breaking forth upon them like the sun when darkening clouds have
gone.

He leads her to his old-time pew, and she takes the place that is
henceforth to be her own. The singing has stopped, save those silent
strains with which God is well pleased, the same as angels echo round
the throne.

It was hard for me to proceed with the service, for I knew that God
Himself had spoken. The sacred bush was in flame before us as in the
olden time, and the place whereon we stood was holy ground. The portion
I had chosen for the reading was from 1 Corinthians, the apostle's great
eulogy on love; and my voice faltered as I read some of its wondrous
words.

Before I had finished it, my resolve was taken. I came down from the
pulpit and stood before it, the elders all about me.

"Let us have our unbroken number," I began; "the kirk session is
constituted, and I call upon such as have been chosen to serve within
it, to come forward and assume the holy office. After this, the
sacrament of forgiving love will be dispensed."

I paused--and no one of all the multitude seemed to breathe. But a
moment passed, and then a sound broke the stillness. It was the sound of
moving feet, and the elder-elect arose and came slowly forward, his head
bowed as he came.

"Kneel down, Angus," I said, softly. He kneeled, and I had almost begun,
my hands outstretched above his head. He raised his face to mine,
lowered to meet it. A moment told me what he wished to say.

"Stand up," I whispered.

When he had risen, I said aloud: "Angus Strachan, ordained already, I
give you the right hand of fellowship into the eldership of St.
Cuthbert's church. The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make His
face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift the
light of His countenance upon thee and give thee peace."

Again I raised my voice as I faced the worshippers.

"I extend yet another invitation in my Master's name. I call upon any
who may be among us, once serving in the eldership of this church, to
come forward and aid us to dispense the pledges of forgiving love to
other sinful men."

I waited, but there was no response. One sat with bowed head, his hand
held in the gentle keeping of another's. The moments passed, but still
silence reigned.

"Come awa', man,"--it was Ronald McGregor's trembling voice from among
the elders--"come awa'; it's the wounded hand that beckons ye--we're a'
here o' the Saviour's grace alane."

Michael Bla