St. Cuthberts | Page 5

his face, stern and secretive though it was. His eye, which
had seemed to hold my blushing bag at bay, turned now upon me with
all the music of a great welcome in its glance. He looked at me with
that frank abruptness which true cordiality creates, and when he took
my hand in his my heart leaped to the warm shelter of its grasp.
"I have been looking for you; you are welcome here," he said, in the
quietest of tones. He drew me gently within the massive door, and in
that moment I knew that I was in the custody of love.
A grandfather's clock, proud and stately in its sense of venerable
faithfulness, was gravely ticking off the moments with hospitality in its
tone. A pleasant-faced lassie showed me to my room, reminding me
that the evening meal awaited my descent.
My host justified my every impression. While we disposed of the plain
but appetizing fare, whose crown was the speckled trout which his skill
had lured from home, he submitted me to the kindliest of
cross-examinations concerning my past, my scholarship, my
evangelical positions, my household, and much else that nestled among
them all. Throughout, I felt the charm and the power of his gentleness,
and under its secret influence I yielded up what many another would
have sought in vain. Some natures there are which search you as the
sun lays bare the flowers, making for itself a pathway to their inmost
heart, every petal opening before its siege of love.
But reciprocity there was none. His lips seemed to stand like inexorable
sentinels before his heart, in league with its great secret, the guardians
of a past which no man had heard revealed. One or two tentative
attempts to discover his antecedents were foiled by his charming
taciturnity.
"I came from the old country many years ago," was the only
information he vouchsafed me.
The evening was spent in conversation which never flamed but never
flagged. My increasing opportunity for observation served but to
confirm my conviction that I was confronted with a man who had one

great and separate secret hidden within the impenetrable recesses of a
contrite heart. He said little about St. Cuthbert's or the morrow, his
most significant observation being to the effect that the serious-minded
of the kirk were looking forward to my appearance with hopeful
interest.
After he had bidden me good-night, he again sought me in my chamber,
interrupting the devotions which I was striving to conduct in oblivion
of to-morrow and in the sombre light of the Judgment Day.
"Will you do me a kindness in the kirk to-morrow?" he said, with
almost pathetic eagerness.
I responded fervently that nothing could be a greater kindness to myself
than the sense of one bestowed on him.
"Very well, then, will you give us the Fifty-first Psalm to sing at the
morning service--it always seems to me that it is the soul's staple food;
and let us begin with the fifth verse--
"'Behold, Thou in the inward parts With truth delighted art.'
It falls like water on the thirsty heart. And perhaps, if your previous
selection will permit, you would give us in the evening the paraphrase--
"'Come let us to the Lord our God With contrite hearts return.'
My mother first taught me that," he added, with the first quiver of the
lip I yet had seen, "and I have learned it anew from God."
He then swiftly departed, little knowing that he had given me that night
a pillow for both head and heart. I fell asleep, his great quotations and
his earnest words flowing about my soul even as the ocean laves the
shore.

III

OUR MUTUAL TRIAL
The Sabbath morning broke serene and fair. Thus also awoke my spirit,
still invigorated by its contact with one I felt to be an honest and
God-fearing man, whose ardour I knew was chastened by a long-waged
conflict of the soul.
Our morning worship was led by Mr. Blake himself, who besought the
Divine blessing upon the labours of him who was "for this day 'our
servant for Jesus' sake.'"
We walked to the church together, mingling with the silent and reverent
multitude pressing towards a common shrine.
As he left me at the vestry door, he said earnestly--
"Forget that you are a candidate of St. Cuthbert's, and remember that
you are a minister of God."
The beadle recognized me with a confidential nod, inspected the pulpit
robe which I had donned, and taking up the "Books," he led the way to
the pulpit steps with an air which might have provoked the envy of the
most solemn mace-bearer who ever served his king.
He opened the door, and then there appeared to my wondering view a