“What shall it profit a man,” was the text, and in all the sermon there was not one abusive word, but the minister exalted those things that endure for ever above those that perish in the using, with such spiritual insight and wealth of illustration--there was a moral resonance in his very voice which made men's nerves tingle--that Mrs. Macfadyen, for once in her life, refused to look at heads, and Donald Menzies could hardly contain himself till the last psalm. It was the custom in the Free Kirk for the minister to retire first, facing the whole congregation on his way to the vestry at the back of the church, and Cunningham confided to a friend that he lost in weight during the middle passage; but on this Sabbath he looked every man in the face, and when he came to Burn-brae's pew the minister paused, and the two men clasped hands. No word was spoken, not a person moved around, but the people in front felt the thrill, and knew something had happened. No one was inclined to speak about that sermon on the way home, and Netherton gave himself with ostentation to the finger-and-toe disease among the turnips. But the Free Kirk had no doubt what answer Burnbrae would give the factor, and each man resolved within his heart that he would do likewise in his time. “It's michty,” was Jamie Soutar's comment, who had attended the Free Kirk to show his sympathy, “what can be dune by speech. Gin there wes a juitlin', twa-faced wratch in the kirk, yon sermon hes straichtened him oot an' made a man o' him. “Maister Cunningham 's no muckle tae look at an' he 's the quietest body a' ever saw; but he's graund stuff every inch o' him, and hes the courage o' a lion.” Burnbrae and Jean walked home that Sabbath alone, and the past encompassed their hearts. The road they had walked since childhood, unchanged save for the gap where the old beech fell in the great storm, and the growth of the slowly maturing oaks; the burns that ran beneath the bridges with the same gurgling sound while generations came and went; the fields that had gone twelve times through the rotation of grass, oats, turnips, barley, grass since they remembered; the farmhouses looking down upon the road with familiar kindly faces--Gormack had a new window, and Claywhat another room above the kitchen--awoke sleeping memories and appealed against their leaving. When they came below Woodhead, the two old people halted and looked up the track where the hawthorn hedges, now bright with dog-roses, almost met, and a cart had to force its way through the sweet-smelling greenery. It was in Woodhead that Jean had been reared, and a brother was still living there with her only sister. “Div ye mind the nicht, Jean, that ye cam doon the road wi' me and a' askit ye tae be ma wife? it wes aboot this time.” “It 'ill be forty-five year the mornin's nicht, John, and a' see the verra place fra here. It wes at the turn o' the road, and there's a rosebush yonder still.