Over the wide valley the April sun was falling, warmly genial, releasing from the moist earth a thousand fragrances. Under the glorious light the valley lay in dim, neutral colours, except where the masses of pine trees lay dark green and the patches of snow showed white in the hollows between the pines and far up on the grey, rocky sides of the higher mountains. Through the valley the river rolled blue grey, draining from the hills by millions of trickling rivulets the melting snow. As yet the deeper masses of snow and the glaciers lying far up between the loftier peaks had not begun to pour down in spouting waterfalls to swell the great river below. Everywhere were the voices of spring, hymning the age-long miracle of freedom from the long tyranny of winter. It was a Sunday morning, and from every direction the people were to be seen gathering for service in the little Union Church which the united efforts of the valley people had erected for the use of all who might care to gather for worship. Anglicans, Methodists, Presbyterians, all had equal rights in the church, and each body its day for service. Today was the Presbyterian day, and this day a high day, for it was “Sacrament Sunday.” About the door a group of neighbours stood, exchanging the friendly gossip of the valley and subjecting to kindly if pungent criticism each newcomer approaching the church. “Here’s Sawny Cammell in his ‘lum’ hat,” exclaimed Willy Mackie, whom Sandy Campbell would describe as “yon wee Paisley buddie,” a little Scot with a sharp tongue but kindly heart. “’Is plug ’at is for to celebrate the ’oly Communion. (H)it’s ’is Sacrament ’at,” giggled Sam Hatch, a wizened-up Cockney. “’Ere, you cut that (h)out,” said his friend, Billy Bickford, a plump, jolly-faced Englishman whose highly coloured and bulbous nose carried its own history. “I don’t ’old wi’ Sandy in ’is religion, but it’s ’isen and let ’im practise it as ’e jolly well wants to, that’s me.” “’Old ’ard, ole top—’oo’s a-talkin’ agin Sandy’s religion or (h)any man’s religion. I’m referring to ’is ’at, wich I might saigh I wish I ’ad the like of it. I (h)ain’t no ’eathen, I (h)ain’t.” “All right, Sammy, all right. I’m not persoomin’ to suggest (h)any such thing, but I’m sensitive about Sandy’s religion and (h)anything belongin’ to it. Wot about ’is minister? Wot about ’im, eh? That’s wot I (h)asks, wot about ’im?” Billy’s eyes were ablaze.