way, a
better yin, I'm dootin'. An' I'm feart I was mair like Dauvit, for a'
I'd raither be like the Maister."

"You have the right of it, Archie; He showed us the more excellent way."

"Forbye," Archie went on, pursuing his line of thought, "I've my
misgivin's aboot wha wrote thae hymes. It wasna the deevil, an' it wasna
Watts, an' it wasna yon great Methody body; they set them doon, nae
doot--but wha started them? I'm sair dootin' they had their rise amang
the hills, the same whaur Dauvit saw the glory o' God."

"Above the hills of time," I added softly.

"An' what's mair, it kind o' came to me that a hyme micht be a prayer,
ye ken. Noo, your prayer in the kirk is no' inspired. That is, no' like
Dauvit's psalms--but it's upliftin' for a' that. An' I'm thinkin' that
mebbe it's nae waur to lilt a prayer than to speak yin, an' mebbe the
great Methody was prayin' when he said:

"'Let me to Thy bosom fly,'

an' I'm dootin' we micht dae waur than jine wi' him."

"There is no more fitting prayer for such an hour as this," I responded,
thinking it meet to incline his thoughts towards the encircling glow
with which the last great morning was already illumining his face.

But Archie still pursued his line of thought. No such great concession
as this was to be left undefined; this codicil to his whole life's will
and testament must be explained.

"I ken the hymes never had what I micht ca' a fair chance wi' me. My
faither cudna thole them, an' he cudna bide ony ither body to thole
them. He aye said the heather wasna dry yet wi' the Covenanters' bluid.
Ma ain girlie, wee Kirsty,--she likit them fine, but I forbade her. This
was the way it cam aboot--div ye mind the year o' the Exposeetion in
Paris? Weel, me an' Kirsty's mither took a jaunt an' gaed till't. We was
ower three weeks amang thae foreign fowk, wi' nae parritch an' nae
psalm. We gaed frae Paris to the auld hame in Ettrick, an' 'twas like
gae'n to Abraham's bosom frae the ither place. Weel, the first Sabbath
day, we gaed to the auld Scotch kirk, and we were starvin' for the
bread o' life.

"Naethin' had we had but the bit sweeties o' the English kirk near by,
wi' their confections--an' ance we gaed to the Catholic, but it was a
holiday. Weel, as I was sayin', we gaed to the Ettrick kirk an' the
minister came into the pulpit wi' his goon an' bands--fair graun it was.

"'Let us worship God,' he said, an' 'twas like the click o' the gate at
hame. Then he gi