‘Ony dog wud yowl gien ye threw a kettle o’ bilin watter ower him!’
‘Did she that til ye?’
‘She mintit at it. I ran frae her. She hed the toddy-kettle in her han’, and she splasht it in her ain face tryin to fling’t at me.’
‘Maybe she didna ken ye!’
‘She kenned me weel eneuch. She ca’d me by my ain as weel ’s ither names.’
‘Ye’re jist croonin my arguyment, Francie! Yer mither’s jist perishin o’ drink! She drinks and drinks, and, by what I hear, cares for noucht else. A’s upo’ the ro’d to ruin in her and aboot her. She hasna the brains noo, gien ever she hed them, to guide hersel. Is Satan to grip her ’cause ye winna be neebour til her and haud him aff o’ her? I ken ye’re a guid son sae far as lat her du as she likes and tak ’maist a’ the siller, but that’s what greases the exle o’ the cairt the deevil’s gotten her intil! I ken weel she hesna been muckle o’ a mither til ye, but ye’re her son whan a’s said. And there can be naething ye’re callt upon to du, sae lang as she’s i’ the grup o’ the enemy, but rugg her oot o’ ’t. Gien ye dinna that, ye’ll never be oot o’ ’s grup yersel. Ye come oot thegither, or ye bide thegither.’
Gordon sat speechless.
‘It’s impossible!’ he said at length.
‘Francie,’ rejoined Kirsty, very quietly and solemnly, ‘ye’re yer mother’s keeper; ye’re her neist neebour: are ye gauin to du yer duty by her, or are ye not?’
‘I canna; I daurna; I’m a cooard afore her.’