‘It’s sartin,’ said David.
And therewith, by the side of the dead, he imparted to his wife the thoughts that drove misery from his heart as he sat on his mare in the storm with the reins on her neck, nor knew whither she went.
‘Ay, ay,’ returned his wife after a pause, ‘ye’re unco richt, Dauvid, as aye ye are! And I’m jist conscience-stricken to think ’at a’ my life lang I hae been ready to murn ower the sorrow i’ my hert, never thinkin o’ the glaidness i’ God’s! What call hed I to greit ower Steenie, whan God maun hae been aye sair pleased wi’ him! What sense is there in lamentation sae lang’s God’s eident settin richt a’! His hert’s the safity o’ oors. And eh, glaid sure he maun be, wi sic a lot o’ his bairns at hame aboot him!’
‘Ay,’ returned David with a sigh, thinking of his old comrade and the son he had left behind him, ‘but there’s the prodigal anes!’
‘Thank God, we hae nae prodigal!’
‘Aye, thank him!’ rejoined David; ‘but he has prodigals that trouble him sair, and we maun see til’t ’at we binna thankless auld prodigals oorsels!’
Again followed a brief silence.
‘Eh, but isna it strange?’ said Marion. ‘Here’s you and me stanin murnin ower anither man’s bairn, and naewise kennin what’s come o’ oor ain twa!—Dauvid, what can hae come o’ Steenie and Kirsty?’
‘The wull o’ God’s what’s come o’ them; and God haud me i’ the grace o’ wussin naething ither nor that same!’
‘Haud to that, Dauvid, and haud me till’t: we kenna what’s comin!’