“What richt hae I to interfere? even supposin’ I wanted to interfere. But I can lippen weel to my bonny doo; an’ for the rest, she maun tak’ her chance like the lave o’s. An’ wha’ kens but it micht jist be stan’in’ afore Him, i’ the very get that He meant to gang. The Lord forgie me for speakin’ o’ chance, as gin I believed in ony sic havers. There’s no fear o’ the lassie. Gude mornin’ t’ye, Maister Sutherlan’. That’s a braw beuk o’ ballants ye gae the len’ o’ to my Maggy, this mornin’, sir.”
Sutherland was just entering a side-door of the house when David accosted him. He was not old enough to keep from blushing at David’s words; but, having a good conscience, he was ready with a good answer.
“It’s a good book, Mr. Elginbrod. It will do her no harm, though it be ballads.”
“I’m in no dreed o’ that, sir. Bairns maun hae ballants. An’, to tell the truth, sir, I’m no muckle mair nor a bairn in that respeck mysel’. In fac, this verra mornin’, at the beuk, I jist thocht I was readin’ a gran’ godly ballant, an’ it soundet nane the waur for the notion o’t.”
“You should have been a poet yourself, Mr. Elginbrod.”
“Na, na; I ken naething aboot yer poetry. I hae read auld John Milton ower an’ ower, though I dinna believe the half o’t; but, oh! weel I like some o’ the bonny bitties at the en’ o’t.”
“Il Penseroso, for instance?”
“Is that hoo ye ca’t? I ken’t weel by the sicht, but hardly by the soun’. I aye missed the name o’t, an’ took to the thing itsel’. Eh, man!—I beg yer pardon, sir—but its wonnerfu’ bonny!”
“I’ll come in some evening, and we’ll have a chat about it,” replied Sutherland. “I must go to my work now.”
“We’ll a’ be verra happy to see you, sir. Good mornin’, sir.”