Robert obeyed. With his violin in his hand, he went home; and, with his violin still in his hand, walked into his grandmother's parlour.
'Hoo daur ye bring sic a thing into my hoose?' she said, roused by the apparent defiance of her grandson. 'Hoo daur ye, efter what's come an' gane?'
''Cause Dooble Sanny's come and gane, grannie, and left naething but this ahint him. And this ane's mine, whase ever the ither micht be. His wife's left wi'oot a plack, an' I s' warran' the gude fowk o' Rothieden winna mak sae muckle o' her noo 'at her man's awa'; for she never was sic a randy as he was, an' the triumph o' grace in her 's but sma', therefore. Sae I maun mak the best 'at I can o' the fiddle for her. An' ye maunna touch this ane, grannie; for though ye may think it richt to burn fiddles, ither fowk disna; and this has to do wi' ither fowk, grannie; it's no atween you an' me, ye ken,' Robert went on, fearful lest she might consider herself divinely commissioned to extirpate the whole race of stringed instruments,—'for I maun sell 't for her.'
'Tak it oot o' my sicht,' said Mrs. Falconer, and said no more.
He carried the instrument up to his room, laid it on his bed, locked his door, put the key in his pocket, and descended to the parlour.
'He's deid, is he?' said his grandmother, as he re-entered.
'Ay is he, grannie,' answered Robert. 'He deid a repentant man.'
'An' a believin'?' asked Mrs. Falconer.
'Weel, grannie, I canna say 'at he believed a' thing 'at ever was, for a body michtna ken a' thing.'
'Toots, laddie! Was 't savin' faith?'