Adam Hepburn's Vow: A Tale of Kirk and Covenant

by Annie S. Swan

The merchant spoke lightly, but a tear started in his honest eye, as he lifted Agnes on his knee, and drew David to his side.

"'Deed they must have something to eat first, Edward, my man," interrupted Mistress Kilgour. "Come, bairns, to your milk and bread. It's no like the milk and home-made scones at the manse, but it's the best I have, an' ye get it wi' Auntie Jean's kind, kind love."

They drew in their chairs to the table, and after the minister had asked a fervent blessing on the board, they ate with a will, for their mode of travelling had given them all appetites.

"You are never asking for our bairn, Andrew," said the fond mother slily, when presently the little one stirred slightly in its cradle.

"Truly I forgot, Jean," said the minister, with a smile; "and yet it was among Ailie's last messages--sympathy and love to you about the little one. God grant she may grow up a blessing to you both."

The little Agnes presently slipped from her chair, and, stealing over to the cradle, looked in upon the smiling face of the infant. Her own was suffused with a glow of tender wondering pleasure, which made her aunt look at her again. And when, presently, Mistress Kilgour lifted the child, Agnes kept close by her side, as if the babe were a magnet from which she could not separate herself.

The conversation during supper turned chiefly upon topics connected with the parish of Inverburn, in which both the merchant and his wife were deeply and affectionately interested, for, though they had built up a home in Edinburgh, their hearts were knit to their native glen in the bonds of a deep, enduring love.

While she cleared the table, Mistress Kilgour entrusted the babe to Agnes, who sat on a low stool holding the precious burden in her arms, with a mixture of love, rapture, and pride glorifying her face. Shortly thereafter, it being near eight of the clock, Mistress Kilgour made down beds for the children in the adjoining room, and they retired to rest. Then their elders drew up their chairs to the hearth, and began to speak in low, troubled, anxious tones, telling that the topic was one of vital interest, of terrible importance to them all. Before they separated for the night, the minister read a portion from Scripture, and then they knelt to pour out their hearts' desires before the Lord. The tones of Andrew Gray's voice trembled sore as he prayed with passionate earnestness that the arm of the Almighty would be about the tottering Church of Scotland, and that strength might be given to her people to stand up fearlessly in defence of her liberty and purity, ay, even though they should be required to seal their faithfulness with their blood.

"To-morrow will be a great day for Scotland," he said when he rose to his feet. "Either it will be the beginning of peace or the beginning of many sorrows for God's people. It is in times like these we feel the need of prayer, of constant and pious humbling of ourselves before Jehovah. There is that within me, my friends, which forewarns me that we are about to be visited by fierce and terrible temptations and dispensations. Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall."

Awed by the prophetic earnestness with which their kinsman spoke, the merchant and his wife spoke not, but silently bade him good night. Andrew Gray retired to his own chamber, but not to sleep. He sat long by the uncurtained window, looking out upon the city slumbering peacefully under the fitful February moonlight, as if all unconscious of the issues of the coming day.