"Be quiet, Ellen Carmichael, and tell me the cause of this noise," he said, with some sternness. "And what has become of your mistress and the bairns?"
A fresh burst of tears was Ellen's only answer; but at length she managed to sob out some words which whitened her master's face to the very lips.
"They're awa', sir; a' awa' tae Haughheid. The laird cam' wi' the coach jist efter the kirk was in, an' the mistress gaed awa' in't, wi' the bairns, an' a' her claes an' the bairns' claes, an' she said she wasna' comin' back. An' I, sir, what cud I dae but sit doon an' greet, thinkin' on you comin' home tae this empty an' desolate hoose?"
The minister turned about and walked with unsteady step back to the pleasant family room, where, with his wife and little ones, he had spent so many happy hours. It had a desolate, deserted, dreary look, and the very fire seemed to have died in despair in the grate. He looked about him in a dazed manner, and then sinking into a chair, these words escaped his lips in a deep groan of anguish:
"If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."
Verily that was a day of sharp and bitter searching for the minister of Broomhill; nevertheless, ere the hushed silence of the night fell, he had found peace in his desolate home.
CHAPTER VIII.
MR. DUNCAN MCLEAN.
In the course of the ensuing week, the last of the honourable family who had so long dwelt beneath the roof-tree of Inverburn manse, quitted its shelter for ever. Pen fails me to describe fitly that sad farewell. It was indeed a very rending of the heart-strings to the venerable minister of Inverburn. In spite of the wording of the Act, that every ejected minister should remove without the bounds of his Presbytery, Mr. Gray and his daughter went no farther than Adam Hepburn's house at Rowallan, where they were very warmly welcomed. So long as was permitted, they would remain among their own kith and kin. The minister of Broomhill found a shelter at Hartrigge, so that united and affectionate family were not as yet separated one from the other.
On the next Sabbath day no kirk bell rang its sweet, familiar chimes through the quiet Sabbath air. The gates of the churchyard remained closed, and the only sign of life about the venerable pile was the cawing of hoarse-throated rooks, which had assembled by scores on the leafless boughs of the "birks of Inverburn," as if met in convocation over this strange and sad Sabbath day. Betty McBean had gone home to her brother Watty's house in the village; and blithe enough he was to see her, being a bachelor, with no womenkind to make a bite for him or to clean up his house. On the Saturday word was carried through the parish by Watty that the Word would be preached next day in the barn at Rowallan by their beloved shepherd, and all whose soul thirsted for the living water were invited to attend. And, lo, at the hour of meeting, so great was the press thronging in Adam Hepburn's barn that it was hastily decided to hold the meeting out of doors. So a kitchen table with a settle behind it was erected as a pulpit in the corn-yard, and from this the minister of Inverburn preached to his flock. Something in the unusual nature of the proceedings seemed to stir all hearts and to imbue them with a holy enthusiasm. Never had the psalm been sung with such deep fervour; never had the attitude of the hearers been so rapt and reverential. There was something in the knowledge that it was against the law that they assembled together which lent a strange, sweet, yet fearful joy to their relish of that Sabbath day. Hartrigge, with all his family, was there, and the minister of Broomhill also took part in the service. When they separated, just before the twilight, all felt that it had indeed been good for them to be there; and they said one to another, that so long as they could get the Word by walking to Rowallan for it, the king's decree might not prove such a hardship as had been anticipated. But, alas for their vain hopes, their happy congratulations! the day was near at hand when listening to, as well as preaching, the Word was to become a crime worthy of death itself.