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But of all the happy hearts in that congregation, there was none like Duncan Polite's. He looked up at the young divine standing, like Saul, head and shoulders above the people, and there came to his mind the words spoken by the Lord to Samuel, "Behold the man whom I spoke to thee of!" This was the man of promise, the man of his dreams.
He was just the sort of man to appeal to Duncan Polite's heart. His sermon was like himself, gentle, loving and overflowing with goodwill to all men. Duncan sat and drank it in with deepest joy; surely his covenant was in no great danger with such a man as Mr. Ansdell in his glen!
Maister Cameron's gone, an' the auld buddies are slippin' awa fast, an' whiles Ah hae little patience wi' the new fangled notions. Will the country be a God-fearin' one, Ah wonder, when we're a' awa?" It was the question and also the tragedy of their lives, the question Duncan Polite's whole life was given up towards answering.
Jessie's bright head drooped, her eyes filled with tears. She was looking at her half-hearted, worldly interest in the work of the Master in comparison with Duncan Polite's devotion. The old man's words were not all; piety creates its surrounding atmosphere, stronger than any verbal expression of it, and Duncan's manner said far more than his tongue.
"Can't we renew that covenant here, you and I, Jessie, for his sake?" Donald whispered. "And for the sake of One who suffered more than he did, Don," added the girl gently. And standing together by Duncan Polite's covenant stone they gave their young lives anew to the work that had been his life's aim.
The ruling elder seemed in a rather mild frame of mind in spite of the fact that the reins of government had been taken out of his hands. The young pastor could not know that Duncan Polite's influence had soothed his wrath. He sat beside the old man and chatted away genially, while Splinterin' Andra watched him solemnly and with a certain wistfulness in his stern face.
For even Donald, well-nigh crushed with the weight of his grief and the knowledge of all he had missed, was no more torn by the old clergyman's words than the young minister who sat reviewing his past self-satisfied year in Glenoro in the light of Duncan Polite's hopes. The May days had come, and Glenoro was all pink and white in a burst of apple blossoms when Donald next returned from college.
He went forward with waving tail and respectfully lowered head, uttering a gruff ejaculation which could scarcely be called a bark and yet served as a form of greeting. The newcomer paused at the gate. "Aye, Duncan, ye're waitin'," he said. Duncan Polite's friend was as unlike him as a Lowland Scot can be unlike a Highlander, which is granting a very wide difference indeed.
Personally, he did not care if he had been seen, but he knew that Duncan Polite's happiness would be at an end if he knew his nephew had been fighting the minister. With a heavy heart he walked slowly back to where the boys were pitching quoits.
Every day during Duncan Polite's illness, Mrs. Hamilton, as was her custom in all cases of sickness in the village, sent one of the girls to his house with some tempting delicacy, jellies or custards or gruel or beef-tea, the best she could produce.
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