“Weel, if I was to stay here, and be a troubler much langer, that might be needed, but I hae a few pounds left yet.”
“It will never be needed. The children o’ the righteous hae a sure claim on the God o’ the righteous, and He is bound and ready to answer it. Those were almost the last words Feyther said to 237 me. I was wearying for books, and you see, He has sent them to me, without plack or bawbee.”
“Weel, lassie, if books will mak’ you happy, I am glad they are coming to you. Whiles you can read a short story out o’ Chambers to mysel’. I used to like thae little love tales, when you read one sometimes to us by the fireside. Anyway, they were mair sensible than the village clash-ma-clavers; maist o’ which are black, burning lees.”
“Dear Mither, we’ll hae many a happy hour yet, wi’ the tales I shall read to you.”
“Nae doubt o’ it. They’ll all o’ them be lees—made up lees—but the lees won’t be anent folks we ken, and think weel of, or anent oursel’s.”
“They won’t be anent anybody, Mither. The men who write the stories make up the men and women, and then make up the things they set them to do, and to say. It is all make-believe, ye ken, but many a good lesson is learned by good stories. They can teach, as well as sermons. Folks that won’t go and hear a sermon will maybe read a good story.”
“You wadna daur to read them in a kirk, for they arena the truth.”
“Weel, there are many other things you wouldna care to read in the kirk—a perfectly honest love letter, for instance.”
“When did you hear frae Cluny?”
“Yesterday. He is kept vera close to his business, and he is studying navigation, so that helps him to get the long hours in foreign ports over. He’s 238 hoping to get a step higher at the New Year, and to be transferred to the Atlantic boats. Then he can perhaps get awa’ a little oftener. Mither, I was thinking when you got strong enough, we might move to Glasgow. You would hae a’ your lads, but Norman, mair at your hand then.”