"'It's so hot,' said she, 'in the drawing-room! And they're talking such nonsense there! There's nobody speaks sense to me but you, Mr Cupples.'
"''Deed, mem,' says I, 'I dinna ken whaur it's to come frae the nicht. For I hae nae sense left but ane, and that's nearhan' 'wi' excess o' brightness blind.' Auld Spenser says something like that, doesna he, mem?' I added, seein' that she luikit some grave. But what she micht hae said or dune, I dinna ken; for I sweir to ye, bantam, I know nothing that happent efter, till I cam' to mysel' at the soun' o' a lauch frae outside the door. I kenned it weel eneuch, though it was a licht flutterin' lauch. Maybe I heard it the better frae the conductin' pooer o' timmer, for my broo was doon o' the buirds o' the flure. I sprang to my feet, but the place reeled roon', and I fell. It was the lauch that killed me. What for sud she lauch?—And sic a ane as her that was no licht-heidit lassie, but cud read and unnerstan', wi the best? I suppose I had gane upo' my knees till her, and syne like the lave o' the celestials she tuik to her feathers and flew. But I ken nae mair than this: that for endless ages I gaed followin' her through the heavenly halls, aye kennin as sure's gospel that she was ahint the neist door, and aye openin' that door upon an empty glory, to be equally certain that she was ahint the neist. And sae on I gaed till, ahint ane o' the thoosan' doors, I saw the reek-enamelled couples o' my auld mither's bit hoosie upo' the mairgin o' the bog, and she was hingin' ower me, sayin' her prayers as gin she wad gang efter them like a balloon wi' verra fervour. And whan she saw my een open, she drappit upo' her knees and gaed on prayin'. And I wonner that thae prayers warna hearkent till. I never cud unnerstan' that."
"Hoo ken ye that they warna hearkent till?" asked Alec.
"Luik at me! Do ye ca' that hearkenin' till a prayer? Luik what she got me back for. Ca' ye that an answer to prayers like my auld mither's? Faith! I'll be forced to repent some day for her sake, though there sudna be anither woman atween Venus and Mars but wad rive wi' lauchin at a word frae Cosmo Cupples. But, man! I wad hae repentit lang syne gin I cud hae gotten ae glimp o' a possible justice in pittin a hert as grit's mine into sic a misgreein', scrimpit, contemptible body as this. The verra sowl o' me has to draw up the legs o' 't to haud them inside this coffin o' a corpus, and haud them ohn shot oot into the everlastin' cauld. Man, the first thing I did, whan I cam' to mysel', was to justify her afore God for lauchin at me. Hoo could onybody help lauchin at me? It wasna her wyte. And eh! man, ye dinna ken hoo quaiet and comfortable I was in my ain min', as sune's I had gotten her justified to mysel' and had laid it doon that I was ane fit to be lauchen at.—I winna lat you lauch at me, though, bantam. I tell ye that."
"Mr Cupples! Laugh at you! I would rather be a doormat to the devil,' exclaimed Alec.
"Thank you, bantam.—Weel, ye see, ance I had made up my min' aboot that, I jist began followin' at her again like a hungry tyke that stops the minute ye liuk roon efter him—I mean i' my thochts, ye ken—jist as I had been followin' her, a' the time o' my fiver, throu the halls o' heaven, as I thoucht them, whan they war only the sma' crinkle-crankle convolutions o' my cerebral dome-�a puir heaven for a man to bide in! I hae learnt that waur and better than maist men, as I'm gaein to tell ye; for it was for the sake o' that that I begud this dismal story.—Whan I grew some better, and wan up—wad ye believe 't?—the kin'ness o' the auld, warpit, broon, wrinklet woman that brocht me furth, me Cosmo Cupples, wi' the muckle hert and the sma' body, began to console me a wee for the lauch o' that queen o' white-skinned leddies. It was but a wee, ye ken; still it was consolation. My mither thocht a heap o' me. Fowk thinks mair o' fowk, the mair they are themsels. But I wat it was sma' honour I brocht her hame, wi' my een brunt oot wi' greetin' for the mune.—I'll tell ye the lave o' 't efter we win hame. I canna bide to be here i' the dark. It's the quaiet beuks a' roon' me that I canna bide. It was i' the mids o' beuks, i' the dark, that I heard that lauch. It jist blastit me and the beuks and a' thing. They aye luik as gin they war hearin' 't. For the first time I loot the gloamin come doon upo' me i' this same leebrary, a' at ance I heard the sma' nicher o' a woman's lauch frae somewhaur in or oot o' the warl'. I grew as het's hell, and was oot at the door in a cat-loup. And as sure's death I'll hear't again, gin I bide ae minute langer. Come oot wi' ye."
There was light in Mr Fraser's drawing-room, and a shadow flitted across the blind. The frosty night, and the keenness of the stars, made Mr Cupples shiver. Alec was in a feverous glow. When they reached home, Mr Cupples went straight to the cupboard, swallowed a glass of the merum, put coals on the fire, drew his chair close to it, and said:
"It's dooms cauld! Sit doon there, bantam. Pit on the kettle first. It's an ac' o' the purest disinteresstitness, for deil a drap sall ye drink! But I'll sing ye a sang, by way o' upmak'."
"I never heard ye sing, Mr Cupples. Ye can do a' thing, I think."
"I cudna gar a bonnie, high-born, white-handit leddy fa' in love wi' a puir futteret (weasel) o' a crater—a shargar (scrag) like Cosmo Cupples, bantam. But I can do twa or three things; an' ane o' them is, I can mak' a sang; and anither is, I can mak' a tune till't; and a third is, I can sing the tane to the tither, that is whan I haena had either ower muckle or ower little o' the tappit hen. Noo, heark ye. This ane's a' my ain: