“You trust him for that. He was no born yestre’en. There’s a hantle o’ folk makes that blunder, though.”
Away went Sam for the kettle. When he brought it back, he said,—“Miss Cary, ye’ll mind Annie Crosthwaite, as lives wi’ auld Mally?”
Ah, did I not remember Annie Crosthwaite?—poor, fragile, pretty spring flower, that some cruel hand plucked and threw away, and men trod on the bemired blossom as it lay in the mire, and women drew their skirts aside to keep from touching the torn, soiled petals? “Yes, Sam,” I said, in a low voice.
“Ay, the minister brought yon puir lassie a message frae the gude Lord—‘Yet return again to Me’—and she just took it as heartily as it was gi’en, and went and fand rest—puir, straying, lost sheep!—but when she came to the table o’ the Lord, the ninety and nine wad ha’e nane o’ her—she was gude eneuch for Him in the white robe o’ His richteousness, but she was no near gude eneuch for them, sin she had lost her ain—and not ane soul i’ a’ the parish wad kneel down aside o’ her. Miss Cary, I ne’er saw the minister’s e’en flash out sparks o’ fire as they did when he heard that! And what, think ye, said he?”
“I should like to hear, Sam.”
“‘Vara gude,’ says he. ‘I beg,’ he says, ‘that none o’ ye all will come to the Table to-morrow. Annie Crosthwaite and I will gang thither our lane: but there’ll be three,’ says he, ‘for the blessed Lord Himsel’ will come and eat wi’ us, and we wi’ Him, for He receiveth sinners, and eateth with them.’ And he did it, for a’ they tald him the Bishop wad be doun on him. ‘Let him,’ says he, ‘and he shall hear the haill story’: and not ane o’ them a’ wad he let come that morn. They were no worthy, he said.”
“And did the Bishop hear of it?”
“Ay, did he, and sent doun a big chiel, like an auld eagle, wi’ a’ his feathers ruffled the wrang way. But the minister, he stood his ground: ‘There were three, Mr Archdeacon,’ says he, as quiet as a mill-tarn, ‘and the Lord Himsel’ made the third.’ ‘And how am I to ken that?’ says the big chiel, ruffling up his feathers belike. ‘Will ye be sae gude as to ask Him?’ says the minister. I dinna ken what the big chiel made o’ the tale to the Bishop, but we heard nae mair on’t. Maybe he did ask Him, and gat the auld answer,—‘Touch not Mine anointed, and do My prophet no harm.’”
“Still, rules ought to be kept, Sam.”
“Rules ought to be kept in ordinar’. But this was bye-ordinar’, ye see. If a big lad has been tauld no to gang frae the parlour till his faither comes back, and he sees his little brither drooning in the pond just afore the window, I reckon his faither ’ll no be mickle angered if he jumps out of the window and saves him. Any way, I wad nae like to ha’e what he’d get, gin he said,—‘Faither, ye bade me tarry in this chalmer, and sae I could nae do a hand’s turn for Willie.’ Rules are man’s, Miss Cary, but truth and souls belang to God.”