He pushed back his heavy chair; he rose from table and went forth, tall, ancient, gray, armored in belief.  They heard him take his Bible from where it lay, and knew that he was back under the fir-tree, facing from the house toward moor and hill and mountain.

“Eh-h,” groaned Thomas, “the elder is a mighty witness!”

The family at White Farm ate in silence.  Elspeth slipped from her place.

“Where are ye gaeing, hinny?” asked Jenny.  “Ye hae eaten naething.”

“I’ve finished,” said Elspeth.  “I’m going to afternoon kirk, and I’ll be getting ready.”

She went into the room that she shared with Gilian and shut the door.  Robin looked after her.

“When is Gilian coming home?”

“Naebody knows.  She is sae weel at Aberdeen!  They write that she is a great student and is liked abune a’, and they clamor to keep her.—­Are ye gaeing to second kirk, Robin?”

“I do not think so.  But I’ll walk over the moor with you.”

The meal ended.  Thomas and Willy went forth to the barn.  Menie and Merran began to clear the table.  They were not going to second kirk, and so the work was left to their hand.  Jenny bustled to get on again her Sunday gear.  She would not have missed, for a pretty, afternoon kirk and all the neighbors who were twice-goers.  It was fair and theater and promenade and kirk to her in one—­though of course she only said “kirk.”

They walked over the moor, Jarvis Barrow and Jenny and Robin and Elspeth.  And at a crossing path they came upon a figure seated on a stone and found it to be that of the laird of Glenfernie.

“Gude day, Glenfernie!”

“Good day, White Farm!”

He joined himself to them.  For a moment he and Robin Greenlaw were together.

“Do you know what I hear them calling you?” quoth the latter.  “I hear them say ‘The wandering laird!’”

Alexander smiled.  “That’s not so bad a name!”

He walked now beside Jarvis Barrow.  The old man’s stride was hardly shortened by age.  The two kept ahead of the two women, Greenlaw, Thomas, and the sheep-dog Sandy.

“It’s a bonny day, White Farm!”

“Aye, it’s bonny eneuch, Glenfernie.  Are ye for kirk?”

“Maybe so, maybe not.  I take much of my kirk out of doors.  Moors make grand kirks.  That has a sound, has it not, of heathenish brass cymbals?”

“It hae.”

“All the same, I honor every kirk that stands sincere.”

“Wasna your father sincere?  Why gae ye not in his steps?”

“Maybe I do....  Yes, he was sincere.  I trust that I am so, too.  I would be.”

“Why gae ye not in his steps, then?”

“All buildings are not alike and yet they may be built sincerely.”

“Ye’re wrong!  Ye’ll see it one day.  Ye’ll come round to your father’s steps, only ye’ll tread them deeper!  Ye’ve got it in you, to the far back.  I hear good o’ ye, and I hear ill o’ ye.”