“Weel, I deserved it. But eh, Ma’colm! I canna believe it was me: it bude to be the drink.”
“It was the drink,” rejoined Malcolm; “an’ eh sir! afore ye rise frae that bed, sweir to the great God ’at ye’ll never drink nae mair drams, nor onything ’ayont ae tum’ler at a sittin’.”
“I sweir ’t; I sweir ’t, Ma’colm!” cried the factor.
“It’s easy to sweir ’t noo, sir, but whan ye’re up again it’ll be hard to keep yer aith.—O Lord!” spoke the youth, breaking out into almost involuntary prayer, “help this man to haud troth wi’ thee.—An’ noo, Maister Crathie,” he resumed, “I’m yer servan’, ready to do onything I can. Forgi’e me, sir, for layin’ on ower sair.”
“I forgi’e ye wi’ a’ my hert,” returned the factor, inly delighted to have something to forgive.
“I thank ye frae mine,” answered Malcolm, and again they shook hands.
“But eh, Ma’colm, my man!” said the factor, “hoo will I ever shaw my face again?”
“Fine that!” returned Malcolm, eagerly. “Fowk’s terrible guid-natur’d whan ye alloo ’at ye’re i’ the wrang. I do believe ’at whan a man confesses till ’s neebour, an’ says he’s sorry, he thinks mair o’ ’im nor afore he did it. Ye see we a’ ken we ha’e dune wrang, but we ha’ena a’ confessed. An’ it’s a queer thing, but a man’ll think it gran’ o’ ’s neebour to confess, whan a’ the time there’s something he winna repent o’ himsel’ for fear o’ the shame o’ ha’ein’ to confess ’t. To me, the shame lies in no confessin’ efter ye ken ye’re wrang. Ye’ll see, sir—the fisher-fowk’ll min’ what ye say to them a heap better noo.”
“Div ye railly think it, Ma’colm?” sighed the factor with a flush.
“I div that, sir. Only whan ye grow better, gien ye’ll alloo me to say ’t, sir, ye maunna lat Sawtan temp’ ye to think ’at this same repentin’ was but a wakeness o’ the flesh, an’ no an enlichtenment o’ the speerit.”