"That's wonderful!" said my mother as the psalm was finished.
"Beautiful!" contributed my uncle; "sounds like it ought to be sung by a race of giants."
"So it was," said Mr. Laird. "The martyrs have sung those words—hundreds of them. That psalm was a favourite with the Covenanters."
"The what?" interjected Mr. Giddens. "The Covenanters, did you say? Who were they?"
"The Covenanters," replied Mr. Laird. "And I consider that's the greatest name ever given to a band of men."
"Were they a religious sect?" asked Charlie.
"No, sir—they were a religious army," answered Mr. Laird. "And I've got their blood in my veins. Some of my ancestors laid down their lives for their faith—and this world never saw an aristocracy like to them." His cheeks were flushed, his whole face animated with a wonderful light—and he looked really beautiful. Never shall I forget the expression on the faces round me; they didn't know what to make of this so unfamiliar kind of man.
But Charlie was not through with the subject yet. "Well, that kind of thing may have suited them," he began again, "and there certainly is a kind of strength about it. But I don't like it as well as our church hymns," he continued, smiling.
"I didn't think you would," replied the minister, not smiling at all.
Then Mr. Laird took the Bible and went on with worship. He first read a bit from the Scriptures, though what part it was I cannot remember. After that he prayed. A beautiful, simple prayer—I thought it was so manly, though that's a strange word to apply to a prayer. But he never did think, as I came to know well enough later on, that God cares to have us abase ourselves just for the sake of doing so. Strangely enough, the only one thing I definitely remember about his prayer is that he said: "Give us a good night's rest," and it struck me as a beautifully simple petition.