he congregation. Even the young
men under the gallery regarded them with reverence for their godly
character, but for other things as well; for these old men had been
famous in their day, and tales were still told about the firesides of
the people of their prowess in the woods and on the river.

There was, for instance, Finlay McEwen, or McKeowen, as they all
pronounced it in that country, who, for a wager, had carried a
four-hundred-pound barrel upon each hip across the long bridge over the
Scotch River. And next him sat Donald Ross, whose very face, with its
halo of white hair, bore benediction with it wherever he went. What a
man he must have been in his day! Six feet four inches he stood in his
stocking soles, and with "a back like a barn door," as his son Danny,
or "Curly," now in the shanty with Macdonald Bhain, used to say, in
affectionate pride. Then there was Farquhar McNaughton, big, kindly, and
good-natured, a mighty man with the ax in his time. "Kirsty's Farquhar"
they called him, for obvious reasons. And a good thing for Farquhar it
was that he had had Kirsty at his side during these years to make his
bargains for him and to keep him and all others to them, else he would
never have become the substantial man he was.

Next to Farquhar was Peter McRae, the chief of a large clan of
respectable, and none too respectable, families, whom all alike held
in fear, for Peter ruled with a rod of iron, and his word ran as law
throughout the clan. Then there was Ian More Macgregor, or "Big John
Macgregor," as the younger generation called him, almost as big as
Donald Ross and quite as kindly, but with a darker, sadder face.
Something from his wilder youth had cast its shadow over his life. No
one but his minister and two others knew that story, but the old man
knew it himself, and that was enough. One of those who shared his secret
was his neighbor and crony, Donald Ross, and it was worth a journey of
some length to see these two great old men, one with the sad and the
other with the sunny face, stride off together, staff in hand, at the
close of the Gaelic service, to Donald's home, where the afternoon would
be spent in discourse fitting the Lord's day and in prayer.

The only other elder was Roderick McCuiag, who sat, not in the elders'
pew, but in the precentor's box, for he was the Leader of Psalmody.
"Straight Rory," as he was called by the irreverent, was tall, spare,
and straight as a ramrod. He was devoted to