Again he came near sobbing. “Davie,” said he, “I’m no’ a right man at all; I have neither sense nor kindness; I couldna remember ye were just a bairn, I couldna see ye were dying on your feet; Davie, ye’ll have to try and forgive me.”
“O man, let’s say no more about it!” said I. “We’re neither one of us to mend the other—that’s the truth! We must just bear and forbear, man Alan.—O but my stitch is sore! Is there nae house?”
“I’ll find a house to ye, David,” he said stoutly. “We’ll follow down the burn, where there’s bound to be houses. My poor man, will ye no’ be better on my back?”
“O Alan,” says I, “and me a good twelve inches taller?”
“Ye’re no such a thing,” cried Alan, with a start. “There may be a trifling matter of an inch or two; I’m no’ saying I’m just exactly what ye would call a tall man, whatever; and I daresay,” he added, his voice tailing off in a laughable manner, “now when I come to think of it, I daresay ye’ll be just about right. Ay, it’ll be a foot, or near-hand; or maybe even mair!”
It was sweet and laughable to hear Alan eat his words up in the fear of some fresh quarrel. I could have laughed, had not my stitch caught me so hard; but if I had laughed, I think I must have wept too.
“Alan,” cried I, “what makes ye so good to me? What makes ye care for such a thankless fellow?”
“’Deed, and I don’t know,” said Alan. “For just precisely what I thought I liked about ye was that ye never quarrelled;—and now I like ye better!”
[29] A second sermon.