"Don't jest on serious subjects, my boy," said Uncle; and Angus grew grave directly. "I am no enemy to honest, rational fun; 'tis human, and natural more especially to the young. But never, never let us make a jest of the things that pertain to God." "I beg your pardon, Father," said Angus, in a low voice. "I'll take you, Flora. What say you, Cary?" "Yes, I should like to go," I said. And I wondered directly whether I had said right or wrong. But I do so want to hear something that would help me. I found that Monks' Brae was on the Monksburn road, but nearly two miles further on. 'Tis the high road from Selkirk to Galashiels, after you leave Monksburn, and pretty well frequented; so that Angus was deemed guard enough. But last night the whole road was so full of people going to hear Mr Whitefield, that it was like walking in a crowd all the way. The kirk was crammed to the very doors, and outside people stood looking in and listening through the doors and the open windows. Mr Lundie, the minister of Monks' Brae, led the worship (as they say here); and when the sermon came, I looked with some curiosity at the great preacher who did such unusual things, and whom some people seemed to think it so wrong to like. Mr Whitefield is not anything particular to look at: just a young man in a fair wig, with a round face and rosy cheeks. He has a most musical voice, and he knows how to put it to the best advantage. Every word is as distinct as can be, and his voice rings out clear and strong, like a well-toned bell. But he had not preached ten minutes before I forgot his voice and himself altogether, and could think of nothing but what he was preaching about. And I never heard such a sermon in my life. My Uncle Drummond's are the only ones I have heard which even approach it, and he does not lift you up and carry you away, as Mr Whitefield does.