“You winna fail, laddie. I’ll pray.”
“Ah! mother, prayer is only one thing. I’m going to work.”
“You winna kill yoursel’?”
“No fears, mother. Honest work never killed anybody, though the hoofs of a daft Shetland pony skilfully applied might. No; I’m going to work, mother mine, and go over twice a week to see Minister Mackenzie. It really is good of him to promise to put me on the straight road, isn’t it?”
“It is, laddie. It was mebbe all for the best that the pony hurt you.”
“I think it was.”
“God moves in a mysterious way, Sandie.”
“He does, mother; but now there is something else worrying me. Should I succeed in getting a bursary, that, with the addition of a little pupil-teaching, will be enough to support me, won’t father miss my work very much all winter?”
“We maun do the best we can, laddie; that maunna stand in the way o’ your advancement. Na, na, Sandie; banish a’ sich thochts frae your heid.”
“Weel then, mother, I’ll make my first run over to the minister’s to-morrow, and to save time I’ll ride on Lord Raglan. He’ll be turned into one of Mackenzie’s fields till I’m ready to come back.”