“’At they wouldna haud wi’ him, and war condemnt in consequence—wasna that it?”
“I canna answer ye that, bairn.”
“Weel, I ken he doesna like you—no ae wee bit. He’s aye girdin at ye to ither fowk!”
“May be: the mair’s the need I sud lo’e him.”
“But hoo can ye, father?”
“There’s naething, o’ late, I ha’e to be sae gratefu’ for to Him as that I can. But I confess I had lang to try sair!”
“The mair I was to try, the mair I jist couldna.”
“But ye could try; and He could help ye!”
“I dinna ken; I only ken that sae ye say, and I maun believe ye. Nane the mair can I see hoo it’s ever to be broucht aboot.”
“No more can I, though I ken it can be. But just think, my ain Maggie, hoo would onybody ken that ever ane o’ ’s was his disciple, gien we war aye argle-barglin aboot the holiest things—at least what the minister coonts the holiest, though may be I think I ken better? It’s whan twa o’ ’s strive that what’s ca’d a schism begins, and I jist winna, please God—and it does please him! He never said, Ye maun a’ think the same gait, but he did say, Ye maun a’ loe ane anither, and no strive!”