The book was closed.  “Let us pray,” Saunders said.

The prayer was not one to be forgotten.  There was a yearning refrain in it, a cry for more worthiness in those whom God had so highly favoured.  Saunders was allowed to be highly gifted in intercession.  But he was also considered to have some strange notions for a God-fearing man.

For instance, he would not permit any of his children to be taught by heart any prayer besides the Lord’s Prayer.  After repeating that, they were encouraged to ask from God whatever they wanted, and were never reproved, however strange or incongruous their supplications might be.  Saunders simply told them that if what they asked was not for their good they would not get it—­a fact which, he said, “they had as lief learn sune as syne.”

This excellent theory of prayer was certainly productive of curious results.  For instance, Alec is recorded in the family archives to have interjected the following petition into his devotions.  While saying his own prayers, he had been keeping a keen fraternal eye upon sundry delinquencies of his younger brother.  These having become too outrageous, Alec continued without break in his supplications—­“And now, Lord, will you please excuse me till I gang an’ kick that loon Rab, for he’ll no’ behave himsel’!” So the spiritual exercises were interrupted, and in Alec’s belief the universe waited till discipline allowed the petitionary thread to be taken up.

The “buik” being over, the red farm-cart rattled to the door to convey such of the churchgoers as were not able to walk all the weary miles to the Cameronian kirk in Cairn Edward.  The stalwart, long-legged sons cut across a shorter way by the Big Hoose and the Deeside kirk.  Both the cart and the walkers passed on the way a good many churches, both Established and Free; but they never so much as looked the road they were on.

This hardly applied to Alec, whose sweetheart (for the time-being) attended the Free kirk at Whinnyliggate.  He knew within his own heart that he would have liked to turn in there, and the consciousness of his iniquity gave him an acute sense of the fallen nature of man—­at least, till he got out of sight of the spireless rigging of the kirk, and out of hearing of the jow of its bell.  Then his spirits rose to think that he had resisted temptation.  Also, he dared not for his life have done anything else, for his father’s discipline, though kindly, was strict and patriarchal.

And, moreover, there was a lass at the Cameronian kirk, a daughter of the Arkland grieve, whose curls he rather liked to see in the seat before him.  He had known her when he went to the neighbouring farm to harvest—­for in that lowland district the corn was all cut and led, before it was time to begin it on the scanty upland crop which was gathered into the barns of Drumquhat.  Luckily, she sat in a line with the minister; and when she was there, two sermons on end were not too long.