"The Moderator kens fine himsel'," Andrew Fummerton whispered to the elder at his right, smiling grimly. But the man beside him scarcely heard, for every mind was intent with the process under way; scores of times had they witnessed it before, but it was again as new and absorbing as the prowess of a fisherman landing his reluctant prize.
There was a long silence, still as death. Suddenly Willie Gillespie fell to sneezing; he it was at whose farm the threshers had been that day, and who had been profanely questioned by Æneas Ramsay, as already told. Perhaps it was the day's dust that provoked the outburst; but, from whatever cause, the explosion was remarkable in its power and duration, one detonation following another with heightening tumult till the final booming was worthy of the noblest efforts of modern artillery. As the bombardment increased in power, the elders unconsciously braced themselves a little on their chairs, dismayed at the unseemly outbreak, considering the place and the occasion.
Harvey, for the life of him, could not forbear to smile; this human symptom was reassuring to him amid the statuesque solemnity of the room—it made original sin less ghostly, somehow, and he looked almost gratefully at the dynamic Willie. This latter worthy, recoiling like a smoking cannon, groped frankly for his nose as if apprehensive that it had been discharged; finding it uninjured, he repaired hastily to the tail pocket of a black coat that had sustained the dignity of a previous generation in the eldership, extracting therefrom a lurid pocket-handkerchief—that is, originally lurid—but now as variously bedecked as though the threshers had enjoyed its common ministry that day. Whereupon there ensued a succession of reports, inferior only to their mighty predecessors themselves, resembling nothing so much as the desultory firing that succeeds the main attack.
"Ye was askin' what might be original sin," Willie murmured apologetically from behind the faithful handkerchief, swishing it back and forward on his nose the while as though he were polishing the knocker on a door; he glanced apologetically towards Mr. McCaig as he spoke, anxious to repair the connection he had so violently disturbed.
"If my memory serves me," Robert returned severely, "if my memory serves me, that is what we was dealin' wi'—order's a graun' thing at a meetin' o' sic a kind as this," he added sternly, his gaze following the disappearing banner now being reëntombed.
"What is original sin, laddie? Mebbe the lassie can gie me the answer," he suggested, Harvey's silence impressing him as incurable.
"I'm not very sure," faltered Madeline—"was it the kind at the beginning?"
Robert McCaig had no desire to be unnecessarily severe; therefore turned enquiringly to his colleagues, implying that the verdict lay with them.
"Very good, child, very good," Dr. Fletcher said approvingly. "It's very hard to answer Mr. McCaig's question—he'd find it difficult enough himself. What is it, Harvey?" he asked, smiling at the boy, who seemed to have an idea ready.
"I'm not very sure either; but isn't it—isn't it the kind that doesn't wear off?" the lad ventured timidly, rather ashamed of the description after it was finished.