“And I would say to you, sir, ‘No—gien he bena willin,’” answered Isy, and ran from the room.
“Weel, what think ye o’ the lass by this time, Mr. Bletherwick?” said the soutar, with a flash in his eye.
“I think jist what I thoucht afore,” answered Peter: “she’s ane amo’ a million!”
“I’m no that sure aboot the proportion!” returned MacLear. “I doobt ye micht come upo twa afore ye wan throw the million!—A million’s a heap o’ women!”
“All I care to say is, that gien Jeemie binna ready to lea’ father and mother and kirk and steeple, and cleave to that wuman and her only, he’s no a mere gomeril, but jist a meeserable, wickit fule! and I s’ never speyk word til ’im again, wi my wull, gien I live to the age o’ auld Methuselah!”
“Tak tent what ye say, or mint at sayin, to persuaud him:—Isy ’ill be upo ye!” said the soutar laughing. “—But hearken to me, Mr. Bletherwick, and sayna a word to the minister aboot the bairnie.”
“Na, na; it’ll be best to lat him fin’ that oot for himsel.—And noo I maun be gaein, for I hae my wallet fu’!”
He strode to the door, holding his head high, and with never a word more, went out. The soutar closed the door and returned to his work, saying aloud as he went, “Lord, lat me ever and aye see thy face, and noucht mair will I desire—excep that the haill warl, O Lord, may behold it likewise. The prayers o’ the soutar are endit!”
Peter Blatherwick went home joyous at heart. His son was his son, and no villain!—only a poor creature, as is every man until he turns to the Lord, and leaves behind him every ambition, and all care about the judgment of men. He rejoiced that the girl he and Marion had befriended would be a strength to his son: she whom his wife would have rejected had proved herself indeed right noble! And he praised the father of men, that the very backslidings of those he loved had brought about their repentance and uplifting.
“Here I am!” he cried as he entered the house. “I hae seen the lassie ance mair, and she’s better and bonnier nor ever!”