of lively argument, tempered only by a sense of Burnbrae's anxiety.

The factor, who was dressed in the height of sporting fashion and looked as if he had lived hard, received the doctor and his henchman with effusion.

"Doctor Davidson, Established Church clergyman of Drumtochty? quite a pleasure to see you; one of our farmers, I think; seen you before, eh? Drum, Drum—can't quite manage your heathenish names yet, d' ye know.

"Splendid grouse moor you 've got up here, and only one poacher in the whole district, the keepers tell me. D' you take a gun yourself, Doctor—ah—Donaldson, or does the kirk not allow that kind of thing?" and the factor's laugh had a fine flavour of contempt for a Scotch country minister.

"My name is Davidson, at your service, Mr. Tomkyns, and I've shot with Lord Kilspindie when we were both young fellows in the 'forties, from Monday to Friday, eight hours a day, and our bag for the week was the largest that has ever been made in Perthshire.

"But I came here on a matter of business, and, if you have no objection, I would like to ask a simple question."

"Delighted, I'm sure, to tell you anything you wish," said the factor, considerably sobered.

"Well a very unpleasant rumour is spreading through the parish that you have refused to renew a farmer's lease unless he promised to leave the Free Church?"

"An old fellow, standing very straight, with white hair, called—let me see, Baxter; yes, that's it, Baxter; is that the man?"

"Yes, that is the name," said the doctor, with growing severity; "John Baxter of Bumbrae, the best man in the parish of Drumtochty; and I want an answer to my question."

"You will get it," and Tomkyns fixed his eye-glass with an aggressive air. "I certainly told Baxter that if he wanted to stay on the estate he must give up his dissenting nonsense and go to the kirk."

"May I ask your reason for this extraordinary condition?" and Drumsheugh could see that the Doctor was getting dangerous.

"Got the wrinkle from my cousin's, Lord De Tomkyns's, land agent. He's cleared all the Methodists off their estate.

"'The fewer the dissenters the better,' he said to me, 'when you come to an election, d' you know.'"

"Are you mad, and worse than mad? Who gave you authority to interfere with any man's religion? You know neither the thing you are doing, nor the men with whom you have to do. Our farmers, thank God, are not ignorant serfs who know nothing and cannot call their souls their own, but men who have learned to think for themselves, and fear no one save Almighty God."

The factor could hardly find his voice for amazement.

"But, I say, aren't you the Established Kirk minister and a Tory? This seems to me rather strange talk, don't you know."

"Perhaps it does," replied the doctor, "but there is nothing a man feels deeper than the disgrace of his own side."

"Well," said Tomkyns, stung by the word disgrace, "there are lots of things I could have done for you, but if this is your line it may not be quite so pleasant for yourself in Drumtochty, let me tell you."

The doctor was never a diplomatic advocate, and now he allowed himself full liberty.

"You make Drumtochty pleasant or unpleasant for me!" with a withering glance at the factor. "There is one man in this parish neither you nor your master nor the Queen herself, God bless her, can touch, and that is the minister of the Established Church.

"I was here before you were born, and I 'll be here when you have been dismissed from your office. There is just one favour I beg of you, and I hope you will grant it"—the doctor was now thundering—"it is that you never dare to speak to me the few times you may yet come to the parish of Drumtochty."

Drumsheugh went straight to give Burnbrae an account of this interview, and his enthusiasm was still burning.

"Naethin' 'ill daunt the doctor—tae hear him dress the factor wes michty; he hed his gold-headed stick wi' him, 'at wes his father's, an' when he brocht it dune on the table at the end, the eyegless droppit oot o' the waefu' body's 'ee, an' the very rings on his fingers jingled.

"The doctor bade me say 'at he hed pled yir case, but he wes feared he hed dune ye mair ill than gude."

"Be sure he hesna dune that, Drumsheugh; a' didna expeck that he cud change the factor's mind, an' a'm no disappointed.

"But the doctor hes dune a gude wark this day he never thocht o', and that will bring a blessing beyond mony leases; for as lang as this generation lives an' their children aifter them, it will be remembered that the parish minister, wi' his elder beside him, forgot thae things wherein we differ, and stude by the Free Kirk in the 'oor o' her adversity."

II.—THE ENDLESS CHOICE

It was known in the Glen that Burnbrae must choose on Monday between his farm and his conscience, and the atmosphere in the Free Church on Sabbath was such as might be felt. When he arrived that morning, with Jean and their three sons—the fourth was in a Highland regiment on the Indian frontier—the group that gathered at the outer gate opened to let them pass, and the elders shook Burnbrae by the hand in serious silence; and then, instead of waiting to discuss the prospects of the Sustentation Fund with Netherton, Burnbrae went in with his family, and sat down in the pew where they had worshipped God since the Disruption.

The cloud of the coming trial fell on the elders, and no man found his voice for a space. Then Donald Menzies's face suddenly lightened, and he lifted his head.

"'With persecutions' wass in the promise, and the rest it will be coming sure."

"You hef the word, Donald Menzies," said Lachlan; and it came to this handful of Scottish peasants that they had to make that choice that has been offered unto every man since the world began.

Carmichael's predecessor was minister of the Free Church in those days, who afterwards got University preferment—he wrote a book on the Greek particles, much tasted in certain circles—and is still called "the Professor" in a hushed voice by old people. He was so learned a scholar that he would go out to visit without his hat, and so shy that he could walk to Kildrummie with one of his people on the strength of two observations, the first at Tochty bridge and the other at the crest of the hill above the station. Lachlan himself did not presume at times to understand his sermons, but the Free Church loved their scholar, for they knew the piety and courage that dwelt in the man.

The manse housekeeper, who followed Cunningham with his hat and saw that he took his food at more or less regular intervals, was at her wit's end before that Sabbath.

"A 've hed chairge o' him," she explained to the clachan, "since he wes a laddie, an' he 's a fine bit craiturie ony wy ye tak' him.

"Ye juist hammer at his door in the morning till ye 're sure he's up, an' bring him oot o' the study when denner's ready, an' watch he hesna a buke hoddit aboot him—for he's tricky—an' come in on him every wee whilie till ye think he's hed eneuch, an' tak' awa his lamp when it's time for him tae gang tae bed, an' it's safer no tae lat him hae mair than a can'le end, or he wud set tae readin' in his bed. Na, na, he's no ill tae guide.

"But keep's a', he's been sae crouse this week that he's fair gae'n ower me. He's been speakin' tae himsel' in the study, an' he 'll get up in the middle o' his denner an' rin roond the gairden.

"Ye ken the minister hardly ever speaks gin ye dinna speak tae him, though he's aye canty; bit this week if he didna stop in the middle o' his denner an' lay aff a story aboot three hun-der lads that held a glen wi' their swords till the laist o' them wes killed—a'm dootin' they were Hielan' caterans—an' he yokit on the auld martyrs ae nicht tae sic an extent that I wes near the greetin'.

"Ye wudna ken him thae times—he's twice his size, an' the langidge poors frae him. A' tell ye Burnbrae's on his brain, and ye