I had pulled a Bible from my pocket and was thinking of my sermon by this time.
Jean Gemmell rose and stood a moment picking at a flower by the wall.
“My father will be on your side,” she said, slowly.
“But,” cried I, in some astonishment, “your father has not yet heard me preach.”
“No more have I,” she made answer, smiling on me with her eyes, “but, nevertheless, my father will be on your side.”
And she moved away, looking still very kindly upon me.
I cannot tell whether or no I was helped by this rencounter in my conduct of the worship that day in the parish kirk of Balmaghie. At any rate, I went down and walked in the meadows by the side of Dee Water till the folk gathered and the little cracked bell began to clank and jow from the kirk on the hill.
CHAPTER XIII.
MY LADY OF PRIDE.
Within the kirk of Balmaghie there spread from gable to gable a dim sea of faces, men standing in corners, men holding by windows, men peering in at the low doorway, while the women cowered upon folded plaids, or sat closely wedged together upon little creepie stools. So great a multitude had assembled that day that the bairns who had no voice in the ministerial call were in danger of being put without to run wild among the gravestones. But this I forbade, though I doubt not many of the youthful vagabondage would have preferred such an exodus to the hot and crowded kirk that day of high summer.
I was well through my discourse, and entering upon my last “head,” when I heard a stir at the door. I paused somewhat markedly lest there should be some unseemly disturbance. But I saw only a great burly red-bearded gentleman with his hair a little touched with grey. The men about the porch made room for him with mighty deference.