A special meeting of the Presbytery was convened at Lanark during the following week to consider what action the ministers were to take individually and collectively. It was a mere form, because they were unanimous in their resolution to leave all for conscience sake. In the entire Presbytery there was only one exception to be found, viz., John Methven, the minister of Lochlee. He absented himself from the conference of his brethren, an action which, coupled with his attitude in the past, indicated that it was his intention to retain his living at the Government price.

The ejected ministers had three weeks wherein to prepare for the sad change in their circumstances and position. Many were at their wits' end, for, as the Act forbade that they should reside within the bounds of their presbyteries, whither could they turn for assistance or shelter? For themselves they felt it not, but what would become of the wives and little ones rendered homeless and destitute in the very outset of a bleak Scottish winter?

Grey, calm, and still broke that November Sabbath morning, the last upon which the ministers were to break the Bread of Life to the people of their choice over the length and breadth of Scotland. In the vale of Inverburn the dawn was preceded by a thick, heavy mist, which hung low over hill and moorland, giving a very dreary aspect to the already too wintry face of Nature. But long before the hour of service it had cleared away, revealing a peaceful, grey sky, relieved by flecks of brightness in the east. Not a breath of air was stirring; a silence as of the grave seemed to brood over the land. Very early the worshippers began to repair to the house of God. They came from far and near that day; the shepherd from his lonely shieling in the mountain solitude, as well as the dweller in the village, was each found in his accustomed place. Long before the bell began to toll, the churchyard had its groups of earnest, sad-faced worshippers discussing in low and fearful tones the evil days which had come upon the land. Very many were too much overcome to be able to speak, for the thought that this was the last Sabbath Day upon which they would hear the voice of their shepherd in his accustomed place was more than they could bear.

Watty McBean, the carrier, and brother to Betty, the manse maid, was bell-ringer and minister's man in the parish. He tolled the bell that day in a slow, solemn, and painful manner, the echo of each stroke being suffered to die away ere it was drowned by another. It was the "burial" bell Watty tolled that day, and surely nothing could be more fitting or more in unison with the feelings of all who heard it.

At the usual hour Mr. Gray entered the church, but it seemed to those who so mournfully and affectionately watched him ascend the pulpit stair, that never had their minister looked so feeble and aged; never had his face seemed so worn and ill. As his sunken eye roamed over the sea of faces gathered round him, his tears suddenly overflowed, and departing from the usual routine of service, he folded his trembling hands, and said in broken and feeble tones, "Let us pray!"

In the manse pew sat Jane Gray, who never since entering the church had once uplifted her face from her hands, and by her side her nephew Gavin, whose young face wore an expression of manly resolution, upon which many remarked.

Adam Hepburn and his wile were also in their places, and there was none absent from the Hartrigge pew, at the head whereof sat Andrew Gray, erect and calm, with his arms folded across his breast, and a hard, stern expression on his face. And although his father's prayer caused many a bursting sob to echo through the church, he sat unmoved, save when his lips convulsively twitched, telling of a storm of passion held in curb. The psalm was the eighty-fourth, the tune Dundee's "wild wailing measure," fitting words, fitting music to express the tumultuous throbbings of the people's heart. The minister then read the seventeenth chapter of John, slowly and with tremulous distinctness, and without remark or comment of any kind. Next they sang again a portion of the ninety-fourth psalm, then the minister gave out his text.

"All these are the beginning of many sorrows."

That sermon was never forgotten by any who heard it. It seemed as if the aged servant of God had risen above the frailty and feebleness of age, for as he proceeded his clear bell-like voice rang through the building with all the eloquence which had made such a stir among the dry bones in the earlier days of his ministry among them. He spoke passionately and prophetically of the sea of troubles upon which the Lord's Zion was now launched, he forewarned them that the time was at hand when they would need to testify to their faithfulness with their blood, yet he bade them be of good cheer, because it was through great tribulation that the brightness of their eternal crown would be gained in joy.

"And now my faithful and well beloved flock, the time has come for me to bid you farewell," he added in conclusion. "In the ordinary course of nature I could not expect to minister to you for a much more lengthened space. As it is, the fiat has gone forth, not from the Eternal King, but from the poor despicable worm who sits upon an earthly throne that you and I, beloved, shall no more worship together within this place. Looking upon its walls to-day for the last time I know how unspeakably dear it is to me. It is peopled with rich and hallowed memories of the past. In this place I have baptised many of you as children, and here, my own children, now worshipping with you, were all consecrated and received into the Lord's Church. Beloved, from Sabbath to Sabbath these many years I have broken the Bread of Life in your midst, and God be my witness that I have expounded the Word to you in accordance with the light vouchsafed to my own soul. I have also had sweet counsel with you in your own homes, in the ordinary course of pastoral visitation, and I call you to witness that in these visitations I have never failed to be faithful in my personal dealings, when I saw it to be for the glory of God, and for the good of souls. Beloved, all that has come to an end. Next Sabbath day neither you nor I will worship within these walls. When or how the doors will again be thrown open for public worship I cannot say. I tremble when I think upon our now desolate Kirk of Scotland, cast out from her heritage, and bidden make her habitation in the wilderness. It is not for me now, and in this place, to say what will be the reward of these sons of Belial, who have wrought this woe in our midst. 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.' Brethren, farewell. I would my tongue could utter what is in my heart this day. It is with no common sorrow I repeat the words; Brethren, farewell."

The minister ceased, and looked with eyes of unutterable love upon the sobbing multitude. There was no dry eye in the assembly, save that of Andrew Gray the younger, and his seemed to burn with a strange and lurid fire. His hands beneath the book board were so firmly clenched together that the nails were sunk into the flesh. In the midst of these audible tokens of grief, the minister raised his trembling hands, and in slow, clear, solemn tones, breathed upon them his last benediction. Then he sank back in the pulpit, wholly overcome.

The scene I have just described was no solitary instance; in its main features it was being enacted that day in almost every kirk and parish in Scotland.

In the church of Broomhill that day David Gray also spoke his last farewell to his flock. His was not in any respect so united a congregation as that of Inverburn. There were many, who, for peace' sake would have had their minister bow to Middleton's decree, and make an outward semblance of acknowledging the bishop. David Gray entered his church that day with a heavy heart, not because of the sacrifice he was about to make--that occasioned him but little concern--but because of his wife's coldness and estrangement evinced towards him since he had announced his fixed determination to abide by the dictates of his own conscience. Upon the plea that the younger child could not be left, she absented herself from the church that Sabbath morning; and the minister was not surprised to behold the Haughhead seat unoccupied likewise. He delivered an impressive and heart-stirring discourse from the words, "He that taketh not his cross, and followeth after Me, is not worthy of Me," and when he concluded many were weeping. They crowded round him as he came out of the vestry, shaking him by the hand and assuring him of their continued and unaltered love, and offering assistance in every form. It was with difficulty he escaped their loving detention, and, making his way through the churchyard, entered his own garden by the private door. He reproached himself that he did not feel a lively satisfaction in the thought that he had renounced so much for conscience' sake; he felt sore angered at himself for his miserable and foreboding thoughts, which weighed him nigh to the very dust. As he set foot upon the threshold of the manse, he felt oppressed by the strange stillness of the house. On ordinary occasions, the prattle of his children's voices was the first sound which greeted him at his own door. As he stepped into the house, he heard a sound, like that of weeping, proceeding from the direction of the kitchen. Somewhat alarmed, he immediately proceeded thither, and found Ellen Carmichael, the maid, sitting apparently in the very abandonment of grief.

"Be quiet, Ellen Carmichael, and tell me the cause of this noise," he said, with some sternness. "And what has become of your mistress and the bairns?"

A fresh burst of tears was Ellen's only answer; but at length she managed to sob out some words which whitened her master's face to the very lips.

"They're awa', sir; a' awa' tae Haughheid. The laird cam' wi' the coach jist efter the kirk was in, an' the mistress gaed awa' in't, wi' the bairns, an' a' her claes an' the bairns' claes, an' she said she wasna' comin' back. An' I, sir, what cud I dae but sit doon an' greet, thinkin' on you comin' home tae this empty an' desolate hoose?"

The minister turned about and walked with unsteady step back to the pleasant family room, where, with his wife and little ones, he had spent so many happy hours. It had a desolate, deserted, dreary look, and the very fire seemed to have died in despair in the grate. He looked about him in a dazed manner, and then sinking into a chair, these words escaped his lips in a deep groan of anguish:

"If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."

Verily that was a day of sharp and bitter searching for the minister of Broomhill; nevertheless, ere the hushed silence of the night fell, he had found peace in his desolate home.