“Ow, what the Saviour said to Peter an’ the lave o’ them ’at was fishers—to come to him, an’ he would mak them fishers o’ men.”
“Ay, I see!—What for dinna ye bide at hame, you an’ the lave o’ the douce anes?”
“There ye come upo’ the thing ’at’s troublin’ me.—Are we ’at begude it to brak it up?—Or are we to stan’ aside an’ lat it a’ gang to dirt an’ green bree?—Or are we to bide wi’ them, an warsle aboot holy words till we tyne a’ stamach for holy things?”
“Cud ye brak it up gien ye tried?” asked Malcolm.
“I doobt no. That’s ane o’ the considerations ’at hings some sair upo’ me: see what we hae dune!”
“What for dinna ye gang ower to Maister Graham, an’ speir what he thinks?”
“What for sud I gang till him? What’s he but a fine moaral man? I never h’ard ’at he had ony discernment o’ the min’ o’ the speerit.”
“That’s what Dilse’s Bess frae Clamrock wad say aboot yersel’, Peter.”
“An’ I doobt she wadna be far wrang.”
“Ony gait, she kens nae mair aboot you nor ye ken aboot the maister. Ca’ ye a man wha cares for naething in h’aven or in earth but the wull o’ ’s Creator—ca’ ye sic a man no speeritooal? Jist gang ye till ’im, an’ maybe he’ll lat in a glent upo’ ye ’at’ll astonish ye.”