er piercing blue-grey eyes, "in the old Mullin
Church I have seen the very rafters throbbing, and strong men and women
swaying like the tree-tops in the glen while Burns was raging forth
upon them like the Tummel in spate, while visions of the eternal
things--the throne of God and the Judgment Day--filled our eyes." She
paused a few moments and then sinking back into her chair she went on,
"Ay, terrible preaching, yon, like the storm-blast sweeping the
hillsides and rending the firs in the Pass. Yes! yes! But gentle at
times and winning, like the rain falling soft at night, wooing at the
bluebells and the daisies in the glen, or like a mother croonin over
the babe at her breast, till men wept for love and longing after
Himself. Ay, lad, lad, yon was the preaching."

There was a long silence while they waited for her to continue.

"What was that sermon, mother, at Mullin that time upon the words 'Will
ye also go away?' you remember?" at length asked Shock cunningly.

His mother sighed. "Ay, and that was a sairmon to draw the heart out o'
you. That was the melting day, while the big men gripped their sticks
hard and the women wiped at their eyes that would never be done
running, and that man's voice soughing over them like the wind in the
pines in the evening, Yes! yes! But," suddenly recalling herself,
"come, lads, you must be off to your books."

The young men sat a few moments silently gazing into the fire, and then
Brown rose and said, "Good-night, mother. You're the greatest preacher
I know, and I would not mind a whole hour from you." His voice was
earnest and his eyes soft and tender as he stooped and kissed her cheek.

"Good-night, laddie," answered Mrs. Macgregor, patting his hand gently.
"I doubt, after all, the fault nowadays is not with the preaching so
much as with the hearing."

"Well, I'm off. You will see me to-morrow with my flock of straying
sheep. But I warn you that after you hear that man from the West you
will all be volunteering as missionaries."

The old lady took up her knitting again and after the door had closed
upon Brown sat back in her chair with a weary sigh.

"You're tired to-night, mother," said Shock gently.

"Tired? And what for would I be tired? No, no, but the day is long."

"Yes, some days, mother. But the longest pass."

She glanced quickly at her son, but save for a quivering of the lips
usually so firm, there was no sign of the pain which both knew lay at
the heart of e