"Kneel down, Angus," I said, softly. He kneeled, and I had almost begun, my hands outstretched above his head. He raised his face to mine, lowered to meet it. A moment told me what he wished to say.
When he had risen, I said aloud: "Angus Strachan, ordained already, I give you the right hand of fellowship into the eldership of St. Cuthbert's church. The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make His face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift the light of His countenance upon thee and give thee peace."
Again I raised my voice as I faced the worshippers.
"I extend yet another invitation in my Master's name. I call upon any who may be among us, once serving in the eldership of this church, to come forward and aid us to dispense the pledges of forgiving love to other sinful men."
I waited, but there was no response. One sat with bowed head, his hand held in the gentle keeping of another's. The moments passed, but still silence reigned.
"Come awa', man,"--it was Ronald McGregor's trembling voice from among the elders--"come awa'; it's the wounded hand that beckons ye--we're a' here o' the Saviour's grace alane."
Michael Blake moved slightly, but his head was lower bowed.
"Gang forrit, Michael, gang forrit to the table He's been gey guid to us baith--an' oor Angus wants ye," whispered the woman beside him.
Then he came; and, as he walked to the table, the meaning of God's pardoning love seemed borne in upon us as it had never been before.
He had hardly taken his seat beside us when we heard a faint rustling sound, some one moving. I turned my head, and saw Margaret, her face lovely through its tears, slip into the empty place and take in her own the hand that had been just released. Burning hot it was, but she held it tight--and Janet took her into her heart forever.
Then the sacred emblems were poured and broken by our sinful hands, redeemed by love alone. The elders bore them forth to the waiting souls, and when Angus came to his mother's place, great grace was upon us all. He had bent one moment, before she took the chalice in her trembling hand. One word was spoken, only one, and what it was no one heard--nor Margaret, nor any one but God.
Because of more abounding grace, and because of that alone, I cherish the trembling hope that I shall yet hear the new and holy song in the blessed homeland yonder. Yonder, I say, for on clear days I have seen the dim outline of the hills beyond the river; and sometimes in the night I have caught the glow of an unsetting sun. Only for a moment, it is true--but it was enough. My sight is failing, they tell me, and the light is not so clear as in the early afternoon, but these yonder things are seen the clearest in the failing light, and by eyes that are past their best.