‘For the puir idiot hasna the sense to ken what’s wantit o’ him!’ supplemented Steenie, with a laugh almost merry.
‘Daur ye,’ cried his mother indignantly, ‘mint at sic a word and my bairn thegither? He’s my bonny man!’
‘Na, mother, na! He’s the bonny man at wha’s feet I sall ae day sit, clothed and i’ my richt min’. He is the bonny man!’
‘Thank the Lord,’ continued his mother, still harping on the outrage of such as called her child an idiot, ‘’at ye’re no an orphan—’at there’s three o’ ’s to tak yer part!’
‘Naebody can be an orphan,’ said Steenie, ‘sae lang’s God’s nae deid.’
‘Lord, and they ca’ ye an idiot, div they!’ exclaimed Marion Barclay. ‘—Weel, be ye or no, ye’re ane o’ the babes in wha’s mooth he perfecteth praise!’
‘He’ll du that some day, maybe!’ answered Steenie.
‘But! eh, Steenie,’ pursued his mother, ‘ye winna gang the nicht!’
‘Mother,’ he answered, ‘ye dinna ken, nor yet do I, what to mak o’ me—what wits I hae, and what wits I haena; but this ye’ll alloo, that, for onything ye ken, the bonny man may be cryin upon me to gang efter some puir little yowie o’ his, oot her lane i’ the storm the nicht!’
With these words he walked gently from the kitchen, his dog following him.