“’Deed I canna say! ye may be richt, Mirran,” replied her spouse. “It’s no sic a cheery subjec’ ’at we sud hae muckle to say to ane anither anent it! He’s a man noo, and weel luikit upo’; but it maks unco little differ to his parents! He’s jist as dour as ever, and as far as man could weel be frae them he cam o’!—never a word to the ane or the ither o’ ’s! Gien we war twa dowgs, he couldna hae less to say til’s, and micht weel hae mair! I s’ warran’ Frostie says mair in ae half-hoor to his tyke, nor Jeemie has said to you or me sin’ first he gaed to the college!”
“Bairns is whiles a queer kin’ o’ a blessin!” remarked the mother. “But, eh, Peter! it’s what may lie ahint the silence that frichts me!”
“Lass, ye’re frichtin me noo! What div ye mean?”
“Ow naething!” returned Marion, bursting into tears. “But a’ at ance it was borne in upo me, that there maun be something to accoont for the thing. At the same time I daurna speir at God himsel what that thing can be. For there’s something waur noo, and has been for some time, than ever was there afore! He has sic a luik, as gien he saw nor heard onything but ae thing, the whilk ae thing keeps on inside him, and winna wheesht. It’s an awfu’ thing to say o’ a mither’s ain laddie; and to hae said it only to my ain man, and the father o’ the laddie, maks my hert like to brak!—it’s as gien I had been fause to my ain flesh and blude but to think it o’ ’im!—Eh, Peter, what can it be?”
“Ow jist maybe naething ava’! Maybe he’s in love, and the lass winna hear til ’im!”
“Na, Peter; love gars a man luik up, no doon at his ain feet! It gars him fling his heid back, and set his een richt afore him—no turn them in upo his ain inside! It maks a man straucht i’ the back, strong i’ the airm, and bauld i’ the hert.—Didna it you, Peter?”
“Maybe it did; I dinna min’ vera weel.—But I see love can hardly be the thing that’s amiss wi’ the lad. Still, even his parents maun tak tent o’ jeedgin—specially ane o’ the Lord’s ministers—maybe ane o’ the Lord’s ain elec’!”
“It’s awfu’ to think—I daurna say ’t—I daurna maist think the words o’ ’t, Peter, but it wull cry oot i’ my vera hert!—Steik the door, Peter—and ticht, that no a stray stirk may hear me!—Was a minister o’ the gospel ever a heepocreete, Peter?—like ane o’ the auld scribes and Pharisees, Peter?—Wadna it be ower terrible, Peter, to be permittit?—Gien our ain only son was—”
But here she broke down; she could not finish the frightful sentence. The farmer again left his bed, and dropt upon a chair by the side of it. The next moment he sank on his knees, and hiding his face in his hands, groaned, as from a thicket of torture—
“God in haiven, hae mercy upon the haill lot o’ ’s.”