"Ay; that's what you richteous elder brithers think. I ken that weel eneuch."
"Mr Cupples, I'm nae elder brither i' that sense. God kens I wad gang oot to lat him in."
"What ken ye aboot him, gin it be a fair queston?"
"I hae kent him, sir, sin he was a bairn. I perilled his life�-no my ain�-to gar him do his duty. I trust in God it wad hae been easier for me to hae perilled my ain. Sae ye see I do ken aboot him."
"Weel," said Mr Cupples, to whom the nature of Thomas had begun to open itself, "I alloo that. Whaur do ye bide? What's yer name? I'll come and see ye the morn's nicht, gin ye'll lat me."
"My name's Thomas Crann. I'm a stonemason. Speir at Robert Bruce's chop, and they'll direc ye to whaur I bide. Ye may come the morn's nicht, and welcome. Can ye sup parritch?"
"Ay, weel that."
"My Jean's an extrornar han' at parritch. I only houp puir Esau had half as guid for's birthricht. Ye'll hae a drappy wi' me?"
"Wi' a' my hert," answered Cupples.
And here their ways diverged.