“Thank ye very much for takin’ the trouble to explain all this to me. I wis wonderin’ if ye could lend me an auld Prayer Book for a day or two; I would like to read a bit o’ ’t.” “Surely I’ll dae that, Alan;” and with that he went to his book-shelves, took down a copy of the Book of Common Prayer and handed it to me. Putting the precious volume in my pocket, I set out for home, arriving there in time for family worship, which, according to the custom of his people, my father conducted every evening. Such was my day dream. So was the first seed sown many years ago; but to me it sometimes seems as yesterday, so vividly can I recall it all. My reverie was a pleasant one. By and by I may go back in spirit to those old days and tell you something more of the way by which God led me, and some of the difficulties which I had to overcome, before I could throw in my lot with the great Anglican Communion. II. The “Monastery” “Alan Gray, come to my desk.” At the sound of these ominous words, thundered out by the master, every pupil in Glenconan School cast a furtive look at the spot whence the summons came, and another at poor luckless me as I made my way to the dread tribunal, carrying in my hand the tawse which had been flung at my head. “Is this your book, boy?” he said sternly, holding up gingerly a well-thumbed copy of Scott’s “Monastery.” “No, sir, it does not belong to me.” “Yet it was found in your desk. Have you been reading it?” “Yes, sir.” “Um, just so; and where do you get such books, pray?” So long as my answers would only involve myself, I was quite prepared to reply; but now I was silent. “Did you hear my question, Alan Gray? I said--Where did you get such books?” Not a word came from me to break the dread silence. Many years have flown since that day, but I can yet see the storm of passion that swept over the master’s face as he spoke. A volcano slumbered within him, which he tried to suppress. He was a hard, severe man, was The Reverend Archibald Angus. A Presbyterian of the old school, he had no sympathy with the natural love of a boy for all that was legendary and romantic, and could not brook the idea of any pupil of his daring to read such unhallowed literature, as he believed all novels to be. A strict disciplinarian, he demanded the most abject submission to his authority, and had no mercy for anyone who dared to thwart his will. Theologically and socially he was narrow and crabbed, and his system of teaching, if system it could be called, was tyrannical in the extreme. During the mid-day recess a tell-tale had volunteered the information that I had been reading a book which was not a class book. Mr. Angus had gone to my desk and, on ransacking it, had found a copy of “The Monastery,” which he had promptly confiscated.