M'Nab, the minister who in his white manse
dwelt by the white kirk on the top of the windy hill. This was, by
every earthly canon, a good man, but a stern and unsupple. He had not
been long in this parish, and he was sweeping with a strong, new
besom. The old minister, to his mind, had been Erastian and lax, weak
in doctrine and in discipline of the fold. Mr. M'Nab meant not to be
weak. He loathed sin and would compel the sinner also to loathe it.
Now he came up, tall and darkly clad, and in his Calvinistic hand his
Bible.
"Gude day, sir!"
"Good day, Mr. M'Nab!" The two went on side by side. The day was very
still, the sky an even gray, snow being prepared. "You saw the laird?"
"Aye. He's verra low."
"He'll not recover I think. It's been a slow failing for two
years--ever since Mrs. Jardine's death."
"She was dead before I came to this kirk. But once, when I was a
young man, I stayed awhile in these parts. I remember her."
"She was the best of women."
"So they said. But she had not that grip upon religion that the laird
has!"
"Maybe not."
Mr. M'Nab directed his glance upon the Glenfernie tutor. He did not
think that this Englishman, either, had much grip upon religion. He
determined, at the first opportunity, to call his attention to that
fact and to strive to teach his fingers how to clasp.
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