Chapter II: Part 2

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?"

A fresh burst of tears was Ellen's only answer; but at length she managed to sob out some words which whitened her master's face to the very lips.

"They're awa', sir; a' awa' tae Haughheid. The laird cam' wi' the coach jist efter the kirk was in, an' the mistress gaed awa' in't, wi' the bairns, an' a' her claes an' the bairns' claes, an' she said she wasna' comin' back. An' I, sir, what cud I dae but sit doon an' greet, thinkin' on you comin' home tae this empty an' desolate hoose?"

The minister turned about and walked with unsteady step back to the pleasant family room, where, with his wife and little ones, he had spent so many happy hours. It had a desolate, deserted, dreary look, and the very fire seemed to have died in despair in the grate. He looked about him in a dazed manner, and then sinking into a chair, these words escaped his lips in a deep groan of anguish:

"If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."

Verily that was a day of sharp and bitter searching for the minister of Broomhill; nevertheless, ere the hushed silence of the night fell, he had found peace in his desolate home.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*MR. DUNCAN MCLEAN.*

In the course of the ensuing week, the last of the honourable family who had so long dwelt beneath the roof-tree of Inverburn manse, quitted its shelter for ever. Pen fails me to describe fitly that sad farewell. It was indeed a very rending of the heart-strings to the venerable minister of Inverburn. In spite of the wording of the Act, that every ejected minister should remove without the bounds of his Presbytery, Mr. Gray and his daughter went no farther than Adam Hepburn's house at Rowallan, where they were very warmly welcomed. So long as was permitted, they would remain among their own kith and kin. The minister of Broomhill found a shelter at Hartrigge, so that united and affectionate family were not as yet separated one from the other.

On the next Sabbath day no kirk bell rang its sweet, familiar chimes through the quiet Sabbath air. The gates of the churchyard remained closed, and the only sign of life about the venerable pile was the cawing of hoarse-throated rooks, which had assembled by scores on the leafless boughs of the "birks of Inverburn," as if met in convocation over this strange and sad Sabbath day. Betty McBean had gone home to her brother Watty's house in the village; and blithe enough he was to see her, being a bachelor, with no womenkind to make a bite for him or to clean up his house. On the Saturday word was carried through the parish by Watty that the Word would be preached next day in the barn at Rowallan by their beloved shepherd, and all whose soul thirsted for the living water were invited to attend. And, lo, at the hour of meeting, so great was the press thronging in Adam Hepburn's barn that it was hastily decided to hold the meeting out of doors. So a kitchen table with a settle behind it was erected as a pulpit in the corn-yard, and from this the minister of Inverburn preached to his flock. Something in the unusual nature of the proceedings seemed to stir all hearts and to imbue them with a holy enthusiasm. Never had the psalm been sung with such deep fervour; never had the attitude of the hearers been so rapt and reverential. There was something in the knowledge that it was against the law that they assembled together which lent a strange, sweet, yet fearful joy to their relish of that Sabbath day. Hartrigge, with all his family, was there, and the minister of Broomhill also took part in the service. When they separated, just before the twilight, all felt that it had indeed been good for them to be there; and they said one to another, that so long as they could get the Word by walking to Rowallan for it, the king's decree might not prove such a hardship as had been anticipated. But, alas for their vain hopes, their happy congratulations! the day was near at hand when listening to, as well as preaching, the Word was to become a crime worthy of death itself.

The Laird of Inverburn, with Lady Hamilton and the young heir, had driven in their coach that day to Lochlee, to hear John Methven preach. On their way home they passed so many dressed people on the roads, especially as they neared Inverburn, that a suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon the mind of the laird.