which herald winter, and as the minister tramped along the road,
where the dry leaves crackled beneath his feet, and climbed to the
moor with head on high, the despair of yesterday vanished. The wind
had ceased, and the glen lay at his feet, distinct in the cold,
clear air, from the dark mass of pines that closed its upper end to
the swelling woods of oak and beech that cut it off from the great
Strath. He had received a warm welcome from all kinds of people, and
now he marked with human sympathy each little homestead with its
belt of firs against the winter's storms, and its stackyard where
the corn had been gathered safe; the ploughman and his horses
cutting brown ribbons in the bare stubble; dark squares where the
potato stalks have withered to the ground, and women are raising the
roots, and here and there a few cattle still out in the fields. His
eye fell on the great wood through which he had rambled in August,
now one blaze of colour, rich green and light yellow, with patches
of fiery red and dark purple. God seemed to have given him a sermon,
and he wrote that evening, like one inspired, on the same parable of
nature Jesus loved, with its subtle interpretation of our sorrows,
joys, trust, and hope. People told me that it was a "rael bonnie
sermon," and that Netherton had forgotten his after-sermon snuff,
although it was his turn to pass the box to Burnbrae.

The minister returned to his study in a fine glow of body and soul,
to find a severe figure standing motionless in the middle of the
room.

"Wass that what you call a sermon?" said Lachlan Campbell, without
other greeting.

John Carmichael was still so full of joy that he did not catch the