“Oh father,” James went on, and to his delight Peter saw, for the first time since he was the merest child, tears running down his cheeks, now thin and wan; “Oh father, I hae been a terrible hypocreet! But my een’s come open at last! I see mysel as I am!”
“Weel, there’s God hard by, to tak ye by the han’ like Enoch! Tell me,” Peter went on, “hae ye onything upo yer min’, laddie, ’at ye wud like to confess and be eased o’? There’s nae papistry in confessin to yer ain auld father!”
James lay still for a few moments; then he said, almost inaudibly—
“I think I could tell my mother better nor you, father.”
“It’ll be a’ ane whilk o’ ’s ye tell. The forgiein and the forgettin ’ill be ae deed—by the twa o’ ’s at ance! I s’ gang and cry doon the stair til yer mother to come up and hear ye.” For Peter knew by experience that good motions must be taken advantage of in their first ripeness. “We maunna try the speerit wi ony delays!” he added, as he went to the head of the stair, where he called aloud to his wife. Then returning to the bedside, he resumed his seat, saying, “I’ll jist bide a minute till she comes.”
He was loath to let in any risk between his going and her coming, for he knew how quickly minds may change; but the moment she appeared, he left the room, gently closing the door behind him.
Then the trembling, convicted soul plucked up what courage his so long stubborn and yet cringing heart was capable of, and began.
“Mother, there was a lass I cam to ken in Edinburgh, whan I was a divinity student there, and—”
“Ay, ay, I ken a’ aboot it!” interrupted his mother, eager to spare him; “—an ill-faured, designin limmer, ’at micht ha kent better nor come ower the son o’ a respectable wuman that gait!—Sic like, I doobtna, wad deceive the vera elec’!”
“Na, na, mother, she was nane o’ that sort! She was baith bonny and guid, and pleasant to the hert as to the sicht: she wad hae saved me gien I had been true til her! She was ane o’ the Lord’s makin, as he has made but feow!”