‘I’m sure,’ replied the merchant, sharply, ‘that many a one has who less deserved it.’
‘How do ye ken what I deserve?’ cried the natural, offended. ‘It’s speaking ill o’ the understanding o’ Providence, to say I dinna deserve what it has gi’en me. I’m thinking, Geordie, Providence kens my deserts muckle better than you.’
Leddy Grippy, who, during this conversation, was sitting at the table, in all the pomp of her new widow’s weeds, with the big Bible before her, in which she was trying to read that edifying chapter, the tenth of Nehemiah, here interposed.
‘Wheesht, wheesht, Watty, and dinna blaspheme,’ said she; ‘and no be overly condumacious. Ye ken your father was a good man, and nothing but the dart o’ death prevented him frae making a handsome provision for a’ his family, forbye you; and no doubt, when ye hae gotten the better o’ the sore stroke o’ the sudden removal of the golden candlestick o’ his life from among us, ye’ll do every thing in a rational and just manner.’
‘’Deed I’ll do nae sic things, mother,’ was the reply; ‘I’m mindit to haud the grip I hae gotten.’
‘But ye’re a Christian, Watty,’ resumed the Leddy, still preserving her well-put-on mourning equanimity, ‘and it behoves you to reflek, that a’ in your power is gi’en to you but as a steward.’
‘Ye need na tell me that; but wha’s steward am I? Is na the matter a trust for my bairn? I’m wee Betty Bodle’s steward, and no man shall upbraid me wi’ being unfaithfu’,’ replied Walter.
‘Aye, aye, Watty, that’s very true in a sense,’ said she, ‘but whosoever giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.’
‘That’s what I canna comprehend; for the Lord has no need to borrow; he can make a world o’ gold for the poor folk, if he likes, and if he keeps them in poortith, he has his ain reasons for’t.’