Chapter 18

A WEDDING JOURNEY



"Just a moment, if you please, Paula. I should like to get down a few notes of this bit. Oh, what a view! Lake, moor, hills, mountains, village!"

Mr. Howland sprang from the car, sketchbook in hand, and ran forward to a jutting rock that commanded the wide valley, flanked by hills, in whose bosom lay a loch, shimmering in the morning light. The car drew up on the brow of a long and gently sloping incline, which the road followed until it disappeared in a turn at the village at the loch's end.

"Get the little church tower in, father, and a bit of the castle. I can see it from here," said Paula, standing upon the motor seat.

"I shall try this further rock," said her father. "Ah, here it is. Do come, all of you, and get this. Oh, what a perfectly glorious view!"

The little group gathered about him in silence, upon a little headland that overlooked the valley, and feasted upon the beauty that spread itself out before them, the undulating slope and shimmering loch, the wide moors and softly rounded hills, the dark green masses of ragged firs, and the great white Bens in the far distance, and below them, in the midst the human touch, in a nestling village with its Heaven-pointing spire.

"Hark!" said Paula.

From across the loch there floated up to them, soft and mellow as an angel's song, the sound of a bell.

Mr. Rowland dropped his sketchbook, took off his hat, and stood as if in worship. The other men followed his example.

"Father," said Paula, "let's go to church."

"Hush," said her father, putting up his hand, and so stood for some moments.

"Oh, Scotland, Scotland!" he cried, lifting his arms high above his head, "no wonder your children in exile weep for their native land."

"And your men fight and die for you," added Paula, glancing at Captain Neil.

"Thank you," said Captain Neil, turning quickly away.

"Yes," said Paula, "we shall go to church here, father."

The church stood against a cluster of ancient firs, in the midst of its quiet graves, yew shaded here and there. Beside it stood the manse, within its sweet old garden, protected by a moss covered stone wall.

At its gate the minister stood, a dark man with silvering hair, of some sixty years, but still erect and with a noble, intellectual face.

"Let us speak to him," said Paula, as they left their car.

With characteristic reserve, Barry and Neil shrank from greeting a stranger, but with fine and easy courtesy Mr. Howland bared his head, and went up to the minister.

"We heard your bell's invitation, sir," he said, "and we came to worship with you."

A grave smile touched the