counsel

of brotherly and Christian sympathy. Jane Gray saw her aged father

depart with some forebodings of mind, and was indeed moved to tears, as

she bade him God-speed and farewell.

"Weep not for me, my daughter," said the minister, sadly, "but rather

for our harassed and persecuted land. Know, Jane, that except it be of

the Lord's good pleasure, wicked men shall not lay a hand upon me. And

if his friends desert him in his hour of need, the soul of the Lord's

servant may sink within him in his extremity."

Owing to his age and somewhat infirm health, the minister of Inverburn

found it impossible to make the journey in one day, and had therefore to

rest by the way at the house of a friend, about fifteen miles west from

Edinburgh. And on the following morning he rode with speed into

Edinburgh, arriving about noon at the house of his brother-in-law, in

the Grass-market. His sister Jane was now dead, but her one child, grown

to womanhood, ministered with kind heart and capable hands to her

father's wants. The minister was warmly greeted by Ailie Kilgour and

her father and made heartily welcome under their roof-tree. As was to

be expected, the merchant was able to furnish his brother-in-law with

all the particulars of the two trials, which had occasioned such

excitement and sorrowful indignation in the city. He also assured him

that he would have no difficulty in obtaining access to Mr. Guthrie,

because he had been allowed to enjoy the fellowship of several friends,

as well as some of his kinsfolk from Guthrie. So, before the day was

spent, Mr. Gray betook himself to the tolbooth, or gaol, and was without

ado admitted to the presence of his condemned friend. As was natural,

the minister of Inverburn expected to find him somewhat cast down, for

he was not yet stricken in years, and had many sweet ties to bind him to

life; but he was agreeably surprised to find him not only composed and

cheerful, but encompassed with a holy joy, a blessed and wondrous

serenity, which seemed to have been specially vouchsafed to him from

above.

"Ah, friend Gray," he said, as he affectionately embraced him, "hast

thou come to see how our God can uphold His servants in the very

swelling of Jordan? Wicked men can lay hands on and torment this poor

body indeed, for which I am not ungrateful, since they will do me a good

turn by giving me a quicker introduction to my Father's house, where are

many mansions."

In that state of mind Mr. Guthrie continued up to his execution. Nor

was the Marquis of Argyll less wonderfully upheld in his extremity. He

died upon the Monday with triumphant courage, and it seemed as if the

Lord's arm were veritably around him.

On the Friday following Mr. Guthrie followed his illustrious

fellow-sufferer into glory. The minister of Inverburn was among those

who accompanied him to the scaffold, and who witnessed (not without a

passing feeling of envy, that he had reached the end of his troubles)

the holy and triumphant joy with which he met the King of Terrors.

His last words, "The Covenants will yet be Scotland's reviving," were

destined to be gloriously fulfilled, but not until the blood of the

saints, of which his was but the earnest, was made to run like water on

the ground.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*A THORN IN THE FLESH.*

On a dreary October afternoon in the year 1662, David Gray, the minister

of Broomhill, was sitting in the study in his own manse, with his arms

leaning on the table, and his face wearing an expression of deep

perplexity and care.

That very day had been published the proclamation drawn up by the Privy

Council in Glasgow, commanding the ministers to own the power of the

newly-appointed bishops, and to accept anew presentations of their

livings at the hands of the prelates within four weeks, on pain of being

immediately, with their families, ejected from their manses, livings,

and parishes, beyond even the very bounds of their Presbyteries.

In a sore strait was the minister of Broomhill that day. In his own

mind there was not the slightest hesitation as to the course to be

pursued; he had already refused to own the power of the Bishop of

Glasgow, in whose diocese was the parish of Broomhill. The trouble lay

not with his own conscience; it was connected with his wife and her

kinsfolk, who had already made his life miserable with their reproaches

concerning what they termed his obstinacy and bigoted Presbyterianism.

She was not yet aware of this new proclamation, and the minister

bethought himself that he might try to enlist her sympathies on his side

before she was influenced by her friends at Haughhead. Accordingly he

rose from his chair, and went to the living-room in search of his wife.

Hearing his foot in the passage, his little daughter, now able to run

alone, came toddling to meet him, and stooping, the father raised her in

his arms and passionately clasped her to his heart. Her little arms met

fondly round his neck, her rosy cheek was pressed lovingly to his; the

grave disturbed look on her father's face could not awe or frighten the

little one, for he was her father still. That sweet caress did the

heart of the minister good, and he entered the inner room with a lighter

step than that with which he had left his study. Another child, a

little son, just three months old, lay in the wooden cradle which the

young mother was gently rocking with her foot, while over her sewing she

crooned a lullaby to hush the babe to rest. She looked up at her

husband's entrance, and slightly smiled in recognition.

"Is the child asleep? can we talk here, Lilian?" he asked in a whisper.

"Yes, he is very sound now, and will not awake for an hour," she

answered. "What is it you have to say?"

For answer he drew from an inner pocket a copy of the proclamation and

handed it for her perusal. She carelessly glanced it over and laid it

aside, while a peculiar little smile touched her red lips.

"I am not surprised; my father has always said the Government would

resort to more extreme measures. Well, would it not have been better to

have owned the bishop's sway of your free will, without being hunted and

compelled to do it like this?" she asked.

The tone of her voice as well as her words went to her husband's heart

like a knife. He wearily passed his hand across his brow, and offered

up a silent prayer for guidance and strength to stand firm in the

struggle he knew was at hand.

"When I refused to own the bishop of my own free will, as you say,

Lilian, do you think it a likely thing that such an edict, compiled by a

few drunken and infamous men, will compel me to it? Middleton and his

underlings have mistaken the men with whom they have to deal," he said,

quietly, yet with unmistakable firmness.

His wife lifted her light blue eyes to his face, with a look of

incredulous wonder on her own.

"Do you really mean that you would sooner bear the penalty than obey,

David Gray?" she asked.

"The penalty I would bear gladly if it did not involve breaking up our

home. I doubt not the Lord will guide my feet in the right way. If He

shows me that it is my duty to endure hardship for His sake, will my

wife not willingly endure with me? On such a vital question, Lilian, we

cannot, dare not be divided!" said the minister, hoarsely.

Lilian Gray shrugged her slender shoulders, and an expression of scorn

somewhat marred the childish beauty of her face.

"None but a madman, David, would give up a comfortable manse and a good

stipend for such a small thing; but doubtless though your folly should

render your wife and children homeless, it would not greatly exercise

your spirit. But I am glad to think that my father's house will not be

closed against me," she said, pettishly, and turned her face away from

her husband.

The minister groaned in the anguish of his spirit for his

shallow-hearted wife tried him to the utmost limit of endurance. Before

he had time to frame an answer to her most unfeeling speech, there came

a loud knocking to the outer door, and presently he heard the voice of

his father-in-law, Gilbert Burnet of Haughhead, enquiring whether he was

within. So he turned upon his heel, and, quitting the room, met his

father-in-law in the hall. Opening the study door, he motioned him to

enter therein, for he saw well enough that it was the proclamation which

had brought him to the manse. Burnet of Haughhead was a little burly

man, of very self-important and consequential demeanour, for, in truth,

he thought himself of no mean importance in the parish, and considered

that he had greatly honoured the minister of Broomhill in giving him his

daughter to wife.

"I see by your face, son-in-law, that you have already received

notification of the august decree concerning the bishops and the

ministers," he said, in a facetious voice. "Ha! ha! they are to be

dealt with like refractory schoolboys now--mastered or expelled."

David Gray turned his head away with a swift gesture, for he was tempted

to speak somewhat unbecomingly to the father of his wife. Such jesting

and mocking allusion to such a serious matter were more than painful to

him; nay, he could scarcely endure it in patience.

"Would it not have been a much more satisfactory state of things had you

quietly acquiesced in the desires of the king, without having to be

brought under this humiliating ban?" said Haughhead presently. "You are

still a young man, and ought to have been guided by the counsels of your

elders."

"Mr. Burnet, do you think that, though still a young man, I have neither

opinions nor conscience of my own?" enquired David Gray, hotly, for his

quick temper was touched by the manner and words addressed to him.

"A conscience is a very good thing within certain bounds, young man,"

said Gilbert Burnet, drily. "I suppose now you will be halting still

betwixt two alternatives. Perhaps the wording of the Act is not yet

plain enough for your understanding."

"Sir, I know not why you should address such insulting and extraordinary

remarks to me. I fear I must have fallen far short of my profession as

a minister of the Gospel that you should entertain for me so small a

measure of respect," said the minister of Broomhill, with quiet but

rebuking dignity. "I am halting betwixt no two alternatives. As I have

hitherto refused to acknowledge the bishop as the head of the Church, so

I refuse still, at any cost. Come what may, I humbly pray that I may be

accounted worthy to suffer for Him who is the true and only head of the

Church on earth."

A flush of anger overspread the face of Gilbert Burnet.

"So, sir, it was for this I gave my daughter to you," he said slowly.

"Know this, if you still persist in your mad and bigoted resolve, I will

remove her and her children to my own house of Haughhead, and you will

see them no more."

"You have no power to do that, sir, except Lilian go with you of her own

free will," said the minister, quietly. "I cannot think that she would

consent to be entirely separated from me."

"We will see, we will see," fumed the irate Laird of Haughhead. "I will

away home, and see what her mother says to it; no, I'll not wait to see

Lilian, so good day to you, David Gray."

So saying, the Laird abruptly quitted the manse, and rode away in anger

to his own house of Haughhead. In his deep perplexity and sadness, the

heart of the minister turned with a strange, deep yearning to his own

kinsfolk at the manse of Inverburn. So, as the day was not yet far

spent, he saddled his sturdy cob, and rode away by the wild hill paths,

in the bleak December weather, to his father's house. The way he took

was much shorter than the public high road, the distance not exceeding

five miles, so that he came within sight of the roofs of Inverburn

before darkness fell. He carefully guided his steed down a very steep

mountain path, and from the valley into which he descended he had a good

view of his brother Andrew's house of Hartrigge on the summit of the

opposite height. He could either continue his course along the valley,

which would bring him by a somewhat roundabout way to the village, or

climb the hill to Hartrigge, and thence reach the high road, a little to

the south of the entrance to Inverburn. He bethought him that he might

as well look in at Hartrigge, and enquire for the welfare of its

inmates; therefore he urged his horse to make the steep ascent, and in a

short space of time the animal's hoofs made a clatter on the path

outside the house, and brought Andrew Gray to the door.

"David, is that indeed you in person?" he exclaimed in surprise, and

hastened to relieve him of his bridle rein. "No ill news, I hope,

brings you so far from home this bleak night."

"No worse news than has come to many another household this day,

Andrew," replied the minister, with a sigh. "I am on my way to the

manse, so you need not stable Charlie. He will stand quiet enough if he

hears my voice, or if you could send one of your lads to hold him till I

step in and ask for Susan and the bairns, that will suffice."

"Gavin is in the house; he has been biding with us these three days; go

in and send him out," said Andrew Gray. But there was no need, for

presently the lad Gavin appeared in person at the door, looking

surprised and pleased to see his uncle.

"Well, Gavin, lad?" said the minister, kindly, and after shaking him by

the hand passed into the house. Mrs Gray rose from her spinning-wheel to

greet her brother-in-law, her comely face smiling her hearty welcome.

"Come away in, David," she said in her own cheery fashion. "Hoo's a'

wi' ye? Is Lily and the bairns well?"

"All well, thank you, Susan," said the minister, bending to pat, first

Sandy's woolly head, and then wee Nannie's sunny curls; and he had a

kind word too for douce Jeanie, who was sitting demurely by the

spinning-wheel. It was a picture of quiet family happiness and

contentment, soon, alas! to be looked for in vain throughout the length

and breadth of bonnie Scotland.

"Doubtless you have heard concerning the new proclamation?" said the

minister, turning enquiringly to his brother, who had followed him into

the room.

Hartrigge nodded, and a gleam shot through his fearless eye, telling

that it had roused and stirred his innermost being.

"Have you seen our father to-day?"

"Yes, and I was amazed at his serenity. Jane feels it worse than him,

and Betty McBean is the worst of them all. When I was in she was

audibly wishing she had her hands about Middleton's neck, and her mouth

at Sharp's ear. I'll warrant she wouldna spare them," said Andrew Gray,

with a grim smile.

"Eh, man, David, they's awful times for folk tae live in," said Aunt

Susan, in a kind of wail. "I declare it makes a body lie doon i' their

bed at nicht wi' fear an' tremblin', no kenin' what strange and waefu'

thing may happen afore the daw'in'."

"You speak truly, Susan, and I fear the worse is not yet," said the

minister, gravely. "My father, then, has quite made up his mind

concerning his course of action?" he added to his brother.

"Of course; there is but one way open to every single-hearted servant of

God," said Andrew Gray with heaving chest and flashing eye. "I would

the day were here, and it is surely coming, when the people of Scotland,

roused to a sense of their own wrongs will take arms in defence of their

liberties."

"Wheesht, Andrew! Wheesht, wheesht!" said his wife, looking round in

terror, as if expecting her husband would be laid hands on then and

there for such rebellious words. "Dinna speak that way. We maun bear

afore we fecht. Peace is better than war."

"Spoken like a woman, Susan," said her husband, with his grim smile.

"But there is peace which means degradation and dishonour, as well as

war, which is honourable and richt. Must you go already, David? I

wouldna mind yoking the beast and following ye to the manse."

"Let me go too, father," called out Gavin's shrill eager tones from the

doorstep, where he had been a breathless listener to what was passing.

The lad, young as he was, had as deep and heartfelt an interest in

public affairs as his elders, and he was as intelligent in his interest

as any of them all.

His father did not say him nay, but directly the minister rode away,

sent him to get out their own horse and cart.

Betty McBean answered the minister's knock at the manse door, and at

sight of the younger son of the manse, threw up her hands and burst into

a loud wail.

"Eh, Maister Dauvit, man, come awa'! It's a waefu' hoose ye're comin'

intil the nicht; it'll be the last time ye'll cross in safety the

doorstane o' the manse," she exclaimed, incoherently. "Eh, sir, they

bluidy and perjured monsters wha hae sold themsels tae Sautan for the

persecution o' the servants o' the Maist High. Tae think they wad tak'

the very rooftree frae above focks' heids, the very flure frae under

their feet, and cast them oot intae the howlin' wilderness, because

they'll no----"

The old woman's incoherent ramblings were here interrupted by Jane Gray,

who, hearing the great commotion of Betty's shrill tongue, came out to

see what was the matter, and at sight of her brother, her tears also

flowed afresh. Her face was pale and anxious-looking, her eyes already

red with weeping. The minister of Broomhill held her hand long in his

fervent grip, and said tremblingly,

"God go with and comfort you, my sister, as He had need to comfort us

all in this desolation."

Then the twain entered the study where their father sat, and at sight of

that aged face, so peaceful and benignant in its expression, David Gray

felt rebuked and ashamed.

"David, my son, my heart was much with you. You are very welcome to your

father's house this night," said the old man, in significant tones.

For a moment David Gray was unable to speak, but sat him down by the

hearthstone in utter silence. It was broken at last by the reverent

tones of his father's voice.

"If we must go forth from our heritage, David, it is the Lord's will.

Let us see to it that, instead of vain grumbling and looking back, we

examine ourselves, and be glad that we are accounted worthy. They may

take from us our earthly habitations, but, blessed be His name, they

cannot rob us of that Heavenly City, whose builder and whose maker is

God. How has the proclamation been received in the parish of

Broomhill?"

For answer David Gray gladly poured forth into his father's sympathising

ears the substance of his father-in-law's remarks, as well as the

disposition of his wife's mind respecting the alternatives offered in

the Act.

"Verily, she is a thorn in the flesh, and Gilbert Burnet of Haughhead

showed his little discretion when he so harrowed up your soul, my son,"

said the old man, with sorrowful indignation. "But be of good courage.

With God all things are possible, and your backsliding wife may yet be

the brightest jewel in your crown. My son, I hope the arguments brought

to bear upon you will not turn your heart away from the Covenant which,

in boyish and trembling handwriting, you attested in the kirkyard of the

Greyfriars," he added, with anxious solicitude.

David Gray flung up his head, while his eyes beamed with a new and

unmistakable resolve.

"Nay, father; not so lightly have your precepts and example taken hold

upon my heart. My wife and children are as dear to me as they are to

most men, but the God of the Covenant is dearer still. Therefore,

whatever may befall me or mine, I am in the Lord's hands, only desirous

that I be accounted worthy to suffer for His sake."

"God grant that the like spirit may be abroad throughout the Lord's

Zion, stimulating her ministers to the glory of self-sacrifice rather

than to dwell at ease at the expense of conscience," said the minister,

in tones of lively satisfaction. "Fear not, my son; the God of Hosts

will not desert His covenanted people in their hour of need. Therefore,

I say, be of good cheer."

*CHAPTER VII.*

*A LONG FAREWELL.*

A special meeting of the Presbytery was convened at Lanark during the

following week to consider what action the ministers were to take

individually and collectively. It was a mere form, because they were

unanimous in their resolution to leave all for conscience sake. In the

entire Presbytery there was only one exception to be found, viz., John

Methven, the minister of Lochlee. He absented himself from the

conference of his brethren, an action which, coupled with his attitude

in the past, indicated that it was his intention to retain his living at

the Government price. The ejected ministers had three weeks wherein to

prepare for the sad change in their circumstances and position. Many

were at their wits' end, for, as the Act forbade that they should reside

within the bounds of their presbyteries, whither could they turn for

assistance or shelter? For themselves they felt it not, but what would

become of the wives and little ones rendered homeless and destitute in

the very outset of a bleak Scottish winter?

Grey, calm, and still broke that November Sabbath morning, the last upon

which the ministers were to break the Bread of Life to the people of

their choice over the length and breadth of Scotland. In the vale of

Inverburn the dawn was preceded by a thick, heavy mist, which hung low

over hill and moorland, giving a very dreary aspect to the already too

wintry face of Nature. But long before the hour of service it had

cleared away, revealing a peaceful, grey sky, relieved by flecks of

brightness in the east. Not a breath of air was stirring; a silence as

of the grave seemed to brood over the land. Very early the worshippers

began to repair to the house of God. They came from far and near that

day; the shepherd from his lonely shieling in the mountain solitude, as

well as the dweller in the village, was each found in his accustomed

place. Long before the bell began to toll, the churchyard had its

groups of earnest, sad-faced worshippers discussing in low and fearful

tones the evil days which had come upon the land. Very many were too

much overcome to be able to speak, for the thought that this was the

last Sabbath Day upon which they would hear the voice of their shepherd

in his accustomed place was more than they could bear.

Watty McBean, the carrier, and brother to Betty, the manse maid, was

bell-ringer and minister's man in the parish. He tolled the bell that

day in a slow, solemn, and painful manner, the echo of each stroke being

suffered to die away ere it was drowned by another. It was the "burial"

bell Watty tolled that day, and surely nothing could be more fitting or

more in unison with the feelings of all who heard it.

At the usual hour Mr. Gray entered the church, but it seemed to those

who so mournfully and affectionately watched him ascend the pulpit

stair, that never had their minister looked so feeble and aged; never

had his face seemed so worn and ill. As his sunken eye roamed over the

sea of faces gathered round him, his tears suddenly overflowed, and

departing from the usual routine of service, he folded his trembling

hands, and said in broken and feeble tones, "Let us pray!"

In the manse pew sat Jane Gray, who never since entering the church had

once uplifted her face from her hands, and by her side her nephew Gavin,

whose young face wore an expression of manly resolution, upon which many

remarked.

Adam Hepburn and his wile were also in their places, and there was none

absent from the Hartrigge pew, at the head whereof sat Andrew Gray,

erect and calm, with his arms folded across his breast, and a hard,

stern expression on his face. And although his father's prayer caused

many a bursting sob to echo through the church, he sat unmoved, save

when his lips convulsively twitched, telling of a storm of passion held

in curb. The psalm was the eighty-fourth, the tune Dundee's "wild

wailing measure," fitting words, fitting music to express the tumultuous

throbbings of the people's heart. The minister then read the

seventeenth chapter of John, slowly and with tremulous distinctness, and

without remark or comment of any kind. Next they sang again a portion

of the ninety-fourth psalm, then the minister gave out his text.

"All these are the beginning of many sorrows."

That sermon was never forgotten by any who heard it. It seemed as if

the aged servant of God had risen above the frailty and feebleness of

age, for as he proceeded his clear bell-like voice rang through the

building with all the eloquence which had made such a stir among the dry

bones in the earlier days of his ministry among them. He spoke

passionately and prophetically of the sea of troubles upon which the

Lord's Zion was now launched, he forewarned them that the time was at

hand when they would need to testify to their faithfulness with their

blood, yet he bade them be of good cheer, because it was through great

tribulation that the brightness of their eternal crown would be gained

in joy.

"And now my faithful and well beloved flock, the time has come for me to

bid you farewell," he added in conclusion. "In the ordinary course of

nature I could not expect to minister to you for a much more lengthened

space. As it is, the fiat has gone forth, not from the Eternal King,

but from the poor despicable worm who sits upon an earthly throne that

you and I, beloved, shall no more worship together within this place.

Looking upon its walls to-day for the last time I know how unspeakably

dear it is to me. It is peopled with rich and hallowed memories of the

past. In this place I have baptised many of you as children, and here,

my own children, now worshipping with you, were all consecrated and

received into the Lord's Church. Beloved, from Sabbath to Sabbath these

many years I have broken the Bread of Life in your midst, and God be my

witness that I have expounded the Word to you in accordance with the

light vouchsafed to my own soul. I have also had sweet counsel with you

in your own homes, in the ordinary course of pastoral visitation, and I

call you to witness that in these visitations I have never failed to be

faithful in my personal dealings, when I saw it to be for the glory of

God, and for the good of souls. Beloved, all that has come to an end.

Next Sabbath day neither you nor I will worship within these walls. When

or how the doors will again be thrown open for public worship I cannot

say. I tremble when I think upon our now desolate Kirk of Scotland,

cast out from her heritage, and bidden make her habitation in the

wilderness. It is not for me now, and in this place, to say what will

be the reward of these sons of Belial, who have wrought this woe in our

midst. 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.' Brethren,

farewell. I would my tongue could utter what is in my heart this day.

It is with no common sorrow I repeat the words; Brethren, farewell."

The minister ceased, and looked with eyes of unutterable love upon the

sobbing multitude. There was no dry eye in the assembly, save that of

Andrew Gray the younger, and his seemed to burn with a strange and lurid

fire. His hands beneath the book board were so firmly clenched together

that the nails were sunk into the flesh. In the midst of these audible

tokens of grief, the minister raised his trembling hands, and in slow,

clear, solemn tones, breathed upon them his last benediction. Then he

sank back in the pulpit, wholly overcome.

The scene I have just described was no solitary instance; in its main

features it was being enacted that day in almost every kirk and parish

in Scotland.

In the church of Broomhill that day David Gray also spoke his last

farewell to his flock. His was not in any respect so united a

congregation as that of Inverburn. There were many, who, for peace'

sake would have had their minister bow to Middleton's decree, and make

an outward semblance of acknowledging the bishop. David Gray entered

his church that day with a heavy heart, not because of the sacrifice he

was about to make--that occasioned him but little concern--but because

of his wife's coldness and estrangement evinced towards him since he had

announced his fixed determination to abide by the dictates of his own

conscience. Upon the plea that the younger child could not be left, she

absented herself from the church that Sabbath morning; and the minister

was not surprised to behold the Haughhead seat unoccupied likewise. He

delivered an impressive and heart-stirring discourse from the words, "He

that taketh not his cross, and followeth after Me, is not worthy of Me,"

and when he concluded many were weeping. They crowded round him as he

came out of the vestry, shaking him by the hand and assuring him of

their continued and unaltered love, and offering assistance in every

form. It was with difficulty he escaped their loving detention, and,

making his way through the churchyard, entered his own garden by the

private door. He reproached himself that he did not feel a lively

satisfaction in the thought that he had renounced so much for

conscience' sake; he felt sore angered at himself for his miserable and

foreboding thoughts, which weighed him nigh to the very dust. As he set

foot upon the threshold of the manse, he felt oppressed by the strange

stillness of the house. On ordinary occasions, the prattle of his

children's voices was the first sound which greeted him at his own door.

As he stepped into the house, he heard a sound, like that of weeping,

proceeding from the direction of the kitchen. Somewhat alarmed, he

immediately proceeded thither, and found Ellen Carmichael, the maid,

sitting apparently in the very abandonment of grief.

"Be quiet, Ellen Carmichael, and tell me the cause of this noise," he

said, with some sternness. "And what has become of your mistress and the

bairns?"