"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.
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