"Weel, ae mornin', we was sittin', haein' oor crack aboot the auld days, an' the schule, an' the sheep we herded thegither on the Ettrick hills. But oor crack aye harkit back to the kirk an' the minister an' the catechism, an' a' thae deeper things o' auld lang syne. He said as hoo he had gane far bye thae things, livin' amang the stour o' a' his siller--but he remarkit that he aften thocht o' the auld ways, an' the auld tunes, an' the minister wi' his goon an' bands; an' he said he was fair starvin' for a psalm--or a paraphrase. They dinna sing them in Ameriky. An' I lilted yin till him--we was lookin' far oot at the Gowden Gate, an' it lookit like the crystal water ma een'll sune see."
Archie stopped, though apparently but little exhausted. His eyes seemed flooded with tender memories of that momentous hour on the far distant Pacific Coast.
"What psalm did you sing him?" I ventured, presently.
"It was a paraphrase," he answered, the smile still upon his face. "It was the twenty-sixth:
"'Ho ye that thirst approach the spring Where living waters flow,'
"'I haena heard it sin I ran barefit aboot the hills,' he said, an' he wad hae me sing the lines ower again:
"'How long to streams of false delight Will ye in crowds repair?'
an' I'm no' worthy, I ken, but I pit up a bit prayer wi' him--ye mauna think I'm boastin', sir, but I brocht him to Christ, an' when I think on't noo, it's lichtsome, an' I'm minded o' that simmer sun on the Gowden Gate. Ye'll write to him an' tell him we'll sing a psalm thegither yet."
My promise given and Andrew Mathieson's address taken, Archie lay silent for a little time. Swift glances at myself, swiftly withdrawn, denoted his desire to say something more. It came at length and with unmistakable directness.
"I'm dootin' I've been wrang; mebbe I was 'righteous over-much.'"
"What is it, Archie?" I said soothingly. "Some sin? Or some mistake in the days that are gone?"
"I'm no' sayin' it was the yin or the ither," replied the old precentor, a familiar frosty flavour in his voice, "an' if it was, I'll no' confess it to ony yin but God--but I'm misdootin' I was ower hard on the hymes."
"What hymns, Archie?" I asked, seeking only to make easier his acknowledgment of error, ever difficult to Scottish lips. For, if the truth were told, Scotchmen secretly divide sins into three classes, those of omission, of commission, and of admission.