“Eh! but I wuss I may hae ye there, Janet, for I kenna what I wad do wantin’ ye. I wad be unco stray up yon’er, gien I had to gang my lane, an’ no you to refar till, ’at kens the w’ys o’ the place.”
“I ken no more aboot the w’ys o’ the place nor yersel’, Robert, though I’m thinkin’ they’ll be unco quaiet an’ sensible, seein’ ’at a’ there maun be gentle fowk. It’s eneuch to me ’at I’ll be i’ the hoose o’ my Maister’s father; an’ my Maister was weel content to gang to that hoose; an’ it maun be somethin’ by ordinar’ ’at was fit for him. But puir simple fowk like oorsel’s ’ill hae no need to hing doon the heid an’ luik like gowks ’at disna ken mainners. Bairns are no expeckit to ken a’ the w’ys o’ a muckle hoose ’at they hae never been intil i’ their lives afore.”
“It’s no that a’thegither ’at tribles me, Janet; it’s mair ’at I’ll be expeckit to sing an’ luik pleased-like, an’ I div not ken hoo it’ll be poassible, an’ you naegait ’ithin my sicht or my cry, or the hearin’ o’ my ears.”
“Div ye believe this, Robert—’at we’re a’ ane, jist ane, in Christ Jesus?”
“I canna weel say. I’m no denyin’ naething ’at the buik tells me; ye ken me better nor that, Janet; but there’s mony a thing it says ’at I dinna ken whether I believe ’t ’at my ain han’, or whether it be only at a’ thing ’at ye believe, Janet, ’s jist to me as gien I believet it mysel’; an’ that’s a sair thoucht, for a man canna be savet e’en by the proxy o’ ’s ain wife.”
“Weel, ye’re jist muckle whaur I fin’ mysel’ whiles, Robert; an’ I comfort mysel’ wi’ the houp ’at we’ll ken the thing there, ’at maybe we’re but tryin’ to believe here. But ony gait, ye hae pruv’t weel ’at you an’ me’s ane, Robert. Noo we ken frae Scriptur’ ’at the Maister cam to mak aye ane o’ them ’at was at twa; an’ we ken also ’at he conquered Deith; sae he wad never lat Deith mak the ane ’at he had made ane intil twa again: it’s no rizon to think it. For oucht I ken, what luiks like a gangin’ awa may be a comin’ nearer. An’ there may be w’ys o’ comin’ nearer till ane anither up yon’er ’at we ken naething aboot doon here. There’s that laddie, Gibbie: I canna but think ’at gien he hed the tongue to speyk, or aiven gien he cud mak ony soon’ wi’ sense intil ’t, like singin’, say, he wad fin’ himsel’ nearer till ’s nor he can i’ the noo. Wha kens but them ’at’s singin’ up there afore the throne, may sing so bonnie, ’at, i’ the pooer o’ their braw thouchts, their verra sangs may be like laidders for them to come doon upo’, an’ hing aboot them ’at they hae left ahin’ them, till the time comes for them to gang an’ jine them i’ the green pasturs aboot the tree o’ life.”
More of like talk followed, but these words concerning appropinquation in song, although their meaning was not very clear, took such a hold of Gibbie that he heard nothing after, but fell asleep thinking about them.
In the middle of the following night, Janet woke her husband.
“Robert! Robert!” she whispered in his ear, “hearken. I’m thinkin’ yon maun be some wee angel come doon to say, ‘I ken ye, puir fowk.’”
Robert, scarce daring to draw his breath, listened with his heart in his mouth. From somewhere, apparently within the four walls of the cottage, came a low lovely sweet song—something like the piping of a big bird, something like a small human voice.