And they did enjoy it. They were young, and unconsciously their hearts strove to throw off the burden of care that had pressed so long and so heavily upon them.

"It has seemed like the old days again," said Shenac as they came in sight of the new kirk, round which many people had already gathered.

They were strangers mostly, or, at least, people that they did not know very well; and, a little shy and unaccustomed to a crowd, they went into the kirk and sat down near the door. It was a very bright, pleasant house, quite unlike the dim, dreary old place they were accustomed to worship in; and they looked round them with surprise and interest.

In a little time the congregation began to gather, and soon the pews were filled and the aisles crowded with an eager mult.i.tude; then the minister came in, and worship began. First the psalm was named, and then there was a pause till the hundreds of Bibles or psalm books were opened and the place found. Then the old familiar words were heard, and yet could they be the same?

Shenac looked at her Bible. The very same. She had learned the psalm years ago. She had heard it many a time in the minister's monotonous voice in the old kirk; and yet she seemed to hear it now for the first time. Was it the minister's voice that made the difference? Every word fell sweet and clear and full from his lips--from his heart--touching the hearts of the listening hundreds. Then the voice of praise arose "like the sound of many waters." After the first verse Hamish joined, but through it all Shenac listened; she alone was silent. With the full tones of youth and middle age mingled the shrill, clear notes of little children, and the cracked and trembling voices of old men and women, dwelling and lingering on the sweet words as if they were loath to leave them. It might not be much as music, but as praise it rose to Heaven.

Then came the prayer. Shenac thought of Jacob wrestling all night with the angel at Jabbok, and said to herself, "As a prince he hath power with G.o.d." Then came the reading of the Scriptures, then more singing, and then the sermon began.

Shenac did not fall asleep when the text was read; she listened, and looked, and wondered. There were no sleepers there that day, even old Donald and Elspat Smith were awake and eager. Every face was turned upward towards the minister. Many of them were unknown to Shenac; but on those that were familiar to her an earnestness, new and strange, seemed to rest as they listened.

What could it be? The sermon seemed to be just like other sermons, only the minister seemed to be full of the subject, and eager to make the truth known to the people. Shenac turned to her brother: she quite started when she saw his face. It was not peace alone, or joy, or triumph, but peace and joy and triumph were brightly blended on the boy's face as he hung on the words of life spoken there that day.

"They with the fatness of thy house Shall be well satisfied; From rivers of thy pleasures thou Wilt drink to them provide,"

repeated Shenac. And again it came into her mind that Hamish was changed, and held in his heart a treasure which she did not share; and still the words of the psalm came back:--

"Because of life the fountain pure Remains alone with thee; And in that purest light of thine We clearly light shall see."

Did Hamish see that light? She looked away from her brother's fair face to the congregation about them. Did these people see it? did old Donald and Elspat Smith see it? did big Maggie Cairns, at whose simplicity and queerness all the young people used to laugh, see it? Yes, even on her plain, common face a strange, bright look seemed to rest, as she turned it to the minister. There were other faces too with that same gleam of brightness on them--old weather-beaten faces, some of them careworn women's faces, and the faces of young girls and boys, one here and another there, scattered through the earnest, listening crowd.

By a strong effort Shenac turned her attention to the minister's words.

They were earnest words, surely, but wherein did they differ from the words of other men? They seemed to her just like the truths she had heard before--more fitly spoken, perhaps, than when they fell from the lips of good old Mr Farquharson, but just the same.

"For scarcely for a righteous man will one die: yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die. But G.o.d commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us."

This was the text. It was quite familiar to her; and so were the truths drawn from it, she thought. What could be the cause of the interest that she saw in the faces of those eager hundreds? Did they see something hidden from her? did they hear in those words something to which her ears were deaf? Her eyes wandered from one familiar face to another, coming back to her brother's always with the same wonder; and she murmured again and again,--

"From rivers of thy pleasures thou Wilt drink to them provide."

"He that drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst."

"That is for Hamish, I'm sure of that. I wonder how it all happened to him? I'll ask him."

But she did not. The bright look was on his face when the sermon ended, and while the psalm was sung. It was there when the great congregation slowly dispersed, and all the way as they walked home with the neighbours. It was there all day, and all the week; and it never left him. Even when pain and sickness set their mark on his face, through all their sorrowful tokens the bright look of peace shone still; and Shenac watched and wondered, but she did not speak of it yet.

This was Shenac's first visit to the new kirk, but it was by no means the last.

It would be out of place to enter here into any detailed history of this one of those awakenings of G.o.d's people which have taken place at different times in this part of the country; and yet it cannot be quite pa.s.sed over. For a long time all the settlers in that neighbourhood worshipped in the same kirk; but when the time came which proved the Church in the motherland--the time which separated into two bodies that which had long been one--the same division extended to the far-away lands where the Scottish form of worship had prevailed. After a time, they who went away built another house in which they might worship the G.o.d of their fathers; and it was at the time of the opening of this house that the Lord visited his people.

A few of those to whom even the dust of Zion is dear, seeking to consecrate the house, and with it themselves, more entirely to G.o.d's service, met for prayer for a few nights before the public dedication; and from that time for more than a year not a night pa.s.sed in which the voice of prayer and praise did not arise within its walls. All through the busy harvest-time, through the dark autumn evenings, when the unmade roads of the country were deep and dangerous, and through the frosts and snows of a bitter winter, the people gathered to the house of prayer.

Old people, who in former years had thought themselves too feeble to brave the night and the storm for the sake of a prayer-meeting, were now never absent. Young people forsook the merry gatherings of singers and dancers, to join the a.s.semblies of G.o.d's people.

It was a wonderful time, all say who were there then. Connected with it were none of those startling circ.u.mstances which in many minds are a.s.sociated with a time of revival. The excitement was deep, earnest, and silent; there was in use none of the machinery for creating or keeping up an interest in the meetings. A stranger coming into one of those a.s.semblies might have seen nothing different from the usual weekly gatherings of G.o.d's people. The minister held forth the word of life as at other times. It was the simple gospel, the preaching of Christ and him crucified, that prevailed, through the giving of G.o.d's grace, to the saving of many.

At some of the meetings others besides the minister took part. At first it was only the elders or the old people who led the devotions of the rest, or uttered words of counsel or encouragement; but later, as G.o.d gave them grace and courage, younger men raised their voices in thanksgivings or pet.i.tions, or to tell of G.o.d's dealings with them. But all was done gravely and decently. There was no pressing of excited and ignorant young people to the "anxious seats," no singing of "revival hymns." They sang the Psalms from first to last--the old, rough version, which people nowadays criticise and smile at, wondering how ever the cramped lines and rude metre could find so sure and permanent a place in the hearts and memories of their fathers. It is said now that these old psalms are quite insufficient for all occasions of praise; but to those people, with hearts overflowing with revived or new-found love, it did not seem so. The suffering and sorrowful saint found utterance in the cry of the psalmist, and the rejoicing soul found in his words full expression for the most triumphant and joyful praise. They who after many wanderings were coming back to their first love, and they who had never come before, alike took his words of self-abas.e.m.e.nt as their own. So full and appropriate and sufficient did they prove, that at last old and experienced Christians could gather from the psalm chosen what were the exercises of the reader's mind; and the ignorant, or those unaccustomed to put their thoughts in words, found a voice in the words which the Sabbath singing and family worship had made familiar to them.

After a time, when the number of inquirers became so numerous that they could not be conveniently received at the manse or at the houses of the elders, they were requested to stay when the congregation dispersed; and oftentimes the few went while the most remained. Then was there many a word "fitly spoken;" many a "word in season" uttered from heart to heart; many a seeking sinner pointed to the Lamb of G.o.d; many a sorrowful soul comforted; many a height of spiritual attainment made visible to upward-gazing eyes; many a vision of glory revealed.

I must not linger on these scenes, wondrous in the eyes of all who witnessed them. Many were gathered into the Church, into the kingdom, and the name of the Lord was magnified. In the day when all things shall be made manifest, it shall be known what wonders of grace were there in silence wrought.

For a long time Shenac came to these meetings very much as Dan had done--because of the interest she took in seeing others deeply moved.

She came as a spectator, wondering what it all meant, interested in what was said because of the earnestness of the speakers, and enjoying the clear and simple utterance of truth, hitherto only half understood.

But gradually her att.i.tude was changed. It was less easy after a while to set herself apart, for many a truth came home to her sharply and suddenly. Now and then a momentary gleam of light flashed upon her, showing how great was her need of the help which Heaven alone could give. Many troubled and anxious thoughts she had, but she kept them all to herself. She never lingered behind with those who wished for counsel; she never even spoke to Hamish of all that was pa.s.sing in her heart.

This was, for many reasons, a time of great trial for Shenac. Day after day and week after week pa.s.sed, and still there came no tidings from Allister or Evan, and every pa.s.sing day and week seemed to her to make the hope of their return more uncertain. The mother was falling into a state which was more terrible to Shenac than positive illness would have been. Her memory was failing, and she was becoming in many things like a child. She was more easily dealt with in one sense, for she was hardly ever fretful or exacting now; but the gentle pa.s.siveness that a.s.sented to all things, the forgetfulness of the trifles of the day, and the pleased dwelling on scenes and events of long ago, were far more painful to her children than her fretfulness had ever been.

With a jealousy which all may not be able to understand, Shenac strove to hide from herself and others that her mother's mind was failing. She punished any seeming neglect or disrespect to their mother on the part of the little ones with a severity that no wrong-doing had ever called forth before, and resented any sympathising allusions of the neighbours to her mother's state as an insult and a wrong.

She never left her. Even the nightly a.s.sembling in the kirk, which soon began to interest her so deeply, could not beguile her from home till her mother had been safely put to rest, with Hamish to watch over her.

All this, added to her household cares, told upon Shenac. But a worse fear, a fear more terrible than even the uncertainty of Allister's fate or the doubt as to her mother's recovery, was taking hold upon her. Her determination to drive it from her served to keep it ever in view, for it made her watch every change in the face and in the strength of her beloved brother with an eagerness which she could not conceal.

Yes, Hamish was less strong than he had been last year. The summer's visit to the springs had not done for him this year what it had done before. He was thinner and paler, and less able to exert himself, than ever. Even Dan saw it, and gave up all thoughts of going to the woods again, and devoted himself to out-door matters with a zeal that left Shenac free to attend to her many cares within.

At last she took courage and spoke to her brother about her fears for him. He was greatly surprised, both at her fears and at the emotion with which she spoke of them. She meant to be very quiet, but when she opened her lips all that was in her heart burst forth. He would not acknowledge himself ill. He suffered less than he had often done when he went to the fields daily, though there still lingered enough of rheumatic trouble about him to make him averse to move much, and especially to brave the cold. That was the reason he looked so wan and wilted--that and the anxious thoughts about his mother.

"And, indeed, Shenac, you are more changed than I am in looks, for that matter."

Shenac made an incredulous movement.

"I am perfectly well," said she.

"Yes; but you are changed. You are much thinner than you used to be, and sometimes you look pale and very weary, and you are a great deal older-looking."

"Well, I am older than I used to be," said Shenac.

She rose and crossed the room to look at herself in the gla.s.s.

"I don't see any difference," she added, after a moment.

"Not just now, maybe, because you have been busy and your cheeks are red. And as for being a great deal older, how old are you, Shenac?"

"I am--I shall be nineteen in September; but I feel a great deal older than that," said Shenac.

"Yes; that is what I was saying. You are changed as well as I. And you are not to fancy things about me and add to your trouble. I am quite well. If I were not, I would tell you, Shenac. It would be cruel kindness to keep it from you; I know that quite well."

Shenac looked wistfully in her brother's face.

"I know I am growing a coward," she said in a broken voice. "O Hamish, it does seem as though our troubles were too many and hard to bear just now!"

"He who sent them knows them--every one; and He can make his grace sufficient for us," said Hamish softly.

"Ay, for you, Hamish."

"And for you too, Shenac. You are not very far from the light, dear sister. Never fear."

"And in that purest light of thine We clearly light shall see,"