o' the last Rigg, an' the great scythe o' Deith lays us low i' the last swaith, like a' the lave that hae gane afore us,-may the Divine Husbandman o' Human Souls send His Angels to gather us in amang His ransomed sheaves into the Heevenly Gairner! An' sae, by the tender mercies o' oor God thro' Jesus Christ oor Lord, may we a' meet at last i' the Hairvest Hame o' Glory, never mair to be pairted. Amen and amen!" The Leddy was the first that rose from her knees. With a hurry that was suggestive, she shook hands with one and another and another, and had us all out into the moonlight, almost before another word could be spoken. This so impressed me that I could not refrain from asking Moudie Jamie, who hooked on to me in the way home, if he suspected any reason for it. Fine an' easy is't tae ken the reason," responded Jamie; "the Leddy was feart that the Miller micht get in yin o' his queer observes, an' spoil the spell o' Angell James's prayer. But, she need na hae bothered! Mark ye, Laird, the Miller's just as genuine mettle in his Releegion, as in his Fun, an' nae mair likely tae befule the yin than tae belittle the tither. That's what gies 'im sic a grup o' us a',o' Saunts like Angell James, an' o' Hairum-Scarums like me." "You wrong yourself, Jamie,” said I, "by such a description, but you do nothing more than bare justice to the wondrous Peasant, that led us in prayer. He merits all the praise, that any of us can in reason bestow upon any mere mortal man.” "Laird, as shure's deith, noo that we're oot an' alane under the munelicht on this Kintra road, ma verra sowl's burstin' tae tell somebody hoo I feel! I seldom enter ony Kirk, an' I care naething ava aboot sermons, they flutter flichterin' ower ma heid, an' leave ma hert as black as ever; but I wad gang barefit through dinnlin' frost, and coor shiverin' at the winnock o' The Cottage i' the darkest nicht o' winter, just tae hear Auld James soughin' an' croonin' awa tae God in the Faimily Prayers. It's nae far-awa petitionin' that ye hear frae him,-beginnin' at the Fall o' Adam, castin' up tae God the fauts o' a' His Crayturs, flingin' i' His face His ancient People the Jews, haulin' up the Mohammedans by the cuff o' the neck, an' tummlin' aboot oor ears the millions o' China still in Heathen darkness, as if the Almichty didna ken a' that, a hauntle better than ony o' us! Na, na; but Angell James steps far ben, straucht i' the front o' his Heevenly Faither, an' tells' im aboot a' that's happenin', aboot oor daily wants an' hamely cares, an' sae he grups us a' by the hert. Then, by the time he's got that aff his mind, he begins tellin' the Almichty aboot you kneelin' there at His feet, an' aboot yer bits o' Bairns, near an' far awa'; an' he travels roon yer hert an' roon yer hert, an' plays on a' its strings,-till, dod-davert, man Laird, it wadna surprise ye sae verra muckle, gif the Saviour Himsel' were to come steppin' up the flure, and, layin' His bonnie pierced Haun' on the boddy's whitefleeced heid, were to say alood, i' the hearin' o' us a'' Accordin' tae thy faith, sae be it unto thee!"" "Jamie, I thoroughly agree with you," exclaimed I, "Never on this Earth did I feel God so near, as when kneeling beside that humble man, and follow ing his prayers." "Still, hang it, Laird, I maun be honest an' mak' a clean breist o't," replied Jamie, with a passionate emphasis that startled me. "I hae yae bad faut to fin' wi' the prayers o' Angell James;they stick terribly tae yer Conscience; an' they've a nasty wey o' comin' up afore yer face, an' glowerin' sadlike at ye, just whan ye're on the point o' takin' a dram or sayin' a sweir, or rowin' some ither bit sweet morsel o' sin under yer tongue. Up sterts in yer memory yin o' James's petitions for ye; an' ye hear again the waverin' voice o' him pleadin' on yer behalf; and, dod-davert, a prayer like that tak's a' the pleesyure oot o' a body's sin for days and weeks tae come! But, Laird, I maun tell ye ae thing, afore we pairt, as ma hert's gey and saft the nicht." 'Say away, Jamie," warmly responded I, "here's one in a fine mood to listen." "Oh, by God's ain Hert," said Moudie, and in tones which I had never heard from him before, broken with emotion and solemn as death, "I wush, I wush, that Somebody in ma puir Hame had prayed for me like Angell James, and played wi' me like the Cheery Miller! Richt shure am I that I wad never syne hae gane tae the mudbaths o' Hell for ma youthfu' pleesyures, and sae drooned the licht o' Heeven oot o' a' ma later years. O Laird, Laird, what blethers a wheen cuifs. i' the Pulpit talk, apologeezin' for Hell, an' tryin' tae tame its terrors! If they could leeve inside me for a whilock, they wad ken what tae sae aboot 'the fire that wunna droon, and the worm that wunna dee.' I ken, if they dinna, what Hell means, the bletherin' fules!" I turned to soothe my companion, whose tones had shaken and startled me, so alien were they to his prevailing mood of chaffing and mockery. But, in less time than I take to utter it, I found myself quite alone. In hurling out his last words, Moudie Jamie, not without traces of a passion, smouldering always, but now threatening to burst up into uncontrollable flame, sprang like lightning over a gate that we were passing, and was seen tearing across the field straight to his own home; -"driven of the Spirit" too, into his own Wilderness. Pursuing the pathway all alone, my brain whirling with many unwonted thoughts, I found myself on the doorstep of Tinlie Tower at the stroke of midnight. Gazing back on Castlebraes, I saw the little Village asleep under the glorious moonlight. Was it fancy, or was it the reality of God, that made me see that light, or some light, falling brighter, and sleeping sweeter, on The Cottage, and on Millerston, than anywhere else? Fancy or fact, I at least knew that amongst the Powers above, as amongst all Good Men below, there was joy over The Miller's Kirn. |