s face feigning sleep. Sandy McNaughton took his
pipe out of his mouth and sat up straight and stiff, staring into
vacancy, and Graeme, beyond the fire, drew a short, sharp breath. We had
often sat, Graeme and I, in our student days, in the drawing-room at
home, listening to his father wailing out "Lochaber" upon the pipes, and
I well knew that the awful minor strains were now eating their way into
his soul.

Over and over again the Highlander played his lament. He had long since
forgotten us, and was seeing visions of the hills and lochs and glens of
his far-away native land, and making us, too, see strange things out of
the dim past. I glanced at old man Nelson, and was startled at the
eager, almost piteous look in his eyes, and I wished Campbell would
stop. Mr. Craig caught my eye, and stepping over to Campbell held out
his hand for the violin. Lingeringly and lovingly the Highlander drew
out the last strain and silently gave the minister his instrument.

Without a moment's pause, and while the spell of "Lochaber" was still
upon us, the minister, with exquisite skill, fell into the refrain of
that simple and beautiful camp-meeting hymn, "The Sweet By-and-By."
After playing the verse through once he sang softly the refrain. After
the first verse the men joined in the chorus; at first timidly, but by
the time the third verse was reached they were shouting with throats
full open, "We shall meet on that beautiful shore." When I looked at
Nelson the eager light had gone out of his eyes, and in its place was a
kind of determined hopelessness, as if in this new music he had no part.

After the voices had ceased Mr. Craig played again the refrain, more and
more softly and slowly; then laying the violin on Campbell's knees, he
drew from his pocket his little Bible and said:

"Men, with Mr. Graeme's permission I want to read you something this
Christmas eve. You will all have heard it before, but you will like it
none the less for that."

His voice was soft, but clear and penetrating, as he read the eternal
story of the angels and the shepherds and the Babe. And as he read, a
slight motion of the hand or a glance of an eye made us see, as he was
seeing, that whole radiant drama. The wonder, the timid joy, the
tenderness, the mystery of it all, were borne in upon us with
overpowering effect. He closed the book, and in the same low, clear
voice went on to tell us how, in his home years ago, he used to stand on
Christmas eve