“Na, na!” he answered, resuming the speech of his boyhood—a far better sign of him than his mother understood, “I ken ower muckle, and that muckle ower weel, to lay sic a flattering unction to my sowl! It’s jist as black as the fell mirk! ‘Ah, limed soul, that, struggling to be free, art more engaged!’”
“Hoots, ye’re dreamin, laddie! Ye never was engaged to onybody—at least that ever I h’ard tell o’! But, ony gait, fash na ye aboot that! Gien it be onything o’ sic a natur that’s troublin ye, yer father and me we s’ get ye clear o’ ’t!”
“Ay, there ye’re at it again! It was you ’at laid the bird-lime! Ye aye tuik pairt, mither, wi’ the muckle deil that wad na rist till he had my sowl in his deepest pit!”
“The Lord kens his ain: he’ll see that they come throuw unscaumit!”
“The Lord disna mak ony hypocreet o’ purpose doobtless; but gien a man sin efter he has ance come to the knowledge o’ the trowth, there remaineth for him—ye ken the lave o’ ’t as weel as I dee mysel, mother! My only houp lies in a doobt—a doobt, that is, whether I had ever come til a knowledge o’ the trowth—or hae yet!—Maybe no!”
“Laddie, ye’re no i’ yer richt min’. It’s fearsome to hearken til ye!”
“It’ll be waur to hear me roarin wi’ the rich man i’ the lowes o’ hell!”
“Peter! Peter!” cried Marion, driven almost to distraction, “here’s yer ain son, puir fallow, blasphemin like ane o’ the condemned! He jist gars me creep!”
Receiving no answer, for her husband was nowhere near at the moment, she called aloud in her desperation—
“Isy! Isy! come and see gien ye can dee onything to quaiet this ill bairn.”