How short-sighted I had been in my estimate of the “auld provost!” I could hardly believe that the simple countryman who stood before me, his face aglow with enthusiasm, pointing out with a keenness of perception that was wonderful the beautiful teachings of Gothic art, was the man whom I had hitherto supposed to be devoid of emotion. To say that I was thunderstruck but feebly expresses my feelings. Now I knew him as I had never known him before. Now I knew that under the reserve of his cold, austere outer shell there was a depth of devotional feeling to which he rarely gave vent in words. Had he lived in the days of the Nonjurors, when it was a crime in Scotland to be an Episcopalian, he would have been one of the staunchest of the “faithful remnant.” Of his own personal religion he would have said little; but, when necessity arose, he would have been ready with a reason for the faith that was in him. Now I could see that the “auld provost” was one of those who kept the precious things of the spiritual life locked up in the sacred repository of his heart, and who with Lady Nairne, the poetess, felt that “religion ought to be a walking and not a talking concern.” The vestry of St. John’s, in whose hands lay the management of the temporal affairs of the parish, consisted at this time of four members, with myself as chairman. All the four were men worthy of note. The “auld provost,” of whom I have been speaking, was secretary and treasurer. The Honorable James Stewart, the laird of Strathfinlas, was of Scottish birth and upbringing, but a graduate of the English University of Cambridge. Succeeding to the estate after he had passed middle life, he had set himself to carry out the principles of Christian Socialism, which he had learned at the feet of Kingsley, Maurice and Fawcett. His neighbor lairds smiled at his enthusiasm, and looked on him as a harmless faddist; but he went on his way, and very soon gained the esteem and affection of the tenantry, as well as the retainers on his lovely demesne. Andrew Blair had been for many years a successful railway contractor, but even in his busiest times had never ceased to maintain a warm interest in all that concerned the best welfare of the ancient Scottish Church. Now that he had taken to the quiet life of a farmer his interest in church affairs was intensified. Adam Skene was a tradesman in the village of Dunluther, on the southern side of the cairn. His flowing beard of snowy white marked him out as one of the fathers of the congregation; but, in spite of advancing age, it was something of very grave import which would keep him at home on the weekly day of rest. Staff in hand, he trudged the seven miles of hill road, Sunday after Sunday, in order that he might worship with the brethren of his father’s faith.