“That’s some hard, mither,” answered the offender, with an attempted smile.
“Hard!” she echoed; “it may weel be hard, for it canna be helpit. What wad be the use o’ forgiein’ ye, or hoo cud it win at ye, or what wad ye care for ’t, or mak o’ ’t, cairryin’ a hell o’ hate i’ yer verra hert? For gien God be love, hell maun be hate. My bairn, them ’at winna forgie their enemies, cairries sic a nest o’ deevilry i’ their ain boasoms, ’at the verra speerit o’ God himsel’ canna win in till ’t for bein’ scomfished wi’ smell an’ reik. Muckle guid wad ony pardon dee to sic! But ance lat them un’erstan’ ’at he canna forgie them, an’ maybe they’ll be fleyt, an’ turn again’ the Sawtan ’at’s i’ them.”
“Weel, but he’s no my enemy,” said the youth.
“No your enemy!” returned his mother; “—no your enemy, an’ sair (serve) a bairn like that! My certie! but he’s the enemy o’ the haill race o’ mankin’. He trespasses unco sair again’ me, I’m weel sure o’ that! An’ I’m glaid o’ ’t. I’m glaid ’at he has me for ane o’ ’s enemies, for I forgie him for ane; an’ wuss him sae affrontit wi’ himsel’ er a’ be dune, ’at he wad fain hide his heid in a midden.”
“Noo, noo, mither!” said the eldest son, who had not yet spoken, but whose countenance had been showing a mighty indignation, “that’s surely as sair a bannin’ as yon ’at Jock said.”
“What, laddie! Wad ye hae a fellow-cratur live to a’ eternity ohn bein ashamed o’ sic a thing ’s that? Wad that be to wuss him weel? Kenna ye ’at the mair shame the mair grace? My word was the best beginnin’ o’ better ’at I cud wuss him. Na, na, laddie! frae my verra hert, I wuss he may be that affrontit wi’ himsel’ ’at he canna sae muckle as lift up ’s een to haiven, but maun smite upo’ ’s breist an’ say, ‘God be mercifu’ to me, a sinner!’ That’s my curse upo’ him, for I wadna hae ’im a deevil. Whan he comes to think that shame o’ himsel’, I’ll tak him to my hert, as I tak the bairn he misguidit. Only I doobt I’ll be lang awa afore that, for it taks time to fess a man like that till ’s holy senses.”
The sixth of the family now entered, and his mother led him up to the bed.
“The Lord preserve ’s!” cried Donal Grant, “it’s the cratur!—An’ is that the gait they hae guidit him! The quaietest cratur an’ the willin’est!”
Donal began to choke.
“Ye ken him than, laddie?” said his mother.