“Oh, ay, weel enough, weel enough for such a ne’er-do-weel.”
“No a ne’er-do-weel, faither. Poor laddie! he’s so easy led away; but by-and-by he’ll tak’ a thought and mend.”
“Like the de’il—at least, accordin’ to Robert Burns. Ay, ay, Jeanie, by-and-by! But maybe he’ll break our hearts afore then.”
“And Willie, faither?”
“Since Willie ’listed, I try to think of him nae mair,” said the cobbler, with a quiver in his lips; then he added, “But he’ll be held weel under authority, as the centurion says in Scripture, and maybe it’s the best thing that could have happened for himself.”
“Bell! and what does Bell ken about it—a woman that never had a son! If I were to have my family over again, I would pray for a’ lasses, Jeanie, my woman, like you.”
“Eh, faither! but you mustna forget Robin and Alick, though they’re far away; and a’ the lasses are no like me,” said Jeanie, with a tear and a smile. “I might have been marriet, and far from hame; or I might have been licht-headed;” this she said, with a faith laugh at the idea, and rising blush; for to be anything different from her modest self was half incredible, half alarming. The cobbler shook his head.
“Another might, but no my Jean. But what is sent is the best, if we could but see it, nae doubt, nae doubt.”
“And that minds me,” she said, abruptly, with a little gasp of rising agitation. Then she stopped herself as quickly; “how is the work getting on? have ye aye plenty jobs to keep ye going, faither?” she added, as by an after-thought.