“Well, Margaret,” said he, “how is Thomas?”
“Nane the better o’ you,” was the rather curt reply.
“How, how, Margaret?” inquired the minister.
“Oh, ye promised twa years syne to ca’ and pray ance a fortnicht wi’ him, and ye hae never ance darkened oor door sin’ syne.”
“Well, well, Margaret, don’t be so short. I thought it was not so very necessary to call and pray with Thomas, for he’s so deaf, you know, and couldn’t hear me.”
“Ay, but, sir,” rejoined the woman, “the Lord’s no’ deaf!”
He was well answered.
That story suggests another which I have heard told by the worthy divine in whose experience it happened. He had on his “sick list” an old male parishioner, on whom he made frequent calls, and invariably read and prayed with the family before leaving. One day there were only the old man and the old woman in the house. The customary chapter was read, after which the divine engaged in prayer. On looking round at the conclusion of the latter, he was astonished to discover that the woman had disappeared. He had scarcely recovered from the bewilderment of the occasion, however, when she came timidly slipping through the doorway. “Hech, sirse!” she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, “are ye dune already?” then added, by way of explanation, “Ye see, sir, the Kirkintilloch flute baund gaed by there a maument syne; oor Jamie’s in’t, an’ I just ran oot to see the crood, thinkin’ I wad be back again afore ye wad ken.”
Here is a worthy companion story to the above. A country minister had occasion to call upon one of his parishioners who kept a toll-bar, and after some conversation he proceeded to pray with him. He had not uttered many words when he was interrupted by an exclamation from the tollman—“Wheest a minute, sir; I think I hear a cairt!” and out he went.