being most anxious to imitate the tinsmith’s accomplishment.  He was, however, afraid to make his first essay in church, in case of sneezing symptoms, and before he had a chance of a quiet moment to make the experiment when they left the pew, he used generally to be caught by Margery, and summoned to put on his glove like a gentleman, and any resistance was sure to end in the discovery and loss of the precious pinch of snuff.  Then the tinsmith’s wife had also her own congenial resources for comfort during service, which she delighted to share with her neighbours.  Grace used to receive a little tap on the shoulder, and, on looking round, a box of peppermint lozenges lay waiting her in the old woman’s fat palm.  These were very homely little interchanges of friendship, but they made part of the happy childish world to Grace, and years after, when the old pew knew her no more, and she asked admittance to it as a stranger, she glanced round in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of the broad, shining, kindly faces of the old couple, feeling that to see them in their place would bring back many pleasanter bygone associations than snuff and peppermint lozenges.

On this Sunday afternoon Grace perceived that there was something out of the ordinary routine in prospect.  The pews were filling more quickly than they usually did.  Strangers were gathering in the passage, and a general flutter of excitement and expectation seemed everywhere to prevail.

“What is going to happen, I wonder, Margery?” whispered Grace, impatiently; and presently the tinsmith leant across the book-board and kindly volunteered the information that they were going to have a “strange minister the night, and a special collection for some new-fangled thing.”

And then Grace turned towards the pulpit in time to see the “strange minister,” who had just entered it.  He was a tall man, of a stately though easy presence, with grace and life in every gesture.  As she looked at him Grace Campbell was reminded of an historical scene, a picture of which hung in the old hall at Kirklands, of a mixed group of Cavaliers and Puritans.  This preacher seemed in his appearance curiously to combine the varied characteristics of both the types of men in these portraits.  That graceful flexibility of tone and movement, the high forehead and waving locks, surely belong to the gallant old Cavalier, but there is something of the stern Puritan too.  The resoluteness of the firm though mobile mouth betokens a strength of moral purpose, which does not belong to the caste of the mere court gentleman; about those delicately-cut nostrils there dwells a possibility of quivering indignation, and in the eyes that are looking broodingly down on the congregation true pathos and keen humour are strangely blended.

Presently the deep, flexible voice, which had the soul of music in its tones, re-echoed through the church as he called the people to worship God, and read some verses of an old psalm.  Familiar as the words were to Grace, they seemed as he read them to have a new meaning, to be no longer seven verses with queer, out-of-the-way expressions, that had cost her trouble to learn as a Sunday evening’s task, but a beautiful, real prayer to a God that was listening, and would hear, as the “strange minister’s” voice pealed out,—­