"I dare say that by-and-bye your father will show you all these wonders." "How long since you were in Scotland, Roland?" asked Madeline. "It is now seven years. My father was a very sad, strange man, Maddy, and he took a sudden fancy to come over to America; my mother was a minister's daughter, her name was Mary Gordon; she lived with my grandfather at the manse even after she was married." "What is a manse, Roland?" "A manse is a Scotch name for a parsonage; it was a pleasant little home, situated in a hamlet, at the foot of the mountains, not far from my grandfather's kirk." "What is a kirk, Roland?" "A kirk is a Scotch name for a church. There was a lake not far from our house, and many a time did Uncle Alick take us children out in the boat; sometimes we would cross the lake, and pay visits to our neighbors. Once he told me that he was going to show me a place that I must never forget; he said that we should be gone all day; so my mother, Effie, Uncle Alick and I started with our little basket of provisions. We crossed the lake, and made our way up the sides of the mountain; at length, we commenced descending, and soon found ourselves in a thickly shaded glen, covered with a heavy sward of rich green grass. We stopped under a large old tree, and after we had been seated awhile in silence, my mother said: 'Roland, do you see that old ruin behind that clump of trees?' 'I see a pile of stones and an old chimney, mother,' I replied. 'There lived our ancestor, the old pastor of Glencoe. His name was David Gordon; he lived in those dreadful days when men were hunted like wild beasts for conscience' sake--your great ancestor was a holy man, and had bound his soul by the solemn "League and Covenant," not to submit to the tyranny of the English Church. He was the father of a large family, and was a faithful shepherd of the flock of Christ. Many a time, when those bloody troopers were in hot pursuit, did this aged man of God, at the head of his little flock of parishioners, sally out at night, marching over the wild moors and up the steep mountain sides, seeking shelter in the caves of these old hills.' "'Who was king then, mother?' I inquired. "'Charles the First; and who, though a good husband and father, was a bigoted and tyrannical king.' "'Did he hurt God's people?' I asked. "'He let his soldiers persecute and kill them. Their blood cried to Heaven against him, and deeply were they avenged.' "'Then I'll never love the Church of England, mother,' and my little heart burned within me. 'But, mother, you were going to tell me a story.'