In the course of the ensuing week, the last of the honourable family who had so long dwelt beneath the roof-tree of Inverburn manse, quitted its shelter for ever. Pen fails me to describe fitly that sad farewell. It was indeed a very rending of the heart-strings to the venerable minister of Inverburn. In spite of the wording of the Act, that every ejected minister should remove without the bounds of his Presbytery, Mr. Gray and his daughter went no farther than Adam Hepburn's house at Rowallan, where they were very warmly welcomed.

So long as was permitted, they would remain among their own kith and kin. The minister of Broomhill found a shelter at Hartrigge, so that united and affectionate family were not as yet separated one from the other.

On the next Sabbath day no kirk bell rang its sweet, familiar chimes through the quiet Sabbath air. The gates of the churchyard remained closed, and the only sign of life about the venerable pile was the cawing of hoarse-throated rooks, which had assembled by scores on the leafless boughs of the "birks of Inverburn," as if met in convocation over this strange and sad Sabbath day. Betty McBean had gone home to her brother Watty's house in the village; and blithe enough he was to see her, being a bachelor, with no womenkind to make a bite for him or to clean up his house. On the Saturday word was carried through the parish by Watty that the Word would be preached next day in the barn at Rowallan by their beloved shepherd, and all whose soul thirsted for the living water were invited to attend. And, lo, at the hour of meeting, so great was the press thronging in Adam Hepburn's barn that it was hastily decided to hold the meeting out of doors. So a kitchen table with a settle behind it was erected as a pulpit in the corn-yard, and from this the minister of Inverburn preached to his flock. Something in the unusual nature of the proceedings seemed to stir all hearts and to imbue them with a holy enthusiasm. Never had the psalm been sung with such deep fervour; never had the attitude of the hearers been so rapt and reverential. There was something in the knowledge that it was against the law that they assembled together which lent a strange, sweet, yet fearful joy to their relish of that Sabbath day. Hartrigge, with all his family, was there, and the minister of Broomhill also took part in the service. When they separated, just before the twilight, all felt that it had indeed been good for them to be there; and they said one to another, that so long as they could get the Word by walking to Rowallan for it, the king's decree might not prove such a hardship as had been anticipated. But, alas for their vain hopes, their happy congratulations! the day was near at hand when listening to, as well as preaching, the Word was to become a crime worthy of death itself.

The Laird of Inverburn, with Lady Hamilton and the young heir, had driven in their coach that day to Lochlee, to hear John Methven preach. On their way home they passed so many dressed people on the roads, especially as they neared Inverburn, that a suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon the mind of the laird.

Just outside their lodge gates they overtook Watty McBean and his sister Betty, leisurely wending their way homewards. At a word from the laird the coachman pulled up his horses.

"Here, McBean," said the laird, in his peremptory fashion, "tell me why there are so many people on the road at this hour. They look to me as if they had been at kirk somewhere, though very sure am I that none of them worshipped with me to-day at Lochlee."

"Did they no', Sir Thomas? but how should I ken whaur a' the folk hae been wanderin' tae?" asked Watty, innocently. "Mebbe they've been awa' seein' their freens or takin' a bit walk tae theirsels, like Betty an' me."

Very red grew the face of Betty McBean, as she heard her brother utter this deliberate falsehood, and she tugged vehemently at her cap strings, to give some vent to her feelings.

"I believe you are telling me a lie, sirrah!" said the laird, wrathfully, "and if you are it will be the worse for you. Here, you woman, you were the manse maid, I think," he added, directing his remarks to Betty. "Can you tell me whether it be true that your minister is still in the parish, in fact that he is under the roof-tree of Adam Hepburn, at Rowallan?"

"Oh, Sir Tammas, my lord, dinna mak me tell a lee," said Betty piteously; "ye wudna hae me get my auld maister into trouble. He----"

"Betty, if ye dinna haud yer tongue, and come on, it'll be the waur for ye," shouted Watty in her ear, and taking her by the arm, dragged her right away from the coach, and past the gate of Inverburn, without so much as making an apology to the laird.

Sir Thomas looked angry, but his wife sank back, laughing, in the coach, not sorry that Betty had not committed herself.

Lady Hamilton's sympathies were much with the Presbyterians, but she was of too sweet and gentle a disposition to set up her own opinions in opposition to those of her husband.

"Eh, Watty McBean, man, hoo cud ye tell sic a barefaced lee?" queried Betty when her brother released his grip on her arm. "Did the thocht o' the fire and brimstane, which the Word says is the portion o' leers, no pit the fear o' death on yer tongue?"

"Hoot ye silly crater, there's lees an' lees!" quoth Watty, with an air of superior wisdom. "Was I gaun to get the minister and the flock into a peck o' troubles wi' my lang tongue? I see I'll need to keep an e'e on you, Betty. Auld though you be, ye hinna muckle gumption."

"Ye're no feared either tae daur [defy] the laird," said Betty, with a sigh.

"I'm no awn the laird naething, and he canna gar me speak against my will," said Watty, calmly; and Betty, completely overcome by her brother's undaunted spirit, relapsed into silence.

For several weeks the parish kirk at Inverburn remained closed, and the people worshipped with the ministers they loved either in barn or outhouse, or, when weather permitted, under the canopy of heaven. Such a state of affairs, which betokened such utter disregard and contempt for the Prelacy, could not long be allowed to continue undisturbed. The next step taken by the bishops was to fill the places of the ejected ministers with curates of their own, so that the parishioners might no longer have the closed doors of the churches to point at as an excuse for their behaviour.

Sir Thomas Hamilton, a staunch loyalist and an intimate friend of the Bishop of Glasgow, offered his shelter and patronage to any gentleman his lordship might elect to minister in the church at Inverburn.

It was on the third Saturday in January that a notice was posted up on the church door intimating that public worship would be resumed next Lord's Day by Mr. Duncan McLean, at the hour of noon.

The bellman was also sent round, and the news well circulated throughout the parish. It occasioned no little excitement and talk; but the people, with the exception of a few of the laird's pensioners in the village, had not the smallest intention of attending upon the curate's ministrations. Service was to be held at three of the afternoon in the sheltered glen behind the house of Hartrigge, and as Watty McBean expressed it--

"When folk could lift Presbyterian wheat for the gaun [going], it wasna likely they wad be content wi' the curate's puir chaff."

About eleven o'clock on the Sabbath morning, Betty McBean, watching from the window, beheld the coach from Inverburn coming rapidly over the manse brae, towards the village.

"The laird's in't, Watty, an' a jimpy black body, wha'll dootless be the curate, and Peter Rintoull, the bailiff, 's on the box aside the coachman," she cried, excitedly. "I'll bet ye what ye like they'll be comin' seekin' you tae gang up by an' ring the bell."

"Let them come, I'm ready for them," said Watty serenely. "But gang you intae the ben-end [parlour], or yer waggin' tongue'll play mischief."

Only too thankful to be relieved from the necessity of again meeting the laird's questioning gaze, Betty hastily retired into the ben-end just as the coach drew up at the door.

"Watty, Watty McBean!" called out the coachman. "Coome oot; Sir Tammas wants ye!"

Watty took his pipe from his cheek, and retired slowly out to the door, a very uncouth looking figure in his rough homespun garb, and his unwashed unshaven face surmounted by a dirty red night-cap!

"Why are you not more decently attired, McBean? It is time you were getting ready for the service," said the laird sternly. "This is the new minister of the parish, Mr. Duncan McLean."

"Ay, so I was thinkin'. I canna say I'm prood tae see Mr. Duncan McLean," said Watty, in his canny way, and giving his somewhat loose nether garments an expressive hitch. "If he's come tae a cauld pairt, it's no' his blame, puir chield. I'm thinkin' he'll no' be lang afore he gangs back tae them that sent him."

Mr. McLean looked much surprised, and not too well pleased at the man's freedom of address.

"The man is witless, Mr. McLean, a half crazy loon, whom nobody heeds," the laird explained, and then he turned his stern eye on Watty's unruffled countenance. "Look here, McBean, go into the house and put on your Sabbath garments as fast as you can; and see that you be up to ring the kirk bell at the usual time."

"Eh, me? they telt me the Bishop wad send a bell-ringer an' a minister's man wi' the curate," said Watty, with well-feigned astonishment. "Sir Tammas, it's perfectly unpossible that I could be ready at the time. Just look at me; I've a week's dirt tae scrape aff my skin, no' tae mention that my claes taks an hour tae aire afore I cud pit them on without catchin' my death."

The laird bit his lip.

"This is gross impertinence, McBean, for which, as I sit here, I swear you shall not go unpunished. Once for all, will you or will you not be ready to perform your usual duties in the bell tower and the session house in half an hour?"

"That I winna, Sir Tammas; seein' the lord bishop, or whatever be his title, has made the kirk session of Inverburn null and void, he has made the minister's man null and void too; so Maister McLean maun e'en get a man for hissel," answered Watty, with fearless resolution. Then he fixed his keen eye on the ill-favoured face of the curate, and addressed a concluding remark to him. "Ye hae taen muckle upon yersel', young man, tae step into the honoured shoon o' the Reverend Maister Gray. An' if ye get but a cauldrife hearin' this day ye may blame no' the faithfu' folks o' Inverburn, but them that sent ye."

With which comforting assurance Watty turned about, and entering his own house, shut the door.

"If this is the disposition of the parish, Sir Thomas," said the curate sourly, "I fear stronger measures will be necessary ere long."

"If necessary, doubtless they will be taken, Mr. McLean," said the laird. "But do not be cast down by the insolent utterance of a half-witted fellow like Watty McBean. I cannot think the people of Inverburn will so far forget their respect to me, as well as to those in power, as to follow such an example."

One of the laird's servants was procured to undertake Watty's duties, and the bell was duly rung at the appointed time. But it appeared to convey to the hearts of the people no welcome summons to the House of God. Only a few stragglers, and these persons of no note in the parish, came dropping into the church, and when the hour struck there were not more than thirty persons present, and these included the laird and his retinue from Inverburn. Nevertheless the service was proceeded with, and conducted after the true Episcopal fashion; prayers being read from the new book of service. The curate was humiliated and ashamed, the laird furious, and on their way home to Inverburn the two discussed various plans whereby the people might be compelled to attend service in the church.

The following morning Sir Thomas started on horseback to make a tour of the tenantry on his estate, in order to see what they had to say in defence of their absence from the church on the previous day. His first place of call was Rowallan, but before he reached the house he met Adam Hepburn leading one of his work-horses to the smithy. Adam doffed his cap to the laird, and stood still, not unprepared for what was coming.

"I have called to see for what reason you absented yourself from Divine service yesterday, Hepburn?" the laird said briefly, and without greeting of any kind. "Do you know that in so absenting yourself you were guilty of a civil offence?"

"I know not as to that, Sir Thomas; but if a man's heart be not in the service, he is better at home," replied Adam, quietly. "And the king has no power over a man's own conscience."

"See here, Hepburn," said the laird; "is that old man, your father-in-law, still under your roof-tree?"

"He is, Sir Thomas," answered Adam, in the same quiet tone.

"You know the wording of the Act which commands that the ejected ministers shall remove themselves without the bounds of the Presbytery? Rowallan is not without these bounds. I have it in my power to have your father-in-law punished, imprisoned if I like, by simply letting my friend the bishop know how his commands are disobeyed."

A dark red flush rose to Adam Hepburn's brow, and he bit his lip. The hot blood of his race sprang up at the laird's threatening and mocking words.

"And you would make betrayal of the old man the price of my non-attendance at the curate's preaching, Sir Thomas," he said with curling lip. "Such a threat is scarcely worthy of your name. I fear that such measures will not avail with the God-fearing people in the parish."

"You defy me then, sirrah; then be prepared to take the consequences," said the laird furiously, and digging his spurs into his horse's sides, turned the animal's head, and rode away full gallop to Hartrigge, only to have his ire additionally kindled there by the cool defiance and dogged determination of Andrew Gray.