faith.
Mr. Cameron had travelled widely in his younger days and had heard
grand music in the cathedrals of the old world, magnificent harmonies
of trained voices with flute and violin and organ helping to interpret
the divine meaning of the old masters. It had all been very grand and
he often longed to hear such music again; but he sometimes wondered, as
he sat in the shadow of his pulpit desk on a Sabbath morning, why there
had been nothing in all its grandeur which tended to settle so
unshakably the foundations of one's faith, as did listening to Peter
McNabb lead his Glenoro congregation slowly and solemnly in

"Oh Lord the God of Hosts, who can
To Thee compared be?
The Mighty One, the Lord, Whose truth
Doth round encompass Thee!"

There were three more elders: big John Hamilton, whose only sin was a
family of over-dressed daughters; Donald Fraser, son of the Fraser
famous for having Mr. McAlpine's first service at his place; and Peter
Farquhar, a Highlander, one of the many McDonalds. Good men and true
they all were, who feared God and eschewed evil, veritable fathers in
Israel to the congregation.

The people soon followed. Duncan Polite's face lit up with pleasure as
a group of five filed past him into his pew, his widowed sister and her
four boys. The old man's gaze rested lovingly upon Donald, the lad of
his hopes. He was a young man worthy a second glance, a straight,
lithe fellow, the kind they breed in the Canadian Highlands. His thin,
keen face showed a striking resemblance to his uncle's in its handsome
regularity of feature, but there was nothing of Duncan Polite in the
bold flash of the young man's eye, nor in the proud swing of his fine
figure.

Duncan's attention was taken from him by a slight disturbance at his
side. Archie, a small urchin of nine, was struggling quietly but
persistently with Neil, his senior by two years, for the honour of
sitting next his uncle. Mrs. Neil treated the affair, as she did all
the boys' misdemeanours, with a sweet, unconscious placidity, but
Donald, who exercised a sort of muscular authority over his brothers,
put out his big foot with a quiet but emphatic kick which settled the
dispute.

Sandy looked disappointed. "Why didn't you let the little beggars
fight it out?" he whispered, "it would give Splinterin' Andra something
to chew on."

Donald's face twitched with laughter, and from his point of vantage in
the front pew, the ruling elde