“Ow, weel, I wad alloo what ye say, gien they
war a’ to be considered Christians.”
“Ow, I grant we canna weel du that i’
the full sense, but I doobt, gien they bena a’
Christians ’at ca’s themsel’s that,
there’s a heap mair Christianity nor get’s
the credit o’ its ain name. I min’
weel hoo Maister Graham said to me ance ’at hoo
there was something o’ Him ‘at made him
luikin’ oot o’ the een o’ ilka man
’at he had made; an’ what wad ye ca’
that but a scart or a straik o’ Christianity.”
“Weel, I kenna; but ony gait I canna think it
can be again’ the trowth o’ the gospel
to wuss yersel’ mair alane wi’ yer God
nor ye ever can be in sic an awfu’ Babylon o’
a place as this.”
“Na, na, Peter; I’m no sayin’ that.
I ken weel we’re to gang intill the closet and
shut to the door. I’m only afeart ’at
there be something wrang in mysel’ ’at
tak’s ‘t ill to be amon’ sae mony
neibors. I’m thinkin’ ‘at, gien
a’ was richt ’ithin me, gien I lo’ed
my neibor as the Lord wad hae them ’at lo’ed
Him lo’e ilk ane his brither, I micht be better
able to pray amang them—ay, i’ the
verra face o’ the bargainin’ an’
leein’ a’ aboot me.”
“An’ min’ ye,” said Peter,
pursuing the train of his own thoughts, and heedless
of Malcolm’s, “‘at oor Lord himsel’
bude whiles to win awa’, even frae his dissiples,
to be him lane wi’ the Father o’ ’im.”
“Ay, ye’re richt there, Peter,”
answered Malcolm, “but there’s ae p’int
in ’t ye maunna forget—and that is
‘at it was never i’ the day-time—sae
far’s I min’—’at he did
sae. The lee lang day he was among ‘s fowk—workin’
his michty wark. Whan the nicht cam’, in
which no man could wark, he gaed hame till ’s
Father, as ’t war. Eh me! but it’s
weel to ha’e a man like the schuilmaister to
put trowth intill ye. I kenna what comes o’
them ’at ha’e drucken maisters, or sic
as cares for naething but coontin’ an Laitin,
an’ the likes o’ that!”
That night Florimel had her thoughts as well as Malcolm.
Already life was not what it had been to her, and
the feeling of a difference is often what sets one
a-thinking first. While her father lived, and
the sureness of his love overarched her consciousness
with a heaven of safety, the physical harmony of her
nature had supplied her with a more than sufficient
sense of well being. Since his death, too, there
had been times when she even fancied an enlargement
of life in the sense of freedom and power which came
with the knowledge of being a great lady, possessed
of the rare privilege of an ancient title and an inheritance
which seemed to her a yet greater wealth than it was.
But she had soon found that, as to freedom, she had
less of that than before—less of the feeling
of it within her: not much freedom of any sort
is to be had without fighting for it, and she had
yet to discover that the only freedom worth the name
—that of heart, and soul, and mind—is
