“I’m no gaun to be led into an argument,” said the mistress, with a slightly vexed expression; “but I’m far from sure about the kirk. After you’ve opposed the minister’s coming in, and held committees upon him, and offered objections, and done your best to worry the life out o’ him, and make him disgusted baith at himsel’ and you, do you think after that ye can attend to him when you’re weel, and send for him when you’re sick, wi’ the right feelings? But I’m no gaun to speak ony mair about the minister. Is the corn in yet, Colin, from the East Park? Eh, bless me! and it was cut before this wean was born?” “We’ll have but a poor harvest after a’,” said the farmer; “it’s a disappointment, but it canna be helpit. It’s strange how something aye comes in, to keep a man down when he thinks he’s to have a bit margin; but we must jog on, Jeanie, my woman. As long as we have bread to eat, let us be thankful. And as for Colin, it needna make ony difference. Glasgow’s no so far off, but he can still get his parritch out of the family meal; and as long as he’s careful and diligent we’ll try and fend for him. It’s hard work getting bread out of our hillside,” said big Colin; “but ye may have a different life from your father’s, lad, if you take heed to the opportunities in your hands.” “A’ the opportunities in the world,” said Colin the younger, in a burst, “wouldna give me a chance like yon English fellow. Everything comes ready to him. It’s no fair. I’ll have to make up wi’ him first, and then beat him--and so I would,” said the boy, with a glow on his face, and a happy unconsciousness of contradicting himself, “if I had the chance.” “Well,” said big Colin, “that’s just ane o’ the things we have to count upon in our way of living. It’s little credit to a man to be strong,” said the farmer, stretching his great arms with a natural consciousness of power, “unless he has that to do that tries it. It’s harder work to me, you may be sure, to get a pickle corn off the hillside, than for the English farmers down in yon callant’s country to draw wheat and fatness out o’ their furrows. But I think mysel’ nane the worse a man,” continued Colin of Ramore, with a smile; “Sir Thomas, as the laddie ca’s him, gangs wading over the heather a’ day after the grouse and the paitricks; he thinks he’s playing, himsel’, but he’s as hard at work as I am. We’re a’ bluid relations, though the family likeness whiles lies deep and is hard to find. A man maun be fighting wi’ something. If it’s no the dour earth that refuses him bread, it’s the wet bog and the heather that comes atween him and his sport, as he ca’s it. Never you mind wha’s before you on the road. Make up to him, Colin. Many a day he’ll stray out o’ the path gathering straws to divert himsel’, when you’ve naething to do but to push on.”