never had a headache, never was sick for a day. He was overflowing with animal spirits, ready for the joke, the laugh, and the Scottish story,—a great reader, a free and easy speaker.
“He was a true Celt, and traced his pedigree to the Highlands in days long gone by. His ancestors, being Protestants, fled from the fire of persecution and their native heath to the Lowlands, and found a refuge, where we were all born, in the pleasant village of Earlston on the Leader. Their names are on the gravestones in the parish churchyard.
“His father died when he was a year old, and his godly mother and the old minister brought him up. He often spoke of spending an hour at the manse on Sabbath evenings, before Sunday schools were thought of, with his wise and kind minister, Rev. Mr. Dalziell, and he treasured those lessons till his dying day. His mother was a remarkable woman. Mr. Dalziell used to say, that, if the Bible had been lost, Mrs. Carter could have restored it from memory. He was famous as an athlete in all the Scottish games where strength and agility were required, and with his high spirit, and quick though kindly temper, he often got into boyish scrapes. His mother could not get hold of him during the day, but exercised her parental control and correction at night. One night while she was plying the ‘tawse,’ a long piece of leather cut into strips at one end, he made a good deal of noise, and she said, ‘Solomon says we must not spare a child for his crying.’ Father lost his patience,—although usually most loving and respectful to his mother, whom he almost worshipped,—and cried, ‘Solomon has naething to do wi’ it.’
“His mother’s fervent prayers, in family worship and at his bedside, as she pleaded for her children to the widow’s God, bore fruit in his giving his heart early to the Lord Jesus. Indeed, he never knew when the change came. He always took delight in prayer, and in the ministry of the