a crowd had gathered. For, you know, Jessy, how Donald can sing men out of themselves, and the crowd began to sing with him, so that this passionate little rant filled the square. Windows were lifted, and doors flung open, and men and women at them joined heartily in the song." "And wherever were the constables?" "They were singing with the crowd, and no necessity for them to interfere. It was a perfectly orderly crowd, singing their national songs, and when they had finished 'Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,' and fervently assured each other they, 'For Scotland's King and law, Freedom's sword would strongly draw, Free men stand, and free men fa',' my Uncle Hector threw wide his door, and bid the lads into his parlor. "He is a grand old pagan--I mean saint." "Say what you mean, Jessy. Donald says he looked proudly at him, and he thought for a moment he was going to kiss him, but instead of that ceremony, which might have been a little abashing and confusing to the lad, his uncle led him to the hearth and, pointing to two swords crossed over the chimneypiece, he said: "'Look well at them, Hieland laddies! They were in the hands of Alexander and Fergus Macrae when they fought to the death for King James and Prince Charlie. God rest their souls!'" At these words the Minister became silent, words appeared to choke him, and his eyes held a glimpse of the old dead world of his fathers. Jessy, also, was speechless, but their silence was fitter than any words could be. In a short time the Minister steadied himself and proceeded: "The four young men with Donald doffed their bonnets, and looked silently at the weapons that had come home red from Culloden's bloody field, and were still holding the red rust of carnage; but Donald stretched up his hand and touched them reverently, and then kissed his hand, and he told me his tears wet the kiss, and that he was proud of them--and really, Jessy, my own eyes were not dry--and a wave of--love came over me--and I--before I knew it--had clasped Donald's hand and I think--yes, I am sure, I kissed him! I wonder at myself! Whatever made me do it?" "The love of God, Ian, which is the love of all good and gracious things. The love of God, which is the love of your son, and the love of your country, and the love of all the noble feelings for which men dare to die, and go and tell _Him_ so. And what next, Ian? What next?"