'Hoo that? As if ye didna ken! My word, but that 's yin an' a half!—Do you know this Maister Weelum; I had to stop takin' him to to the prayer-meetin's, for he aye fell asleep. The last yin I took him to was at Mrs Kennedy's. Not only did he sleep, but he snored wi' his heid lyin' back an' his face to the ceilin'; an' when he waukened, it was in the middle o' a silent prayer, an' he glimmered an' blinked at the gaslicht, an' said he, wi' his een half-shut, "Betty, that 's rank wastery burnin' the gas when we 're in oor sleepin' bed." Ashamed? I was black affronted, Maister Weelum, an' among sae mony earnest folk, too.'
Goodness knows, I hold no brief for Nathan, but I ventured to say on his behalf that, as he had been working in the open all day, and the room was quiet and warm, he was, in a way, to be excused if he unconsciously dovered.
'Ay, that's a' very weel; but I notice he never dovers, as ye ca' it, at an Oddfellows' soiree.'
Nathan had quietly slipped downstairs before she reached the end of her story, and in his absence she became confidential and communicative.
'I somewey think he means weel, but the road to hell is paved wi' guid intentions. He's maybe the best specimen of the natural man that I ken o'; but wae's me, that's no' sufficient. The seeds o' carelessness were sown lang before I kenned him; an' tho' I maun alloo he has improved in my haun', I see wee bit touches noo an' than o' the he'rt at enmity which sometimes mak' me despair. For instance, the ither Sabbath-day nae faurer gane, he sat doon efter his denner wi' a book, an' he looked neither to left nor richt, but read on and on. "Nathan," says I, "what's the book you're sae intent on?" "Oh, Betty," says he glibly, weel kennin' that I didna gi'e in wi' orra readin' on the Lord's Day, "I've faun in wi' a splendid book the day. It's ca'ed Baxter's—eh—Saunts' Everlastin' Rest, an' it's the kind o' readin' I like." "Ay," says I, weel pleased wi' the soond o' the title, "read on at that, Nathan. Baxter's fu' o' rich refreshin' truths. Read slow noo, Nathan, an' tak' it a' in." Weel, he never put it oot o' his haun till bedtime, except when he was at his tea, an' then he slipped it into his coat-pocket; an' the next day, when he was away at his wark, I cam' on it stappit doon behin' the cushion o' his easy-chair; an' what think ye it was, Maister Weelum? Guess noo what it was.'
'Baxter's Saints' Everlasting Rest, of course,' I said.
'Weel,' said Betty, 'that was printed on the loose covers that had aince been the boards o' the holy volume o' that name; but the paper-covered book that was inside was The Experiences o' an Edinburgh Detective, by James MacGovan; an' d'ye ken this, Maister Weelum, I juist sat doon in the middle o' my wark an' grat my he'rt-fill.'
Poor, dear Betty, she wept anew at the remembrance of Nathan's lapse, then rolled her knitting into her apron, and went downstairs into the kitchen. Ten minutes later, when I was having my last pipe for the night, I heard her voice raised in the Beuk, and she was reading, with a point and emphasis which I am sure Nathan could not misunderstand, the story from the Acts of Ananias and his wife Sapphira.